#outward sign he's gone through what he has (which also in a way keeps him safe from being jumped a second time) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ymiwritesstuff · 3 years

Text

The Limits of a Hero

Hello hello, I’m here to bring you something rather special. A quick fun fact: When I started writing years ago, Link was actually the first character I ever wrote for, so this piece is sort of going back to my roots as a writer. That, and I’ve been in a HUGE Twilight Princess mood lately, (I recently bought a few volumes of the manga and I am very much enjoying it) so I thought I’d write this quick thing for my favorite incarnation of Link. I hope those of you who also like him will enjoy this.

The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess

Link x Reader

Summary: During a seemingly ordinary night out in the woods you decide to give the hero a much needed chance to rest.

Notes: Fluff, some light angst

The tree trunk felt rough against your back, but it provided a much-needed opportunity to finally rest and recollect your energy after yet another day of fighting against the twilight and its corrupt ruler. Yet you found a strange calm when surrounded by the night, the warm flames of the campfire swaying in the cool wind.

The wood crackled, the breeze howled and your eyelids grew heavy. You wouldn’t close them, however. Not yet. Instead, you kept your (E/C) eyes on the glowing fire, occasionally throwing in a stick or two to make sure your source of heat wouldn’t disappear.

Your thoughts wandered, as they often did ever since you were thrown into this dangerous adventure. How did everything change so fast? You could still hear the water trickling down the waterwheel in Ordon as if it was yesterday. Everything had gone wrong so fast, and now you were trying to save the entire kingdom from something you didn’t fully understand.

You knew it was the same for Link. But unlike you, he was much better at suppressing his confusion and doubts. You had noticed a change in him, no doubt caused by the sudden responsibility laid upon his broad shoulders. In addition to the more obvious changes in his attire, his cerulean eyes lost some of their glow, he somehow grew even more silent and he didn’t smile as often. All because he felt that his role as the hero chosen by the Gods demanded it.

It must have been tiring, you thought, yet he pressed on, never once letting even a single mention of how much it all weighed down on him slip from his lips. But you could see it. Whether it was in the way his shoulders fell with a sigh whenever he finished slaughtering a group of Bokoblins or how he yawned and stretched his arms almost every time he hopped off Epona. His body was fatigued, but his eyes held nothing but determination.

The rustling of leaves that came from behind snapped you back to reality, and your eyes fell on the bush where the grey animal soon emerged from, carrying something in his mouth the edges of which and a part of his lower body was seemingly damp. You watched as he walked with heavy steps towards the fire before dropping the thing you recognized to be a Hyrule Bass on the ground.

The fish flopped on the dirt and you found yourself raising a confused eyebrow at him, before locating his fishing rod not too far away from the fire, indicating that he had forgotten to take it with him. You looked at the fish again.

“Are we this desperate?” You managed to ask him as his beastly form quickly reverted to his original form you were familiar with. He sat on the ground and gave you a slight nod.

“We’re running low on food,” he said, taking a sip from his bottle of water. Most of his equipment was laying on the ground, though he was still fully clad in his green tunic, chainmail and all.

You noticed him taking out a small knife, no doubt intending to use it to prepare the freshly caught fish. He would not dare use his sacred sword for such a task. The bass was fairly big, enough for both of you, you surmised.

“I can take care of it,” you offered, noticing the tired look in his eyes as they turned to you. He shook his head lightly.

“It’s fine, (Name),” he assured and began cutting into the flesh, but you persisted.

“You haven’t slept properly in days.” It had been an exhausting few days, filled to the brim with battles against Shadow Beasts and other enemies. It took its toll on both of you yet he showed no outward signs of fatigue. Not that it was necessary, for right now, anyone could see the dark circles and bags under his otherwise gorgeous eyes.

He glanced at you, clearly pondering over your words while continuing to cut the fish. You were right, as you often were. He was exhausted, but the selflessness in him didn’t want you to lose any of the sleep you needed.

“Someone has to keep watch,” he began, but you quickly shut him down.

“Which I can do.”

You scooted over to him, noticing him making the final cuts to the scaly flesh of the fish. Placing a hand on top of his, you kept your eyes on him, trying to convince him.

“You need to rest, Link. Please.”

Upon hearing your voice that left your lips as a quiet plea he finally gave in, letting out a sigh that carried all his exhaustion into the air and letting go of the knife. He finally turned to you, his drained eyes glowing in silent relief.

“Will you be alright? You know you can wake me up any time if-”

“I’ll be fine. The only thing you need to worry about is getting some sleep.”

Your hand reached up to slowly remove his cap, exposing his dirty blond hair that bathed in the glowing embers of the campfire. You offered him a smile equally warm as the flames which he thankfully returned.

Planting the tiniest kiss on his cheek, you retreated from him, once again leaning against a lone tree. With your hand you lightly patted your lap, wanting the hero in front of you to have the best possible chance at getting a good night’s rest.

He laid his weary head on your lap and almost immediately, he let out a long yawn that indicated just how much he needed this, despite his stubborn protests. Your fingers found their way into his hair, running through his locks in a soothing manner.

Silence fell around you, though it was a refreshing change from the usual noises of battle and struggles. You stared at the fire once again, its welcoming warmth enveloping both of you.

“You’ve changed,” you admitted, thinking back to the simpler times, during which Link would have been more than compliant to sleep when he needed it. He let out a soft sigh, his eyes glued to the starlit sky above.

“I guess I have,” he agreed. You wondered if he meant it to the same degree as you did. Even now, you noticed the solemn expression on his face you had never seen back home.

Home. You thought about it a lot. Maybe a little too much at times. Ordon meant a lot to you, even more to Link you assumed. Perhaps that’s why he had gotten so stoic and serious. He was merely trying to protect what he held dear.

It was admirable, he was, by all accounts, a hero. Courageous, selfless, strong, yet still a mere Hylian. A capable Hylian indeed, but still a Hylian. A Hylian who the entire kingdom needed to save them. Everyone expected so much of him, it seemed as if he himself forgot his limits.

“You’re not all-powerful, Link.”

Your eyes fell on him, and his own looked up at you. Someone needed to be his voice of reason, and you were more than willing to take that role if it meant ensuring his safety when he sometimes couldn’t.

“Maybe I should be.”

Your eyebrows frowned at that. You knew he felt a certain sense of guilt about what happened to the children of the village. They were safe now, but there was a stinging sensation of shame embedded in him that made him feel responsible for all of it.

“Don’t say that. You did all you could. Pushing yourself to the point where you can’t stay up anymore won’t solve anything.”

He knew you were right. You almost always were. Link had always secretly wondered if it was a blessing that it was you who had accidentally stumbled across the same wall of Twilight that had transformed him into a beast. In all honesty, he was thankful.

“I’m just... Worried about you,” you confessed, feeling a small sense of dread in the core of your being. Just thinking about what could happen to him if he didn’t take care of himself made your stomach churn.

A troubled look fell on his face, as if he was feeling guilty about making your eyes fill with concern. You inhaled deeply and pressed your lips on his forehead, not wanting your own uneasiness make him anxious.

“Rest now. I’ll keep watch.”

With a small nod, he allowed his heavy eyelids to close and it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, soft snores escaping his mouth that was partially agape.

For the first time in days, he looked truly peaceful. His body relaxed, rid of any signs of stress or tension, the only movement being that of his chest, moving up and down due to his steady breathing. With a smile you continued running your digits through his hair, hoping to comfort him even in his dreams you could only hope were as tranquil as your current surroundings.

“Goodnight, Link.”

#loz #zelda #the legend of zelda #loz x reader #the legend of zelda x reader #legend of zelda #tloz #Legend of Zelda Twilight Princess #loz tp #twilight princess #twilight princess link #link x reader #tp link x reader #twilight princess x reader #twilight princess link x reader #zelda imagines #link imagines #loz imagines

390 notes · View notes

mcyt-imagines · 3 years

Text

TommyInnit Confession HCs

This is a combination of an imagine and some headcanons, this is a new way of writing for me so let me know if you enjoyed this format!

- Tommy realising he loves the reader and how he’d confess to them -

Tommy definitely would deny being interested in the reader in the beginning.

It would probably be a natural progression of feelings but tommy just wouldn’t realise it until WAY too late.

Like he just catches himself thinking about them when he’s just doing schoolwork and chores. And then he’s aware of just how much his mind wanders to them. Far too often in his humble opinion.

He lays hints about his crush when talking with Tubbo. He’s real defensive about it though. “You much of a ladies man Tubbo?” Trying to discretely get advice without actually asking for any. And Tubbo being Tubbo means he completely missed all the hints Tommy was dropping. (Not that Tommy’s hints were any good)

His stream for sure notices a change in his behavior, more scatterbrained showing visible signs of stress maybe a little more irritable too. Tubbo definitely notices the changes too and asks him about it.

Tubbo would probably ask tommy on stream or in private something along the lines of. “What’s up Tommy, you’ve been kinda uh, distracted lately…”

Tommy for suuuuuure blushes and stutters out a response that even Tubbo doesn’t buy. (So instead he talks to Tubbo about it off stream, doesn’t mention his crushes name, but he keeps Tubbo in the loop. Tubbo finds the whole thing very funny because of how defensive Tommy gets in response, however he offers his support to Tommy, obviously. “Even though I have no experience with romance Tommy. I’ll do my best to be the best wingman ever!” With a salute to Tommy on his webcam. Tubbo quickly leaves the call saying he needs to do some ‘research’ (he puts the word in quotation marks with a wink)

Tommy would be a stubborn flustered MESS if stream ever figured out that he was crushing on someone.

And of course they find out because Tubbo slips up and mentions Tommy having a crush.

By that point he is absolutely CONSUMED by his thoughts about the reader as the more he tries to not think about them the more he wishes he was with them.

He also would 10000% be ignoring or avoiding his crush for as long as possible because he knows he wouldn’t be able to utter a single word to their face. His usual ‘big man’ façade would be in absolute shambles if he were around the reader during this time.

There would be a lot of internal and external swearing from Tommy when he finally realises and accepts that he likes you though.

However, this acceptance doesn’t make him any less stressed because now he needs to figure out whether he is even going to tell you!

But he knows he can’t keep living like this as he can’t keep avoiding his crush forever. And he knows the next time he sees you he knows his heart is going to literally burst out of his chest. And he won’t be able to stop himself. So, he devises a plan.

He gets a pep talk from Tubbo in which they help brainstorm his confession plan but he finds himself messaging Wilbur one late night after his stream. “Hey, can I get some advice?” Wilbur is shocked. “Tommyinnit asking ME for advice? Never thought I’d see the day.”

Wilbur teases him for a short while surely. But when Tommy finally puts his pride aside and tells Wilbur about his crush he sobers up quick and dishes out some solid advice and support for Tommy. “In exchange for my services I better be meeting this crush of yours Tommy.” “You got it big man.”

After speaking with Wilbur Tommy feels as if he can finally breathe for the first time in weeks since he first started to realise his feelings for the reader.

CONFESSION DAY!

Tommy sends the reader a text in the mid-morning asking if they wanted to hang out sometime later today. Also apologizing for how ‘busy’ he’s been the last few weeks using schoolwork or chores as his excuse.

He’s furiously texting Tubbo the WHOLE time he’s waiting for a reply from them. Tubbo pulls Tommy onto Minecraft to try and take his mind off the situation. Offline of course, Tommy would not be able to handle streaming right now.

Even Wilbur sends him a few messages to check in, jumping on discord to give his ear for Tommy to chew off. Which he most definitely does.

Eventually his phone dings and Tommy DIVES for it. “THEY SAID YES!” Both Wilbur and Tubbo groan from Tommy’s mic peaking with his screech.

Tommy waits for a few minutes before replying per Tubbo’s request. “I read it online! You don’t want to seem too into them.” He proclaims with false authority as Wilbur chuckles in the background of the call.

The rest of the afternoon blurs for Tommy as he stays on call with Wilbur and Tubbo as they do their best to distract his overactive mind.

However, as the clock ticks on he knows he needs to start getting ready or he’s going to be late.

Wilbur demands that he choose Tommy’s outfit. So for the next half hour Tommy proceeds to perform a free fashion show for the two, only for Phil to join for a short while to give his two cents before going back to his stream.

Eventually Wilbur settles on what he dubbed “-a classic Tommyinnit look-” one of his favourite red shirts paired with one of his nicer black jackets and the dark charcoal pants his mum had made him get a few months ago for a wedding. They are very uncomfortable.

Tommy heaves a sigh as he thanks Wilbur and Tubbo for sticking around with him today. They both send him away, “Good luck Tommy!” “Go get ‘em big man.”

Tommy had agreed to meet the reader at the park, he thought dinner would have been a bit much. Wilbur and Tubbo both agreed on that front. This park was right near the water, so it had a great view of the sunset. He was still pretty chuffed about that fact, his chat was sooo wrong, he could be romantic if he wanted to after all.

Of course, he was a little late. He repeatedly told his mum to speed. She refused of course. His mother of course had noticed exactly what this ‘hang out’ was and had quizzed him about his crush the night prior.

“Don’t leave the car mum.” Tommy was quick to warn her, he did not want her to be anywhere near them. She didn’t need any more dirt on him to embarrass him with. She could end his whole streaming career in an instant if she wanted. A truly terrifying thought.

Tommy was quick to move near the waterfront puffing slightly, nose a tinge pink with the oncoming chilly wind from the lake. “Hey Tommy.” Tommy would freeze instantly before quickly turning with a forced smile, a little too big for his face. “Hey!”

His crush would lead Tommy over to the nearby bench they had been sitting on before he arrived. And they would definitely sit closer to Tommy than he would have wanted.

Tommy would be so obvious. Stuttering over his words, a LOT of frantic hand movements whenever he’s speaking to them.

Mid-conversation his crush starts to laugh. “Tommy I think I’ve figure out why you have been ‘busy’ recently.” Tommy stills immediately, sweat dripping off of him in POOLS. “H-Huh!?” He makes a noise in the back of his throat that he has NEVER made before.

This seems to only make his crush laugh more, they turn fully to him and take one of his clammy hands. He quickly goes to yank it from their grip knowing how sweaty it is. But their grip is strong, and surprisingly calm in contrast to his shaking hands. He gulps simply staring at the spot where their hands are touching. “Tommy.” His gaze snaps up to their smiling face hiding slight worry. “Breathe.” And he finally does. His tense shoulders drop, and their hand leaves his. And suddenly he’s laughing harder than he ever has before realizing how ridiculous he’s being right now. And when he looks over, so is his crush.

The conversation from that point on flows naturally as the two finally begin to catch up after not seeing each other for a few weeks.

Tommy finally realises how comfortable they make him feel. He simply stares at them as they speak. Awed that it took him this damn long to figure out he liked them.

His crush stops talking, noticing him staring. He jumps out of his thoughts, “Hey Tommy, take a picture it’ll last longer.” And suddenly he’s sweating all over again as they laugh.

His crush is having the time of their life watching ‘big man’ Tommy squirm beside them. Trying his best to scrounge up the courage to say something, anything to them.

They open their mouth to speak when suddenly Tommy yells, “I LIKE YOU!”

Tommy isn’t even looking at them, he has his eyes squeezed shut and he thrusts his arm outwards holding something which promptly shoves into his crush’s chest. Effectively winding them.

They wheeze in response, “Me too. Don’t know why though goD!” They push out through gasps of air, pressing a hand to their chest. Pain beginning to subside as Tommy realises he literally just punched his crush.

His jaw drops and his silence continues as they take what was in his hands. A small book.

A scrapbook.

His crush’s face softens as they flip through the photos, memories flooding back to them of days long gone by.

Tommy stayed up all night yesterday just to finish the final details on the scrapbook, it isn’t the most aesthetically pleasing thing. (Even he knows that) But he put his heart and soul into it.

“Very sweet of you Tommy. But I didn’t bring anything for you…” They end up mumbling in response. Tommy only grins. “So you like it?” They scoff and finally pull Tommy in for a hug. He stills for a moment, then melts into their hold.

Tommy mumbles his apology for literally punching them into his crush’s hair. They giggle into his chest in response, letting him know that it’s fine, they’re okay. Tommy mumbles something incoherent into their hair and presses a cautionary kiss to the top of their head.

“AWWWWW!” A loud noise comes from behind their bench. Tommy and his crush dive apart only to see Tommy’s mum hidden behind a nearby tree.

“MUUUUUUUUUM!” Tommy screeches as his crush cackles out a laugh.

Tommy’s mum ends up driving his crush home as well, they sit in the back seat of the car holding hands.

“This didn’t go at all how I’d planned…” Tommy complains with a deep pout. “Oh really? Your plan didn’t involve punching me? Huh?” Their crush sniggers at him.

“Oh! His real plan-“ His mother starts and in order to cut her off Tommy just starts yelling at the top of his lungs “Nononono!!”. Causing his crush to burst into laughter as the two try to increase their volumes to drown out the other.

His crush shakes their head with a grin and wonders what the hell they’ve just gotten themselves into.

#tommyinnit #tommy x reader #mcyt headcanons #mcyt imagines #mcyt x reader #tommy mcyt

469 notes · View notes

nightowlwriting · 3 years

Text

summary: fjord takes care of the mighty nein. you take care of fjord. (part 4/13 of the kindness series, a thematically connected series of c2/exu imagines)

word count: 2.7k

warnings: mentions of self-hatred, bullying, lack of self-confidence

note: idk why this one took me so long and, honestly, it was almost super nsfw lmfao

masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Fjord is a man who appears to know exactly what he needs and when he needs it. You’re not so sure. You tend to hang back when the group talks to people, or finds jobs for coin, just to watch. That’s what you like to do - get information, tuck it away, use it later.

It just happens that sometimes you end up watching Fjord. There’s no reason, not really. He’s the leader by default, no matter how much Nott will say that it’s Caleb. He does most of the talk, smiling all coy and leaning against things to charm the party’s way through whatever Gods forsaken situation you end up in. It mostly works, with some exceptions. There are things you begin to notice in the nights after Fjord has failed to charm someone with a well-placed wink, or a sir or a ma’am. He makes the fire just a little bit larger, stacking logs and kindling and using his flint so that Caleb doesn’t have to use his magic. He cooks heartier food, sometimes even disappearing and coming back with a skewered animal from the forest to add to the pot of simmering soup. He takes the first watch and doesn’t wake anyone until halfway through the second watch so that everyone can sleep longer, even if it makes him crabby the morning after.

You come to a conclusion. Fjord takes care of people when he feels like he’s not enough. He overcompensates in his acts of kindness when something he does fails - but why? To make you all stay? To make sure you know his worth in the group? To make up for whatever he sees as a downfall? Honestly, you’re worried it’s a little bit of all three. You’re not really sure about how the mind works - that would be more for Molly, or Caleb honestly - but growing up in an orphanage with children who pick and prod at your every physical characteristic cannot be good for a person. Especially with Fjord insisting that he doesn’t have a last name, despite the times that he introduces himself and you see it die on his lips before he can say it. There’s something there, but you won’t pry. People deserve their secrets. They deserve to keep something for themselves.

If he wants to keep his last name, that’s fine with you. If he wants to keep the self-loathing inside of him until he explodes, well, that’s not fine with you. That’s why when you realize that he decompresses by making himself useful, as if the group might dismiss him just because a few people were immune to his charms, you decide to do something. No amount of reassurance from anyone will convince him otherwise and the rest of the group tends to shrug away from his slightly overbearing kindness when something goes south. Caleb, Beau, and Molly are just uncomfortable with it while Jester is usually too engrossed in journaling, Tusk Love, or talking to the Traveler. Nott is somewhere between Caleb and Yasha (uncomfortable and straight-up not around to be doted on.) And… Well, that leaves you.

It’s not that you mind Fjord’s constant doting after he perceives something to have gone wrong, but it’s hard to let him in. Your life before the Mighty Nein wasn’t exactly peaches and cream, either, but you know that he needs this. He needs to feel like he’s doing something for someone or he’ll break. You only notice that, though, after a particularly rough, rainy day of trying to get information out of people for a job. Fjord had forgotten something important which threw off the communication and sent everyone you were working with into an angry tizzy. By the time you make it back to the tavern, everyone is soaked to the bone and cranky, even you - and you tried your best to avoid getting out in the rain. What you really want to do is go back to your room and change out of your wet clothes and then go to fucking bed, but you hold back. The group disperses one by one until it’s just you and Fjord left at the bar, and before you can make your leave you see his hands shaking. His hands, which are large and calloused and strong, are shaking like a leaf in the wind. There’s no other outward sign that he’s feeling stressed or upset, and that surprises you. It also worries you. This is not how Fjord acts when something goes wrong. He doesn’t sit at the bar and brood over an ale - he mother-hens his friends until they’re sick to death of hearing his deep, drawling voice.

The combination of these things is probably what makes you pause halfway out of your seat, eyes narrow and trained on him. He makes eye contact for a brief second before looking back down to his drink. You know that approaching and asking him if he’s okay will get you nowhere but you can’t leave him alone at the bar, not when you know he’s stewing on every mistake, every misstep, whether they really happened or he’s just overanalyzing his movements. He’s your… He’s more than a friend to you, despite the fact that he doesn’t know that and you don’t show it outwardly. Fjord means too much to you to be able to let him sit and spiral into a funnel of self-doubt. You know that it will be weird to put your pride to the side and ask for help, but you also know that you don’t really need help.

But asking Fjord for help means that he’ll feel better and you think that’s a very good reason to shelf your pride for a night.

He barely looks up at you when you approach, still dripping all over the tavern’s floors and hesitant to speak. He doesn’t speak, either, just takes another long pull from his ale to bide his time until you leave. (Probably.) You take the leap first and say his name. “Fjord.” He doesn’t look at you. “I know we’ve all had a bad day,”

“You can say that again,” He snorts.

“We have,” You stress, one hand finding the hilt of the dagger on your waist for some sort of comfort. You’re wildly uncomfortable and can feel the urge to run, get away, flee building up in your gut. If you’re not careful, it’ll spill out your mouth and you’ll be forced out of the tavern for the night in humiliation and self-preservation. “It has been one hell of a day today. I do not want to be alone.” Your sentence cuts off briskly and Fjord looks up in surprise. Your face mirrors his - untamed surprise. You had really opened your mouth to ask if he wanted to find a table and listen to your vent but what came out was I do not want to be alone. You blink and think what the fuck? Before Fjord is shaking off his surprise and standing.

“I suppose I can give Molly the room for the night.” He extends an arm towards you but doesn’t look at you. He’s doing a much better job of hiding how strange you’re acting than you are but still, you’re not going to let this opportunity pass. You wrap your own arm around Fjord’s and he begins to lead you toward the stairs. “Anything specific bothering you?”

“Nothing really,” You hum as you respond, hoping that by allowing him past your walls that it will help him, “Today is just a bad day.” Fjord halfheartedly agrees and your nerves shoot through the roof when he leaves you at your door, explaining that he’s going to warn Molly that he won’t be in the room tonight. You nod at him and slip into your own room, leaving the door cracked so that he won’t feel awkward about entering. Your laundry is everywhere and you grit your teeth, doing your best to hold back a scream. God damnit, you’re about to have the man that you have a crush on in your room and today is the day you threw your laundry all over?

It doesn’t even matter that he’s traveled with you in carts where there is no possible way to not overlap on laundry slash unmentionables. You still dash about, shoving your laundry into a pile in the corner and covering it with your weapons and shield just before Fjord raps his knuckles against the door frame, calling your name. You shiver and invite him in, wringing your hands as you stand in front of the unlit fireplace. “Are you okay?” He’s so earnest and it makes you feel… A little bad. You don’t want to say no to having Fjord be with you overnight because his presence is so calming, but it’s also… He’s not in your room because…

Ugh. “Fjord,” You say before you can stop yourself, “Okay, so, you can’t be mad but I noticed when things go wrong you’re really, really hard on yourself and you shouldn’t be. And I also noticed that when you’re hard on yourself you dive into taking care of other people because, I don’t know, maybe it feels like you’re doing something good? I’m not sure, but I really meant to ask if you wanted to talk but then that came out instead but I can’t let you stay in here if you don’t know why I asked.” He stands there, taking in what you’ve said, and then shakes his head. Your room is dark - too dark for you to see whether or not the small smile on his face is actually there or if you’re imagining it. When he chuckles, you’re more apt to believe that Fjord is actually smiling even after the day he’s had. “Um,” You finally cut the silence, “Please say something.”

“You mean to tell me,” He drawls, stepping slowly closer and removing his chest plate. It’s like his mood has gone a full 180 from where it was when he left you outside of your room, “That you looked so awkward and like a li’l kicked puppy because you wanted to help me feel better?” He sets his chest plate on the table, coming into your sight as your vision begins to adjust. You don’t get a good look at what’s happening on his face because you look away very quickly, setting your jaw.

“Well, when you put it that way,” You grumble and cross your arms, “You just like to help people - it makes you feel better.”

Fjord comes to a stop in front of you and sighs, but doesn’t say anything. Your hands begin to shake and honestly, you regret your stupid fucking decision to try and help Fjord out. You wouldn’t be here, standing in front of him and purely humiliated, if you didn’t look at him and notice so much. He finally responds, one of his hands coming up to touch at your bicep and then trails up until he’s cupping your shoulder. “I do like to help people,” He’s speaking more from his chest than his mouth, and you can almost feel the rumble through the grip he has on your shoulder. It’s not tight but it’s there, heavy and comforting. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“I notice a lot,” You supply, tugging your chin away when Fjord tries to use the other hand to make you look at him. It’s only after he says your name in a soft voice that you look. You’re surprised to see that he looks soft… Soft and fond. “Please,” You whisper, uncrossing your arms to grab both of his wrists. You’re not even sure what you’re asking for but the way that you whispered please is the closest to begging that you’ve ever gotten.

“Please?” Fjord says, sounding incredibly confused but soft at the same time. You shake your head, trying again to look away from him. He ducks down, catching your eyes again, “It’s just me, remember? This is why you asked me here, isn’t it? To help you feel better?”

To your horror, you feel yourself mist up. “I invited you here so you could feel better, Fjord. I don’t want you to be so hard on yourself, and the only time I’ve seen you calm down after a bad day is when you’re taking care of one of us. I thought… Even if I don’t really need to be taken care of, that would help you. I just want… I want you to feel better.” He steps closer toward you, caging you into the rough stone of the fireplace but doesn’t speak. You’re almost worried that Fjord is going to cold clock you, but then he does something that you expected even less.

He surges forward and kisses you. Every part of him nearly engulfs you - the hand on your shoulder moves to the back of your neck, anchoring you to him, while he groans deep in the back of his throat. Your hands scramble for some purchase to express your surprise, landing on his hearty shoulders, clenching in the fabric of his shirt. You sigh into Fjord’s groan, and press as close as possible to his body heat. No matter how much you don’t want to admit it, you’ve been craving this: closeness with another person, pressing tight against their body… You’d be lying if you didn’t admit that when you thought of that, of intimacy, that you pictured Fjord. You just didn’t think he pictured you.

Fjord surges forward again, and you feel the soft scrape of tusks against you when he opens his mouth to breathe, keeping his nose pressed tightly to yours. “I didn’t think,” He says, accent thinner than you’ve heard previously, “I never dreamed that you would feel…”

“Oh, I feel,” You tell him, slowly moving your hands until you can intertwine your fingers behind his neck, “I feel so much, Fjord.”

“You never said…” He sneaks another kiss between his words, dropping his hands to squeeze at your waist, “You never even let on that you see me this way.”

“I do a lot of looking and not a lot of showing,” You remind him - it was something he had said to you when you first joined his group. I always catch you lookin’, but you never show. It’s terribly funny because he’d said it while the Mighty Nein were all naked, sudsy, and sharing a bathhouse at Molly’s insistence. The group had a field day with that and still does. The memory is apparently still fresh in Fjord’s head because a blush creeps high over his cheeks and he looks away, flustered. “You’re strong and pretty and beautiful and you take care of us so well. Even when you’ve had a bad day. I look up to you so much, but at the same time I want, perhaps selfishly, to take care of you in ways that you might not take care of the group.” He almost looks surprised at what you’ve said, but then it melts into a look of soft adoration. Fjord kisses you again and then drags his lips lightly over the arch of your cheek before he rests his head on your shoulder where he inhales deeply, his breath tickling your throat. You can feel his hands contracting against your waist, like he wants to touch and feel but is settling for keeping them where they are and feeling the soft give of your flesh. You know your heart is spinning at what feels like a million miles per hour, and you know that he can probably hear it, too. You can’t find anything in you that cares, though, because you’re so close to Fjord. He smells like saltwater, you realize. Not in a way that it seems like he’s been coughing it up again, or in the ocean, but just sort of… Naturally. Like he’s always smelled that way. Like you’ve always known he smelled that way. Like you were always meant to know and to find comfort in it. You pull yourself closer, relishing in the way that you hold each other, and Fjord sighs. You can feel the way that he relaxes underneath your hold and you relax, too.

This… This is the way that it’s supposed to be. This is how you can do for Fjord what he’s done for your team - except different. Except more.

#critical role imagine #c2 imagine #cr imagine #fjord stone imagine #fjord imagine #fjord stone x reader #fjord x reader #fjord stone / reader #fjord / reader #campaign 2 imagine #critfic

83 notes · View notes

bigteefsmallbrain · 3 years

Text

Soul Eater: General headcanons - Adults

@zorgammazoo you didn’t specify which adults so I did Stein, Spirit, Blair, Medusa, and Death! I hope you enjoy it!

Warning, Stein is a freaky child with corpses in this, and is not mentally sound.

Franken Stein:

When he was younger, he used to play with animal corpses

Probably started with him finding a dead rat and he decided to stick toothpicks into it

Maybe something crawled out of it, maybe he just liked watching coagulated blood squish out of it’s bloated body

Either way, this was the seed to his fascination with experimentation

He was a A+ student, not because he’s a try hard, but because the teachers would excuse his odd behavior because of it

He liked studying advanced science and medical procedures

Probably took a lot of night classes and didn’t sleep a lot, which clouded his judgement

Hence his insane persona

He’s a grade A doctor, certified, but lost his license on day one

Probably forgot he was trying to SAVE the patent, and ended up blending their organs like a smoothie and trying to bring them back to life, just to see what would happen

He has extremely fluffy pillows

He can twist and turn those cogs all he wants, they hurt when lying down

He needs pillows that are 12 inches thick at LEAST to be able to sleep comfortably

If he does sleep that is

It’s a rare occasion when he does

He actually misses Spirit, not for his experimentation, but his company

Spirit was probably the first one to actually put up with him and his creepy behavior

So losing him was a new experience

And kind of hurt

This was probably the point where he gained some semblance of mind

Was a bit more open to kindness and care

Spirit Albarn:

You mean Tamaki Suoh if he was a horrible flirt?

I said what I said

And I stand by it

He’s Tamaki Suoh in a different font

Dumb, obsessed with his daughter, womanizer

Boxes checked, he fits the bill

He definitely fell in love at first sight

Not necessarily with Maka’s mom, though he did with her too

But I mean with every woman he has ever liked

He’d see them, and bam, in love

Probably got slapped a lot for randomly proclaiming his love to strangers

When he met Stein, it probably started out with him being romantically interested

LOOK ME IN THE EYE AND TELL ME SPIRIT ALBARN IS STRAIGHT, YOU CAN’T

As time went on Spirit probably started seeing Stein as more of a friend than a partner

Probably still cares about Stein, despite the fear he feels towards him

He also frequently writes to Maka’s mother

Has probably gone on trips to find her so he can properly apologize

He tries to ignore the guilt when he’s around other women

Mostly because he can only see Maka’s mother when he looks at them, and it physically hurts his heart

He’s ready to literally toss his life away for his daughter

He cares so very deeply for her

And supports her no matter what

He would willingly die protecting her

Whatever she asks of him, he would do without question

That probably includes murder under certain circumstances (i.e. a boy breaks her heart)

Blair:

She doesn’t know what's inappropriate or not

I mean literally

She’s a cat, she doesn’t know that giving a little kid lingerie is bad

Nor does she know what pedophilia is

Concepts like consent and adultery were never taught to her, so she really just doesn’t know

Literally doesn’t know what she’s doing, just likes seeing the funny faces people pull when she does things

She doesn’t purposefully flash anyone

She just thinks their reactions are hilarious

So she keeps doing it

She elongates slightly when someone picks her up

Her back just stretches with her body

You have to pick her up a few extra inches

She also actively keeps her feet on the ground for as long as possible when someone does this

She only takes bubble baths

Strictly because they smell good

And it’s fun to play with the bubbles

Doesn’t know how to read

She knows maybe a few words

But other than that, she can’t read

Medusa Gorgon:

Oh how time has made her bitter

She is, 800+ years old, and has seen sh*t splatter the walls

And people wonder why she turned out the way she did

She’s had to see lives come and go

Lovers promise to stay, only to fade

I can see why she would be bitter and such

Was probably a very kind woman in the beginning

The type to comfort you when you cried

Help you win your ex back

Just in general be so sweet and caring

Like how she acted when she was nurse at the DWMA, but like, that was her genuine self

Her bitterness probably started to fester when her friends and lover started dying for the first time

But she wasn’t

She wasn’t aging

Her lover had grown white hair and wrinkles

Her friends turned old and grey

She probably tried to save them, but ended up failing

And she tried again and again

Eventually giving up, isolating herself, going insane, seeing life as feeble and useless

She probably saw a part of her past lovers in Stein, hence her “Love” for him

But it was more of her pushing the image of a past lover onto him, romanticizing it a bit

She could have possibly thought he was a reincarnation

Honestly, all those years could have made her delusional too and she could have thought it was actually them

Death:

He’s a good father, really, but probably accidentally influenced his son’s betrayal and other son’s perfectionist views with his want for a perfect world

The idea of a perfect world filled with peace was probably because he wanted to let his sons live in a world full of peace

Though his first son probably thought he was standing in his fathers shadow and let rage consume him

And his second son took it a bit too seriously, and became a perfectionist in hopes of pleasing his father

He’s exceptionally good with kids

Time will do that to you

He uses a high pitched voice and friendly outward appearance to put others at ease

Has probably babysat children for the staff members before

Unlike Medusa, 800+ years turned him wise, and made him treasure human life

Hence his want for peace and a perfect world

He already knew he was different, and so any bonds he made with mortals, he treasured

He’s actually very emotional when thinking of his friends, weapons, and possibly lovers

Has been known to sob during these times

Has a few paintings/photos of all the people he’s made emotional bonds too

He also cries when watching the students grow up, especially his second son

And cries when thinking about his first son

Wants to live without regrets, but mulls over his first son

Constantly thinks about what he could have done wrong

If there were any signs he should have seen

If there was a chance to save him from the darkness

Definitely has thought about what it would be like if his first son remained by his side, and how amazing of an older brother he would make

Has fantasized about having his family all together

About living in that perfect world with his sons

About how happy they would be

How happy he would be to watch them grow

To watch them love

Be there when they’re sad

And support them through everything

I’m not crying, I swear-

I hope you like these General Soul Eater Headcanons for the adults! You never said which adults in specific, so I went with these guys! Thank you for the ask!

#soul eater #anime headcanons #headcanon #general headcanon #franken stein #spirit albarn #blair #medusa gorgon #lord death

105 notes · View notes

saberstars · 3 years

Text

I'm Here

Pairing: Gender Neutral Y/N & Loki

Fluff, angst, implied smut

Warnings: Mentions of depression/mental illness, epilepsy/seizures, mentions of sex, as always if I missed anything feel free to let me know

Summary: Loki & You have a pre-existing friendship with benefits & one night you have a seizure after some spiciness. He cares for you helping you afterwards & makes sure you rest easy & safe. Reader is portrayed to have seizures more so during changes in sleep phases, not awake. The wake seizures or more of a medium ish absence/ focal aware seizure that only occur on occasion & can be “fought” through.

Word Count: 1796

Notes: This was intended to be a gender neutral reader. I think I removed all he/she pronouns.

Additionally, I know that not everyone experiences seizures the same way, and that epilepsy can affect people differently. This is all written from my experiences with it, so I ask that you do not tell me I portrayed something wrong. I can and will accept constructive criticism, But I will not accept someone telling me blatantly that I am wrong with my experiences. Therefore please keep that in mind when reading. I genuinely hope this fic brings others comfort if you suffer from epilepsy or any disorder that causes seizures. Thank You <3

It’s been three years since you found out you suffered from epilepsy. A diagnosis that came late in your life to be fair. As a young child up until you reached adulthood, you suffered from eye shakes that would eventually turn into stuttering spells that made it difficult to breath or not breath properly at all. You never passed out though, you got close a few times, but you managed to stay awake and “fight it off.” You started to notice over time that you’d also get a strange taste in your mouth, almost like metal or as if you were sucking on a battery and it had that zing flavor. You knew that was a precursor and would panic on cue rightfully so. You hated when you had your mini stutter fests because all you could do was hope it didn’t happen.

Of course you complained to your parents as a child but they didn’t think it was anything. They said it was just a panic attack. So you took their word for it. That was until you started having grand mals in your sleep. At first you thought they were just a part of some strange dream, that wasn't real to you, not yet anyway. You would wake up exhausted, sore, sometimes unable to move properly, walk, open and close a fist, and you just overall couldn't stay conscious sometimes. Again you complained to your parents about it, but they said it was nothing. You probably had night terrors or some form of minor sleep paralysis. So you dumbly believed them.

When you moved out, You sought answers, and eventually got them. You were grateful. The medication they prescribed helped tremendously though, it did make you tired but it was worth not having your episodes. Thankfully your case wasn’t as severe as others and it was manageable so long as you took care of yourself and took your medications. Though you were warned, breakthroughs were common, and missing your dose can and would cause a seizure.

Despite having such a diagnosis, you kept it to yourself. You never really told anyone. It wasn’t until you started sleeping with a friend, that you finally divulged your secret too in the event that it ever happened whilst they were with you.

It was someone you randomly slept with on and off with. A friend with benefits, his name was Loki. You had met the god shortly after his father had passed and his home, destroyed. You found comfort with each other despite it being more of a sexual comfort. You both used sex as a way to fight your own demons, a distraction, a quick grab at serotonin. Despite the sex you both developed a very deep friendship. You’d read together on occasion, have very interesting debates on current events, history, as well as other nuances, and a lot of other things. You even met his brother and the avengers at one point.

You both slept soundly after spicy events had taken place 2 hours prior, Loki had come over desperate for attention of any kind. He didn’t say why, but you knew it was a rather serious topic he wished not to discuss and rather lessen the pain with ecstasy. Little did you know, on this day a few years ago he indirectly murdered his mother. He blamed himself dearly, he knew if he would have kept his mouth shut for once in his life she may be here today. So he needed a genuine distraction. One of any kind. Preferable you. Due to the spicy events that took place you missed your dose, due to falling asleep promptly after, which cost you dearly. Missing doses always caused this to happen no matter what.

You gasped for air like usual, your body contorting outwards first with a thrust. You were awake, conscious, and terrified for the few seconds you normally were given before blacking out. You began to stutter violently all the air leaving your lungs as it happened. Until no sounds were made and it was just you chattering. Loki woke immediately, with a completely calm exterior despite a raging mixture of emotions internally. He knew you never called an ambulance for these things because you were normally alone & unaware until you became conscious again. She made him promise to never call 911 unless it was over a certain time length, to save her medical expenses, or unless she stopped breathing for good.

Loki dare not touch you though as you shook and curled up. The last thing he wanted was his godly strength to crush you somehow or cause you more pain. Instead he watched and hovered until you finally stopped. It was a short 50 second one, which was under your time limit, but he still debated calling. It’s not like You would’ve known he lied.

His breathing hitched as he went to check your pulse and airway, ever so delicately, which were both clear and strong.

“Oh thank you.” he whispered

A few hours had slid by with still no response from you. Loki sat next to you, staring down at you, to the point where he would fight the urge to blink, waiting for a stir of some kind from you. He did give the courtesy of redressing you though, in a nightgown from a drawer after an hour slid past. He even went as far as ensuring that you were adequately covered by the blankets to avoid being chilled. It has been 3 ½ hours now, with no stir of any kind from you. He knew it would be awhile before you showed any signs of movement possibly but this worry tore him to his core. In the midst of waiting he refused to just idly go back to sleep next to you, he was determined to stay awake until you were conscious again, so that you knew, he stayed there waiting for you. Loki didn’t know when he found himself talking to you as if you were awake, but all he knew was that it made him feel a bit better, and he hoped that when you woke it would make you feel better too.

“You know, I’ve been reading this really dumb gothic romance novel. I think you’d like it because of how naive the girl is. I know you like to criticize and pick on how they make decisions.” he spoke with a chuckle in his voice thinking back to how you’d flail your arms and drop your book to scream about how dumb some main protagnist could be.

“I'll have to buy you a copy or give you mine when I’m done.” Loki shifted his weight from his right to his left brushing your bangs out of your eyes.

“I don’t know why you keep those so long, all they do is get in the way of your gorgeous eyes.”

It was in that moment you rustled, you shifted your neck ever so slightly, Your eyelids twitch. Loki leaned forward parting his lips as he watched with a heart of hope completely overwhelmed with joy when he saw the color of your iris’s. He exhaled a shaky breath cupping your cheeks which caused you to flinch sending a wave of shocks through your body. It was at that moment you knew. You knew what he saw, what he had gone through. Your heart sank and you immediately berated yourself internally despite your exhausted state.

“It’s ok you don’t have to say or do anything. I’ll stay, I’ll take care of you for as long as you need.” Loki assured you, wanting you to know that you didn’t have to go through this alone. You never really had anyone stay, let alone worry about you. Your eyes began to water as tears rolled down your face.

“I’ll go grab you some water, you’re probably parched. I’ll also grab you a banana. I read that potassium can help with the cramping.” Loki said leaving to yourself for a moment. He also grabbed tissues for your eyes and nose just in case. Upon returning her placed everything at your side offering help to sit up. “Do you need to use the bathroom or help sitting up?” He asked with a gentle tone.

You nodded trying to take a good deep breath so you could speak a bit. “I’m so sorry you had to see that… but thank you. Thank you for staying, for helping. I do need the bathroom and I would appreciate help. My legs are still...” you mustered out with all your might but after a point your tongue refused to work with you.

“Of course, I may be a monster but I’m not entirely cruel. If it helps… you can just think to yourself and I can listen that way. So that you're not struggling too much.” Loki admitted with a tone of self depreciation.

“You're not a monster just because you're different & have made mistakes.” you thought as Loki picked you up bridal style walking you to the bathroom. Of course he placed you down on the toilet and waited outside for you to do what you needed. Since he had only added a nightgown to your previously naked body it made things easier. It was exhausting to just sit up and do everything but you pushed through. You even pushed yourself up and limped to the sink best you could to wash your hands. Upon hearing the faucet though Loki came back in standing behind you offering support if needed.

“Catch me~” you thought before falling back into his arms with a snort.

“You're lucky I have godlike reflexes you minx.” He replied with a hint of flirtation. You had used more than you had in you to wash your hand. Loki caught you obviously and carried you back to the room placing you back on the bed. “No, more like I knew you were ready to catch me.” you slowly thought as exhaustion tugged at your consciousness again. Loki noticed the pill bottle on your dresser before prompting you to take it. Instinctively opening it and sliding one into his hand.

“You should probably take this before you fall asleep.” You took it mentally saying thanks drinking the glass of water with it.

“Yeah that would probably help avoid some added breakdancing.” You joked trying to use humor to lighten the situation. Loki stared plain faced trying not to entertain your joke though, despite finding it secretly witty. Maybe he’d laugh at it when you felt a bit better. Soon after you began to dance between awake and sleep. Loki took note based on how your thoughts jumbled around between multiple things, laughing to himself a bit before minor intrusive fears began picking at you. Loki immediately jumped into action in an attempt to squash them soothing you a bit.

“You can sleep soundly, please get some rest. You don’t have to force yourself to stay awake out of fear or guilt.” Loki spoke in the most caring and sweet tone he could muster up. Trying to convince you that it was going to be ok & it worked. Somehow you knew he was right & that you could trust him completely. You drifted back to sleep peacefully thinking about how for the first time in your life, you didn’t fear sleeping in your bed. You didn’t have intrusive thoughts about whether or not you’d wake up in the morning or not. Which honestly brought tears bubbling their way up and out of Loki's eyes. The amount of trust you had in him in your thoughts, at that moment completely took his breath away. And that was something he wasn’t going to break or ever lose.

78 notes · View notes

phantomrose96 · 3 years

Text

Flash in the Eyes Part 2

(Part 1)

More fixed!Flynn lore? More fixed!Flynn lore

..................

Danny lay awake. He kept his eyes glued to the bedroom ceiling, studded with glow-in-the-dark stars from corner to corner. They doused him in the tiniest shimmer of ethereal light – the second source of light in the room – after his phone, which he gripped loosely in the hand dangling off the bed. The phone cast its own faint shimmer outward, a ray into the bleak night.

And he himself made for the third source of light, he supposed. That pulse of iridescent green from his eyes, which he felt like the beginnings of a headache building inside his head, had been spurred to the front by the trickle of anxiety that kept his nerves alight now at 3:30 am.

The plastic stars above. His phone glowing outward. (His radioactive eyes, pinned to Aunt Alicia.)

Danny was not allowed to forget the incident. He was not allowed to move on. Even home, it followed him.

His phone, with that dim light, was open to a single message that had been plaguing him all day. A single Facebook message, from a profile wishing to connect, with no profile picture, no history, no other friends, made day-of. “danny. this is your aunt alicia. never would of thought id be using of one these computers. wierd things. any way. wanted to apoligize about scarring you. I have a mean face maddie knows. i dont have a computer. this is in the libary in town. but hoping you culd call me on the phone. wanted to ask you somthing more. thanks. xxx-xxx-xxxx…”

Danny left the message on read. He figured it didn’t much matter that his read-receipts were on. Alicia made it clear she had no access to a computer, or likely internet for that matter. This was a message cast into the void, framed as an apology, but fishing for information that made Danny’s skin crawl to think about. Alicia could talk to his mom any time. But she had chosen not to. She’d chosen to contact Danny directly, through a means of great hassle for a woman so sworn-off technology, living so far away from proper civilization. And she’d chosen to do so after seeing that flash in his eyes.

This wasn’t like fighting ghosts. Those were pure physical scuffles which ended in him casting the creature off into the portal to (hopefully) never be heard from again. This instead was an anxiety pricking along every nerve of his skin, deep-seeded and deep-sewn from the woman who terrified him all these many years, whose connection to his ghost-hunting parents sent his brain into spirals of dread for all the what-ifs he conjured.

“You seem deep in contemplation. Perhaps I should come back later?”

Danny sat bolt-upright, spinning fast enough to see new stars spawning in his vision. He blinked them away, and sucked in a sharp inhale of breath as he snapped his head to the side.

Half-translucent, idly floating, Vlad Plasmius appraised him from the other side of he bedroom, studying Danny the way a teacher might study a struggling student.

Danny’s transformation and leap from bed came as one. His covers blew back, phone clattering to the floor forgotten.

“Plas—”

“Yes yes, ‘it is I, Plasmius’. I believe we’ve done our battle cry introductions enough times for the audience to get the point.”

“What are you doing here?!”

“Just dropping in on old friends.” Plasmius, still floating, performed a motion as if to sit. He swung one leg over the other, and reduced the miasma of pressure that his aura sent off. He was relaxed, and conversational, and this made Danny’s neck hair prickle all the more.

“All the way from Wisconsin! Yeah just, dropping in at 3 in the morning! Yeah, well, sorry but I don’t buy it, Plasmius. And I’m sending you back to Wisconsin now that you—”

“Seems we’ve both been traveling quite a bit out of state. Tell me was it a fun little vacation? A ghost hunting trip?”

“It—” Danny’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know we were gone?”

“Oh easy, I have ghost sentinels pinned on your house at all hours. They feed me this information.”

“Noted. Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to blast them out of existence next time I’m out.”

“I’d love to see you try. They’re masters of stealth.” Vlad flashed a grin. “I have to say I am quite disappointed to see you all back so soon – must have been a short trip. Where did you go?”

“Not telling you. Now why are you here?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

Danny bit down the urge to sucker-punch Vlad on spot. “We were visiting our aunt. Nothing special. Not everything is some big…I dunno… ghost conspiracy, Vlad. Now why are you here?”

“I was simply hoping to catch the house unguarded. You know, explore the lab, see the new contraptions that Maddie designed and Jack botched, perhaps sprinkle some cyanide in the oaf’s cornflakes box.”

“Like I’d let you--!”

“Aunt, did you say, Daniel? Alicia, perchance?”

Danny gave no response. He felt only the twist in his gut, which wrought a smile to Vlad’s face.

Vlad clapped his hands together and continued. “That is a name that brings back memories! She and Maddie were remarkably close. I heard about her constantly – given of course that I am a fantastic listener who never forgets a name or a face, unlike some fools who can’t even remember birthdays – but yes as Maddie’s best listener and best supporter, I feel like I know Alicia personally. Tell me, how is her husband Dale doing? How’s little Flynn? Not so little anymore, I imagine.”

“Don’t… talk about my aunt. That’s weird.” Danny floated backwards, coalescing a lick of flame in his palm. “Also, goes to show how much you know these days. Alicia and Dale have been divorced for like ten years now. And there’s no Flynn. You sure you’re that great a listener?”

Vlad quirked an eyebrow. “Ah, shame how divorce never seems to happen to the right people. Has Alicia tried telling Maddie it’s not too late to follow suit?” Danny unleashed his pulse of energy. Vlad blocked it with a single dismissive wave of his gloved hand. “And Daniel I am referring to your cousin Flynn, about whom I am absolutely not mistaken. Maddie and I were sophomores in college when he was born. Maddie flooded me with pictures of the boy, chubby little thing with red hair like Maddie’s. They moved her to tears, some of them. It was formative for me. The moment I realized that was the future I wished for myself, that I could bring Maddie that same joy with a family of our own. Shame how children don’t seem to happen to the right people either.”

Danny gave no response. He only lingered in the air, drifting slightly, the wafting residue of his attack trailing along his palm.

“You don’t seem so convinced,” Vlad commented.

“I’m not. Aunt Alicia doesn’t have kids. I don’t have any cousins. Unless you count whatever Danielle is.”

“A clone. You have to know the cousin thing was made up.”

“Alicia doesn’t have kids. Bottom line.”

“Did she sign him away in the divorce? That’s cold. I wonder if I could convince Jack to do the same with you.”

“Aunt Alicia divorced without kids, dumbass!” Danny swept a hand out. “She talks about her divorce all the time like it’s the best thing that happened to her, and she’s said how easy it was with just her and Dale and no one else. I don’t know how many other ways I can tell you I don’t have cousins, and I definitely don’t have a cousin named Flynn. You’re making yourself look like an idiot.”

“The opinion of a 14-year-old means very little to me.” Vlad dipped forward, closing the gap between him and Danny by a few feet. The air howled cold behind him. “However I am utterly intrigued to know what became of Flynn then. Clearly something worth keeping from you. Drowned in a pool? Carried off by a bear? Perhaps his parents made a ghost portal a decade prior to yours and he zapped it on from the inside.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I am hilarious, young man.” Vlad uncrossed his legs, still floating, but as though standing once more. “You should respond to your aunt’s message.” Vlad nodded his head to the phone on the floor. “She seems eager to speak to you. Maybe she can tell you what happened to dear little Flynn. And if you don’t, well perhaps I will stop by tomorrow morning for some tea, and ask Maddie myself what became of him. You’re welcome to be in the room when I do.”

“Hey!”

A flash of light momentarily blinded Danny, followed by a pulse of energy, and when Danny opened his eyes again he had to blink through stars.

Nothing remained in the night.

Only the ceiling studded stars above, and the glow of the phone below, and the consumptive chilling green flashing from his own eyes.

#danny phantom #dp #flynn #flynn walker #dp fanfiction #vlad masters

410 notes · View notes

quietlyimplode · 3 years

Note

drugged + (Do you write Laura?). Maybe Clint and Nat came back from a mission and although Nat seemed okay, Laura finds her during the night not doing so well.

Hello Anon! Thanks for sending this one through. This was supposed to be a drabble that turned into 1800 words so uhh thanks?

Also @paperairplanesopenwindows this was completey written with you in mind. I hope the rest of the month is kinder.

Kind Words.

Laura drys her hands and smiles at the now familiar sounds of the quinjet landing. Clint’s home. And if she’s very lucky, Natasha will be here too. She stands at the door with Cooper in her arms, his squashy baby face outwards on the baby carrier, his arms and legs free. Clint has been trying to make it home more to see him grow, she knows he’ll be devastated if he misses milestones, but as she’d confessed to Natasha, he was missing them anyway.

She walks out on the driveway, and down the stairs, watching as Clint appears down the ramp, Natasha trailing behind him. They’re both smiling, which she takes as a good sign. She frowns in the sunlight and thinks it may have been the trick of the light to see Natasha suck in a big breath, because when she looks again, nothing is wrong.

They greet each other with hugs and kisses and she passes Cooper across to the two of them, stretching her back and sitting down for the first time that day.

It’s a quiet affair, their homecoming, and she thinks she likes it better that way. She ruffles Clint’s hair; tells him he needs a shower as he pouts and asks her to join him. Laura concedes as Natasha offers to take the baby, the first shower she’s had baby-less in almost six weeks. It’s bliss.

She’s quiet as she heads downstairs, and finds Natasha staring. Not just lost in her own world, but it takes three goes of her name to get her attention. Laura frowns again. That is not at all like Natasha, who always at least acknowledges her on the first. She’s been able to get Cooper to sleep, and Laura smiles, wiping the concern off her face, tells her she’s magic and offers her some tea.

Natasha watches and they lapse into easy conversation, the goings on of the farm, the chickens and horse, right down to the vegetables Laura has been growing. She hopes this is a safe place for Natasha, that she doesn’t have to hide anything, because Laura distinctly gets the feeling that’s what’s happening.

She presents Natasha with the tea, Clint checking in on them before heading out into the garden, there’s nothing like seeing the land rather than just hearing about it. She talks softly to Clint, asking him to much out the chicken coops even though it’s almost 5pm, it’s a small job that will help in the long run. He pouts and kisses her telling her he’ll be an hour.

Laura returns to her chair, finding Natasha gone but the steaming mug of tea still there. Laura sighs. Nothing like a ninja assassin in her midst. She picks up her phone and scrolls through it, losing time on stupid things but liking the abstract company whilst the baby sleeps.

When she realises it’s almost hit 6pm, concern for Natasha sends a cold shiver down her back, unsure whether to go look for her or let her be. She has no idea how long it’s been since she’s had time to herself, and she doesn’t want to ruin that if all she has had lately is people around her.

Making a decision to start dinner instead, she sets the mince on the stove and spaghetti in the saucepan and makes an easy dinner that she knows both of them love. Cooper wakes with a cry and snort and she pulls him into the high chair, feeding him like normal; just the two of them. Clint wanders in as the spaghetti finishes and they move around the kitchen with practiced ease, finishing cooking dinner and providing simple entertainment that only babies like.

They share a look when Natasha doesn’t appear for dinner and Laura asks if there’s anything she should know. Clint shrugs and shakes his head, making Laura frown. Twice in the six hours they’ve been back, she’s seen Natasha space out and that just when she’s been in the same room, now she’s been missing for almost three hours, she just wants to know she’s ok.

Stomping up the stairs and leaving Clint to have some floor time with Cooper, she checks the bedrooms and the upstairs space, not finding Natasha anywhere. Nervousness curls in her guts as she sends a message to her, and hears the vibration of a phone in Natasha’s room. Poking her head in again she sees the phone on the nightstand.

Laura hurries back down stairs and tells Clint she’s missing. She could be lost, cold or passed out from an untold injury, for all Laura knows. Clint laughs it off and says she’s fine, she probably just gone for a run. He maintains that nothing has happened in any mission over the past two weeks that would make Natasha on edge or even remotely triggered. He says it with such conviction that it makes Laura go from frantic to pissed off in a matter of seconds as she moves outside, the cold air hitting her making her wish she had a coat.

She tries the chickens first, and then the barn. With no luck she looks around the farm in twilight and spies the light of the quinjet door.

She calls out, hoping that it’s nothing like Clint said. She doesn’t think so though. Sometimes, he just doesn’t understand. Sometimes it needed to be Laura.

There’s no response as she makes her way inside, as she navigates to the cockpit, she finds Natasha curled in the seat, asleep.

Laura smiles. She sits down next to her on the other chair and sends Clint a message she’ll be here if he needs any help with Cooper. He sends a thumbs up back and she rolls her eyes.

A little after 9, Natasha shifts in her chair and looks over to Laura whos sharp eyes are watching her every movement.

“Hey.” She says, softly. Natasha lips curl up in a smile that doesn’t even touch any of her other features.

“What’s wrong Nat?” She asks, before anything else can be said.

Natasha turns away and has her face schooled when she turns again.

“Nothing.” She replies.

Laura looks at her, piecing eyes break through Natasha’s now glassy ones, unaccustomed to being the one under this much scrutiny.

“Did something happen?” Laura asks, ready to play twenty questions.

“No?” Laura’s eyesbrows raise around the negative answer that’s clearly positive. “Yes?”

Natasha drops her head into her hands.

“Nothing happened.” Natasha groans. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Laura doesn’t respond. There’s a sadness or maybe frustration that’s oozing from Natasha. She knows she’s asking the wrong questions.

“Did Clint do something?” She loves her husband but sometimes he is an idiot. She doesn’t think he’d do anything deliberately, but she knows that Natasha’s head can be a minefield, and so a small part of her wonders if this separation from him in the house is Natasha’s way of getting space from him and trying to work it out in her own. She knows she’s close to the mark as Natasha closes her eyes and tips her head back, pushing it against the headrest.

“What did he do?” She asks quietly.

Natasha doesn’t respond but keeps her eyes closed. A tear slips out to which she furiously wipes away.

“Nothing.” She gets out with a stuttering huff.

“Hey,” Laura reaches over and grabs Natasha hand. “If he’s done something, anything, you can say it. It’s ok,” she squeezes her hand. “Ok?”

Natasha shakes her head.

“It’s not him. It’s me. It’s always me.” The hand not holding Laura’s hand comes up and covers her face.

Laura’s heart breaks for her, she keeps hold of her hand and squeezes it again.

“Hey.”

When she doesn’t get a response, she gently pulls the arm away.

“Hey. This is not on you. If there’s something he did, he needs to know not to do it again, yeah? If it hurts, if it hits hard, it’s important?”

Natasha is silent, perhaps contemplating Laura’s words.

“It’s stupid.” She whispers. “Please don’t tell him.”

Laura rubs her her thumb over Natasha’s knuckles.

“It’s not stupid.” She assures.

“He yelled.” Natasha admits. “He was yelling at Peter and Wanda for doing something stupid, I don’t even know what,” she exhales deep, “and it just sent me back. Yelling always lead to pain, and I don’t… didn’t want that for them. I can’t stop thinking about it, and when I do I get stuck.” Natasha finally looks over to Laura.

“It’s not his fault. He wasn’t wrong.” And then quieter. “Please don’t tell him.”

Laura isn’t really sure what to do.

She’s not sure if Clint has realised. Feels that he would have said something if he felt she was off. He hadn’t known. Natasha is far too good at hiding her feelings and she never wants her to feel like she has to do that here. Whether it be with her or Clint, she wants her to be able to say something.

“I’m not going to say anything.” She whispers.

Natasha looks at her, face blanked.

Laura continues, “Nat, your triggers are nothing to be ashamed of, the fact that you’ve survived all that you have is a miracle and amazing in itself and I am so so glad you are here. Sometimes though, you need to say something, and not battle through yourself. If you don’t want to tell Clint, you can always come to me.” She squeezes her hand again.

“Ok?”

Natasha nods. Laura’s sure her words are lost, and shame is overriding everything, but the words bare saying.

“Do you wanna come in or do you wanna stay here?”

Natasha shrugs.

“I have to go out Cooper to bed, but if you choose to stay here I’ll come back with blankets and some food. If you wanna come in, the house is warm and there’s food ready.”

She kisses Natasha’s hand, and as she leaves, she feels Natasha follow behind her.

She slows her pace and they walk comfortably back to the house.

“Thanks.” Natasha says, over the crickets.

Laura opens the door for her and smiles.

“Hey. Sometimes you just need to talk it out right?”

Natasha nods, there’s still an air of sadness around her but she seems more out together than when she’d left Laura alone with the cup of tea.

They don’t say anything as they find Clint wrestling Cooper in his onesie. Laura laughs.

“I can help.” She says, relieving him and tag teaming out. She puts the TV on and points to the food on the table, giving Natasha something to do away from where Clint is.

She hands Cooper back to Clint and sends them off to bed. “Good luck,” she grins, hugging them both.

“She ok?” Clint whispers as he holds her close. Laura nods her head into him.

The night ends quietly, with Clint snoring on the couch, and Natasha watching television, some balance restored.

#blackwidowfest2021 #clint/nat/laura #natasha romanoff #black widow #clint barton #hawkeye #laura barton #my fic #ask away #marvel fic #prompt fic #to all the people who have sent in fic requests #thanks so much :)#heads up they’re probs not all gonna be this long #this has not been proof read #I just wanna go to bed #sooo I’ll reread it in the morning and correct from there

57 notes · View notes

americanmoths · 3 years

Text

inappropriate funeral questions

prompt: haunt me in the night | tw: discussions of dying, MCD | 1.5k lmao | on ao3

“Potter,” Draco says at the reception to Goyle’s funeral. “How is it you look exactly the same as the last time I saw you. That was almost 3 years ago.”

Andromeda Tonks’ funeral. Draco wore a black dress.

“Good skincare.” The same answer he gives Hermione. A joke so he doesn’t have to form an opinion on his complete lack of outward signs of aging over the past 5 years.

Draco steps closer and takes his hand. Studies it. Turns it over in his own hand, gentle, focused. Harry swallows.

“You’re unnaturally warm.” Draco points his wand at Harry. “Avada Kedavra.”

Then, nothing. And then, Draco.

“You came back.”

Harry shrugs. It’s not as though this is the first time.

“This is not the time and place to discuss any of this. How about my place, tonight? I’ll give you my address. Bring wine,” Draco says.

“Are you, err, asking me on a date?”

“No, I’m asking you on a secret rendezvous to discuss the bizarre set of circumstances we’ve both found ourselves in.”

“But there will be wine.”

“Yes, Potter! Because we’re adults. Because despite the fact that I look 19, I’m actually 25 and thus will drink as much wine as I want whether on a date or not!”

“You know you look the same as you did 3 years ago too!” Harry calls after Draco as he walks away.

—

“Do you think I’m a bad son for leaving early?” Draco asks at what would be the reception to Narcissa’s funeral. He had left halfway through the ceremony, apparently to raid the communion wine stash and drink alone in the church basement.

“I think you’re grieving. It’s not as though your mom will know you left.”

“Don’t say that,” Draco says. “Don’t say that. She’s not gone. She’s just … somewhere else.”

“Whatever you say, Draco.”

Draco scowls. “No, not whatever I say. Don’t placate me.”

He aims his wand at Harry. A green flash.

Then, nothing. Then, Draco, looking almost sheepish.

“Sorry, I know you asked me to warn you, but I’m drunk, and it’s my mother’s funeral. I’m allowed to forget things.” Draco sighs. “I like that you come back. That we come back. Because if you can come back, then that means that she can come back, wherever she is. It means the matter preserves itself. It means —”

Harry’s heard what it means several times before. Draco’s fond of this particular speech — it staves off Draco's fear of death, Harry suspects. Harry doesn’t understand most of the points Draco makes, but he listens anyways. Draco’s mind moves faster than his does — than anyone’s does, probably. He’s the one that figured out the Fiendfyre hadn’t died as much as it had escaped. It burns still, inside the two people who spent the longest time zig-zagging through its flames. It preserves the two of them. Prevents them from dying.

Keeps them so warm, he thinks as he runs his fingers up and down Draco’s shoulder. He can feel the fire trapped there, still burning inside lovely, grieving, drunk Draco who sighs again and says, “Sometimes when I look at you, I can’t figure out if what I feel for you is real or if it’s because you represent the possibility of seeing everyone I ever love again.”

“What you … feel for me?”

“Yes. The — you know, pseudoscientific ‘heart-opening’ feeling.”

“Errrrr …”

“Don’t worry about it,” Draco says. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”

He sighs with his whole body, his head landing in Harry’s lap. “I think I’d like it if you stroked my hair.”

Harry does. He feels warm. He feels good. He feels as though he’ll wait forever for this dumb-ass intellectual to figure out the pseudoscientific heart-opening feeling is love.

—

“Do you think I look different now that I’m an orphan?” Draco asks after Lucius’ funeral.

“Oh, yes, you look more handsome. All orphans are handsome didn’t you know?” Harry says. “It’s my honor to welcome you to our elite and exclusive club.”

Draco snorts and finishes off a second bottle of wine. “I keep on thinking about all the things he hated about me and how I’ve doubled down on them. Like animals, he hated animals and I have a crup, a dog and a phoenix. And he always told me I overthink things, and now I’m an academic. Kissing boys, also a no, no.”

Harry doesn’t want to think about Draco kissing other boys. Not when he has yet to kiss him.

“Being immortal, that’s a thing I’m sure he wouldn’t approve of,” Harry says.

“Definitely. I’m sure he hates that I outlived him. Well, sort of outlived him,” Draco waves his hand. “I don’t want to think about whatever happens on the other side right now; I’m in too good of a mood. Dancing! He would’ve hated that I dance.”

“I didn’t know you dance.”

“Of course I can dance. Here. Let me show you,” he pulls Harry snug against him, casts a music spell. Harry doesn’t recognize the song, or the dance, but he recognizes the desire in the other boy’s eyes.

“I want to kiss you,” Draco says.

“I know you do,” Harry leans toward Draco, wet heat against wet heat; a fire that burns forever, greeting itself.

Time restarts. When Harry pulls back, Draco’s 29. As old as he’s supposed to be.

—

“Why did you come?” Draco spits at the reception to his ex-lover’s funeral. Tim? Ted? Travis? Harry never learned his name out of spite.

“I wanted to see you.”

“That’s massively inappropriate.”

“I’m supporting a friend. I know how you get at funerals.” Drunk.

“I’m fine. It was cancer; it wasn’t as though it was a surprise. He was in a lot of pain. He wanted to go.” Draco sighs. “We used to argue about that all the time. I was smarter than Toby, but he was much better at arguing, so when we really got going, we could go for days. It’s been so quiet now that he’s — wherever he is. I think I’m scared of being alone. I think I’ve had a little too much wine.”

“You don’t have to be alone, you know. I’m not saying we have to do anything, but you don’t have to be alone.”

“I can’t. Every time I see you, I want to kiss you, but if I kiss you, then it’ll restart our clocks. It’ll kill us, and I’m more scared of dying than I am of being alone.”

“I know you are.”

“How come you’re not?”

“I trust you to do the thinking for the both of us. Sorry, is that unfair? It’s not as though I can keep up with you in the thinking department anyways. I trust you, and you said there’s a flip-side, that we’re proof that there’s a flip-side. Which means all there is is just somewhere else I get to explore with you.”

Draco leans down and kisses his hand. Harry feels the burn pass from Draco to him, feels the fire inside him dim. He gets older by two year, three.

But he feels it more when Draco walks away.

—

“Have you ever seen a phoenix die?” Draco asks at what Harry guesses is supposed to be a funeral for his pet phoenix, Kelvin. He’s sitting in his favorite armchair, dressed in black, still as 29 as when Harry kissed him 29 almost 70 years ago. Kelvin died, please come, that’s all his owl had said.

“No?” Harry says.

“I expected as much. Obviously, die isn’t the right word. Metamorphosis, that’s the word I’ve decided fits best. Because obviously, he’s here still.” Draco indicates the flaming baby bird sitting in a ring of ash on the corner of the armchair. “But his memories were erased, and that’s a kind of death. Kelvin was old for a phoenix — I think he was holding out for me, and he finally realized that I had no intention of going. But it was his time. I watched, out of respect. It was … beautiful. He looked so relieved. As though, finally, he could rest.”

“Errrr you know actually I think maybe I did see that. With Fawkes.”

Draco laughs and runs his hand across his face. “I’m trying to make a segue, you know. To tell you I’m ready. I thought if I was poetic about the whole thing It’d make me less scared, but it didn’t. I’m still scared.”

“I know you are.” Harry says and pulls Draco close to him. Draco rests his head against Harry’s chest. “It’s ok. We’ll be together.”

He slides two fingers under Draco’s chin, angles it up to his face. Waits for Draco to be ready. The longest moment of Harry’s very long life.

Draco looks as though he has something he wants to say, but he never speaks. He leans forward and kisses Harry.

All of the years come at once. 29; 39; 49. His back hurts; his legs ache; he feels comfortable in his body in a way his youth never allowed. 59; 69; 79, on. Two old men, falling into inevitability. Reaching together for what’s next.

There’s Draco, and Draco, and only Draco. And then nothing at all.

#alternative title: the years start coming and they don't stop coming #drarry microfic #drarrymicrofic #drarry squad #draco malfoy #harry potter #ive been trying to write microfics that are not dialogue heavy to force myself to ~grow as an artist~ oops

46 notes · View notes

azucanela · 3 years

Text

what happens in vegas

pairing: oikawa tooru x fem!reader

warnings: mild angst.

word count: 1.3k

navigation

THIS WAS AWKWARD. Anyone, even those who didn’t know them, could see it. But this girl was Y/N’s friend, who she was supposed to be supporting in her endeavors to flirt with Oikawa. Now, Oikawa was her friend too, and anyone could see it, he was uncomfortable with Mai’s advances. Oikawa was the type to be nice about these things of course, polite smile as he rose from his seat.

“I need to use the bathroom, I’ll be back ladies.”

It’s not until he’s out of sigh that Mai’s head falls into her hands as she cries out, “god I’m so dumb,” she looks up to Y/N, “he’s so great and I’m just—” Mai throws her hands outwards in frustration, failing to find the words and instead settling on a noise of frustration.

Y/N simply offers her a smile, resting her hand on Mai’s, “it’s fine! Maybe next time you wanna hit on him, don’t make me third wheel though.” It’s a joke, but if Y/N was honest, it kinda hurt.

Falling for Oikawa Tooru is easy. He’s nice, polite, respectful, confident, an athlete with decent grades. But anyone who really knew him was well aware that this wasn’t all true, it was a surface level version of him. The one he displayed to his fans, it was fake, to put it simply.

Falling for the real Oikawa Tooru, the one who teases, the one who barely has time to hang out because he’s rather committed to volleyball. The one who adores his team and takes the blame for every loss, the one who argues— god does he argue— falling for him, is hard.

And yet, here Y/N was, supporting her friend’s endeavors despite her own feelings for the boy. She’d never brought them up to Mai, and never would.

“Besides, you know how Oikawa is,” this was a lie, Y/N had a feeling Mai didn’t know him all too well with how she was acting, but she continues, “he doesn’t jump into relationships, take things slow.”

Mai simply nods, eyes flickering to behind Y/N, which leads her to think that Oikawa is returning. And of course, speak of the devil—

“I’m back ladies!”

And he shall appear.

Except this time, when Oikawa takes his seat, it’s beside Y/N.

Oh.

Oh no.

Nobody says anything, nobody comments on how he switched seats, not that anyone has the chance to because even as Mai’s face falls, her phone rings, pulling her from whatever thoughts she was having. Y/N can’t help but look to Oikawa in pure shock, yet he simply offers her a rather nonchalant smile as Mai answers her phone.

Mai’s face has flushed as she slips her phone back into her purse, offering the pair a smile as she comes to a stand, “I’m sorry, I gotta go.”

Y/N finds herself frowning slightly, yet looks up to Mai with a smile as she quietly says, “see you later.” Their eyes meet, “call me.”

Mai nods, looking back to Oikawa, who beams up at her, “I’ll see you in school, Mai.” He pats her arm, and Y/N can’t help but take notice of how painfully platonic his actions are.

“Bye Oikawa.” She says softly, offering him a tight lipped smile as she takes her leave from the table.

Oikawa’s brows are furrowed once she’s gone, and his fingers tap at the table. Y/N knew him well enough to know that something is on his mind. She can practically feel the tension building, he definitely had something to say, and Y/N couldn’t help the anxiety she felt as he finally said, “I need to talk to you.”

That’s not stress-inducing at all, Oikawa.

“Right.” Y/N replies, exhaling shakily while Oikawa’s eyes burn into the table.

He finally looks up to her, “I need you to be honest with me— and know, that whatever we say,” he looks around them, a small grin replacing the frown on his face, “at this table, remains at this table.”

Y/N swallows nervously, nodding as she says, “okay.” Her eyes meet his, “what’s wrong, Oikawa?”

He pauses, shifting to face her better before asking, “does Mai like me?” There’s no teasing air in his voice, no jokes, nothing. He’s 100% serious and for some reason Y/N finds it unnerving as he asks if their friend likes him. With the amount that Mai talks about him, Y/N wouldn’t doubt that she’s practically in love with him.

“I can’t answer that Oikawa,” Y/N replies, looking away from him.

Oikawa inhales deeply, nodding slowly, “based off your answer I’m gonna go with yes.” His fingers continue to tap at the table, “I don’t like her, like that, I mean.”

“I know.”

Oikawa is silent at her words, staring Y/N down. At this point she’s practically admitted that Mai is enamored with him and Y/N can’t help but feel horrible, having failed to keep her secret. But she’s pulled from those thoughts as Oikawa says, “Y/N be honest with me.” She looks up, finally returning her gaze to him, and Oikawa takes that as a sign as he asks, “how do you feel?”

It’s a loaded question, albeit vague but she understands what he’s asking. The way he teases her, the light flirting while they’d walked through the mall as Mai checked out a store, the shared glances.

“Oikawa.” Y/N says, looking to him, shaking her head. “Mai likes you.”

“This isn’t about Mai.” He affirms, “Y/N, I like you.”

There it goes, he’s dropped a bomb. Just like that he’s ruined everything. It’s easy to deny deny deny when nothing has been verbalized, even with the silent agreement they’d had. But now it was undeniable. She couldn’t tell herself that she was reading into things because he had just admitted it.

At this point Y/N is filled with frustration as she replies, “I can’t do that to her.” Bringing a hand to her temple, “imagine how that would look Oikawa.” She cries out, eyes meeting his.

“I don’t owe her anything.”

It’s the brutal truth. At the end of the day, Oikawa doesn’t owe her anything. He doesn’t have to like her back, and it’s not his fault that he doesn’t. Feelings are like that, no matter how badly you may want to, you can’t pick and choose who you like.

Not that Oikawa would’ve picked someone else.

If she’s honest, Y/N is shocked that he’s confessing in the first place, and it scares her. Oikawa isn’t one for commitment, to a relationship at least. His time is dedicated to volleyball, his own self-improvement, his team. Which means that for some reason, he’s decided he also wants to commit to a relationship, it means he’s willing to change things so that it can work.

So that it can work, with her.

“We can’t.” Y/N repeats.

“Y/N look at me.” She doesn’t, gaze remaining on the empty plates before them from the meal they’d just shared as a group, because maybe avoiding this means avoiding all the problems that come with it. But Oikawa is persistent, it’s in his nature. “Y/N.” Oikawa repeats, “Y/N.” Finally, his hand comes to her chin, forcing her gaze onto him, “how do you feel?”

Inhaling deeply, Y/N grimaces, silent for a moment, before saying, “I like you Oikawa, I do.” Her hand comes to rest on his, which is now on her cheek as she continues, “but we can’t.”

And yet Oikawa finds himself pressing his lips to hers. Despite herself, Y/N is kissing back, eyes fluttering shut as her grip on his hand tightens. Y/N can’t help but lean further into him,

It would be their first, and last kiss.

#oikawa x reader #oikawa x you #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru x you #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa toru x you #tooru x reader #tooru x you #toru x reader #toru x you #tooru oikawa x reader #tooru oikawa x you #toru oikawa x reader #toru oikawa x you #hq x reader #hq x you

77 notes · View notes

senju-sekhmet · 3 years

Text

The Leash (Part 4)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death ~6500 words (this chapter, finished work: 80.000) Previous: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3 Read on AO3! Disclaimer below the cut!

DISCLAIMER! -i reckon I don’t need the paste it again… but in short: this is a purely self-indulgent work which contains a lot of my own headcanons and whatnot. this chapter especially so! lots of talking and thinking - curious to see what you think!! THANKS FOR READING <3 ----- Tobirama resolved to give you the next dose preemptively. After you had explained to him that during your capture you had never suffered anything like the withdrawal symptoms - or at least you couldn't remember - he expressed concern for the fact the leash might do more permanent damage if stretched too far.

"That means I'm going to have to take it more often," you had whimpered.

Tobirama still had a hard time seeing you so malnourished - a shadow of your former self. But he wasn't going to argue now. "I know," he had answered, keeping his deep voice soft nonetheless. Your precarious state needn't be aggravated by more stress, though he wouldn’t be swayed on this. "However I hardly think they spared you the withdrawal symptoms because they were being fair sports, Y/n." There was a sad logic behind this, of course.

There always was.

You were twisting uneasily in the bed a bit now, blinking a few times. It had not escaped Tobirama's notice that you had seemed to ponder longer - and your movements had become weaker, more sluggish. In fact he had lowered you back to the bed again from the hug you two had shared because he had felt how your muscles had begun to shake - just from sitting up. You had protested of course, but Tobirama wasn't going to change his mind on this, either. You still needed a lot of rest. Besides-

The scales were tipping, slowly. It made his heart heavy.

Finally you had found your words again. "I suppose so." You closed your eyes lazily.

"Y/n…", Tobirama had spoken up again softly, reaching to grasp your hand which felt so cold. "I'll put you to sleep right after you drank it. If we shield you from any outward sensations, it might help." If it came down to it, Tobirama knew he himself would guard the door if he had to. Pray for anyone who disturbed you in your vulnerable state. At the same time, he was aware how unrealistic that was - but either way, it was another concern he’d find a solution to. He always did.

You had given him a weak smile, then. "It's worth a shot."

Tobirama could tell you hadn't exactly placed any hope in that.

He wasn't sure if he did.

That had been two hours ago, now. In the meantime he had worked to set up the laboratory gear needed for the next task at hand: analyse the contents of the drug. Of course the hospital had all the equipment available as well as an empty room in the basement. Tobirama still wanted to be closer to you, but he'd have to make due with a seal placed in your room. Briefly, he contemplated to let a shadow clone of his guard you, but ultimately he decided against it - his focus mustn't be divided, at least not now. Besides, your day was pretty much running by the leash's clock, which Tobirama knew hatefully well by now. He knew when to be with you. Frankly he still was miffed Mito had removed the branded piece of paper he had placed there earlier - now, he opted to ram a marked kunai into the doorframe. The gesture was clear. Hashirama was tending to his duties as Hokage again by now - Tobirama didn't expect to see his brother again too quickly. Not that he'd blame him - there were other pressing matters at hand.

Tobirama also had some other place to visit again for results.

All of the work was good - the focus was welcomed. During it he was entirely absorbed in considering his approaches to the objective as well as his angles in achieving it. The worry had become an undercurrent in his mind - though his heart still felt heavy and the ache never faded, he now was doing something. He channeled it all into the urge to protect you and keep the promise he made.

Though just as he had sworn to do everything to save you - he had pleaded for forgiveness for everything he needed to do for that.

Now would be a time where he'd regretfully hope for the latter again.

He was standing in front of your door again, holding a small vial containing the clear, dreadful liquid. Tobirama made sure to take the exact amount Hashirama had when they drugged you first - it seemed to have been the right amount given how the timeframe had played out. The bottle his brother had secured from the hideout would make up for a handful of dosages. They still were pressed for time, but there was some yet. Some.

He opened the door silently.

You were squirming again slightly - a disorientated nestle in the bed. Your eyes were closed and a fine sheen of sweat was glistening in the red sun of dusk that filtered through the window.

Tobirama frowned. Had he been too late?

Slowly he approached the bed, sighing heavily. He wasn't a man to hesitate, no matter how grim the task. But he would be lying if he said what he needed to do now was tantamount to driving a katana into his own body.

No, he'd actually prefer doing that to this.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Y/n," he greeted you softly, a hand reaching for your shoulder to rub it gently and check for your response.

Your head whipped towards him, your eyes wide. They blinked a few times as your hazy mind tried to work out the recognition that was digging itself out of the swamp your thoughts had become again.

You didn't reply, though. But your squirms had stilled, at least.

Tobirama desperately wished this wouldn't need to become an act of force again. One he'd absolutely go through with - but cruel for everyone involved.

"It's time," he whispered, keeping the anguish out of his voice in an attempt at comfort. Inwardly, he was mocking himself for it. Ridiculous.

The response was prompt. A whimper first, then a low groan after your gaze settled on the vial he held. Your head tilted to the side as you rolled your eyes almost comically. Except the occasion was far from laughing. Tobirama silently wondered if you had no strength left to even speak.

It was haunting to think that might be the case.

Wordlessly, his hand reached under your neck to tilt your head up somewhat. You didn't protest - you felt awfully limp, anyway. The ache in Tobirama's heart flared again. He did not yet bring the vial to your lips yet - as much as he hated it, the contents were regretfully precious. He couldn't risk spilling a drop of it and thus watched you carefully for any signs of resistance and by extension any need of restraint. Methodically as he was, the ordeal became more stressful by each passing second.

Your eyelids fluttered as you huffed briefly, another groan escaping your lips. It sounded pained this time. Your head shook pitifully from side to side as your eyes rolled back in their sockets again. Were you trying to shake off the delirium that was creeping up on you? Or were you trying to shake him off? Forcing you would add another dimension of anguish to this procedure - he opted to take a moment, for now.

Try to avoid that at least.

"I know," Tobirama uttered in an attempt to pacify you again. The hand that had grasped around the base of your neck let its fingers stroke the base of your scalp gently. "You have to," he muttered, not being able to keep the agony out of his baritone voice now as a jitter snuck into his tone, "I'll be doing everything I can to make it better, Y/n." He didn't want to promise it would be fine .

For all he knew, he was feeding you poison that would send you on another horror trip.

His heart hammered in a tormented rhythm again.

Your response was yet another anguished groan, but your eyes opened now - fixating him.

"Please, Y/n," he whispered again, no, he pleaded. Please don't make me do worse again, he wanted to say. Instead he massaged your scalp again gently. I would, if I have to, please don’t -

In a rare streak of luck, you stilled then and simply closed your eyes. A fact Tobirama wordlessly uttered gratitude for.

He brought the vial to your lips and tilted it very slightly so the dreaded poison was lapping at your lips.

Your face scrunched.

"I know," he hushed again, though inwardly he tensed. He absolutely must not lose a single drop of this damned substance. If you so much as -

Finally though you opened your mouth slightly to drink it - "Careful," he cautioned quickly but a few gulps later, the substance was gone.

Tobirama felt sorrow budding inside him again as he gently lowered your head back to the pillow. He didn't withdraw his hand yet but rather let it slide up to caress your cheek tenderly, sighing heavily. Your breathing had already begun to even out.

He had wanted to tell you he'd be there - but there was no more time. Instead he closed his eyes to let his chakra graze over your network in an utterly warm and smooth way. With no small amount of grief he witnessed how its flow was becoming more dull again, how the fight against the disruption was stilling. Slowly, he intensified the connection and shifted his focus to your brain again, where activity was picking rapidly. Quickly, he smothered your consciousness with his chakra in the most tender way he could.

Whether or not you could still bear witness to the insane firework that your sensory cortices were unleashing on you, Tobirama couldn't know. He let his chakra linger a moment longer to examine you in hopes of finding an answer to the question - but it was futile.

Time to withdraw.

He removed his hand slowly and then procured a blindfold that he wrapped around your head loose enough for you to remove when you came to again. Then, he rose to his feet and walked to the window to close it, drew the curtains closed so the room was completely dark save for the light coming in from the hall.

Silently, he bid you a regretful goodbye, not even daring to speak now before he left the room and closed the door without making a sound.

See you in a few hours.

As soon as he turned around after sighing again heavily, a familiar voice called out.

"Tobirama!"

His head whipped around to the source of the noise. The worries and sorrow were swept away by stinging irritation. "Shut up, anija!", he hissed through clenched teeth. The handful of people in the hall turned their heads, but as per usual, Tobirama couldn't care less.

Hashirama froze in his tracks. He knew his brother's temper of course, but that attack felt uncalled for - he could tell by the telltale crease of his eyebrows, or what Tobirama sometimes mocked as the ‘kicked puppy look’ his elder brother had down to a science.

Either way, he stormed over towards Hashirama and still managed to not make a sound while doing so. "I just gave her the next dose," he explained, still not bothering to pipe down on the anger.

Hashirama held his hands up apologetically, smirking. "Ah," was all he got out now.

Tobirama huffed and then clicked his tongue to motion for his brother to follow him.

"I set up the laboratory in the basement," he began to explain, leading the way to just there. "I thought about a few things, too." He frowned. "You mentioned there was no storage of herbs or anything else that possibly might have been used to craft drugs or medicine of any kind?"

Hashirama hummed in an affirmative way. "No storage, no. But there was some laboratory equipment." His tone was thoughtful enough to make Tobirama think he already was on the same track he was.

"Then that means they either gathered everything they needed for the drug in Konoha or we actually brought with us the last of their supplies and they were running out of this 'leash'." A cold shiver ran down his spine at the implication of the latter. Not just for what it meant for you had they not managed to break you - but also your current predicament.

Your lifespan did not exceed a week right now, at most. If the Stone shinobi had used anything Tobirama couldn't procure here-

A tight feeling wrapped around his chest. His pace picked up if just to combat the budding ache in his heart.

He simply would not lose you.

Hashirama hummed again, but this time on a different note. "I don't think they were running out. The fact there was no excessive storage capacity down there speaks against that - Y/n had been in their clutches for weeks."

Now it was Tobirama's turn to ponder again. His brother was right. The hideout was not something that had been planned ahead meticulously. Furthermore, "They had not been planning on capturing Y/n, either. Which means they couldn't have brought excessive amounts of the drug with them. Besides, it is highly impractical to pack too much when infiltrating enemy lines." The logic was calming. That means it must be possible to synthesise the drug.

Sadly, Hashirama had another thought. "That is, of course, if they had no other means to prolong the onset of withdrawal symptoms - that the leash we brought with us actually just would’ve been used to tether more people to it."

Tobirama froze in his tracks. He turned around to glance at his brother with a frown. "Explain." He didn’t have to. He already knew what his brother was on about.

Hashirama sighed. "We know this drug firstly enhances all sensory capabilities in extreme ways, to first make the victim more susceptible to torture. Alright. But there is this chakra component to the drug," his index finger and thumb grasped his chin. "From what we've ascertained it firstly near freezes chakra flow. Later, the victim’s chakra begins to flow freely again, but then drug - and this I have not yet understood - disrupts the flow. The disruption causes the ultimately lethal effects of the withdrawal as the body tries to repel it worse and worse, causing systemic inflammation and ultimately shock. Repetitive dosages stop this effect, evidently. Thus the name, I presume. However, it is possible to think there might be some way - some treatment, maybe a jutsu - to set the disruption off again."

The argument was sound - and unsettling. It’d add another dimension of complexity to a problem that already smelled awfully rotten by how mysterious its components were looking. Tobirama blinked then, remembering something - “I doubt it. Y/n told me they frequently made her ingest a substance. Furthermore, remember how she reacted when we gave her the first dose. She was used to the psychotropic effects, thus the… intense moment.” The moment he made her think she was back in captivity.

Hashirama hummed only for a moment, then he nodded in agreement. “You are right. That does seem to rule out my theory.” Silence stretched for a few more moments, a fine frown forming on his brother’s forehead - Tobirama knew he was about to say something he wouldn’t appreciate. “I’m afraid I have the distinct notion that the chakra altering effects and the disruption the drug causes must be the product of alterations to an original substance. Either with chakra or by a jutsu, even.” His usually warm gaze was hard now - and Tobirama knew why.

It was one thing to recreate the contents of a poison - fairly easy, even, if one had a good lead. But to simply copy something like an alteration of an item with chakra or a jutsu even - that was a far more complicated task.

A task that would take up more time - time you didn’t have. Tobirama exhaled a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose as his other arm clasped around his chest in order to quell the swelling ache that was budding there, the haunting feeling forming. Of course he was confident in his skills.

But the stakes couldn’t possibly be higher.

If he didn’t figure this out in time -

You’d -

He shook his head briefly to sweep out the overcoming sense of a looming doom that was budding faster than he could control it and swallowed drily as though that’d help it somehow .

His hand dropped from his face and his arms were crossed in front of his chest now as he considered his brother's words. He took another deep breath. "Unfortunately, I agree. The drug does give off a weak chakra signature. We face a couple of questions," he finally answered, after a brief moment. "First off, how is the chakra altering component of the drug related to its psychotropic effect?" He quirked up an eyebrow. But he already was turning around to continue on their way down to the laboratory.

However, he continued - might as well speak freely about the figurative business order now. "Secondly, how does the withdrawal effect set in? Is it because of metabolic shifts due to a lack of the substance? That would mean the disruption is part of a physical addiction. Or, does the drug actually alter its effect based on the time since indigestion? That… will be even more difficult to replicate." His voice was already gruff - by difficult, he meant near impossible without so much as a lead. Such a feat was poison maker master class. Extensive involvement of chakra, no less.

The ache of his heart began to constrict his chest worse again; he took rebellious, even breaths against it. Outwardly he remained perfectly calm - truth be told, he was. Even in the face of this adversary.

It just meant he had no choice but to try and give it his all. He desperately hoped this option was not the case.

Hashirama's voice was grim now, too. He was well aware of the implication. "It doesn't have to be that complicated. It might be related to the blood levels of the drug. That can drastically alter the effects of medications."

Tobirama's frown smoothed somewhat - he was aware of his brother's attempt to get off the grim route his thoughts had been taking, but the objection was sound nonetheless. "Or it's both." Still, Tobirama wasn't so naive to get infected by his brother's ever present optimism.

Even if right now, he really could do with some sunshine.

Hashirama let out one of his rare exasperated sighs. "Or that." He, on the other hand, wouldn't get infected by his younger brother’s pessimism, either. Or realism, as Tobirama liked to call it. No, Hashirama just became annoyed at times.

They reached the door of the makeshift laboratory. Tobirama half had a mind to lock the door after they entered simply so nobody would interrupt him, but then he might not be notified if anything was wrong with you.

Hashirama strode over to the bench hoisting the equipment, exhaling a low whistle. Tobirama followed and eyed the small vial of the 'leash' he had drawn off the bottle they had. The least possible amount, at least by what he could imagine from his experience.

Hashirama noticed, too. "We'll have to make some considerations beforehand." His tone was serious, his forehead wrinkled in ponder.

Tobirama huffed. "Of course." He crossed his arms again. "Based on our considerations they must have used ingredients found within the Land of Fire. More precisely, the area where Y/n was kept."

"That is not too helpful. That area is a vast forest with rich vegetation. And we don't know how far they went to gather them." Hashirama countered thoughtfully.

"You are right. But we need to start somewhere. And that is analysing what is in this," his fingernail flicked at the vial, "before we think about the effect on the victim’s chakra. Furthermore," Tobirama added with a roll of his shoulders, "only a handful of the plants that grow in the area, even in the wider area, have the intense psychotropic effects we witnessed in Y/n. Or the potential to develop them." He turned to gaze at his brother through narrowed eyelids again.

Hashirama's mien was unreadable. "We need to know what's in there and in what quantities. Then we will still need to figure out how to make it work. There is another problem." His brown eyes turned to Tobirama now. He was perfectly grave now.

Tobirama could guess what this problem was. "How are we going to test the experiments?" His baritone voice was just as low from sincerity.

Hashirama nodded.

Of course, he also had given that some thought. But the answer to that question was very simple. At least to him. Tobirama held his gaze evenly. When he spoke his next choice words, his heart didn't miss a beat. "There are five willing test subjects in the interrogation and torture headquarters right now. Six, actually." Akio must have arrived by now, too.

Hashirama sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. "That's a step too far, Tobirama. It might severely harm them. Kill them, even." His tone became stern. “They’re our prisoners.”

Tobirama bristled with low, swirling anger. And this, too, he had expected from his brother - moral qualms with what Tobirama figured was very sound logic. He crossed his arms, his stare boring through his brother. "What do you suggest then, anija?" His voice dropped below zero. "Test everything on Y/n?"

The question was rhetorical, of course. And Tobirama knew that his brother knew - in fact he dared him to answer it.

Hashirama closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. "I am not, of course," he readily answered before Tobirama could make a cutting comment on your condition or deliver another scathing, cynical remark.

Tobirama seized the silence that followed. "They were trespassing our borders, captured one of our own and tortured her brutally and cruelly for weeks . Call me biased for Y/n's involvement, if you will. But between all our options for this problem, they're the most logical one."

Hashirama fell silent. He turned back to the table and gripped the edge, opening his eyes slowly.

Tobirama briefly considered upping the stakes by throwing Mito's name into the mixture - but he knew he didn't need to. It seemed unnecessarily cruel anyway - and it was not wise to tug at emotional strings in an argument like this. Besides, Hashirama on the other hand would be well aware of his brother's predicament, on top of the fact that he was most suitable for the job either way. Tobirama was a very good scientist, no matter who had been tethered to the leash.

Still. His brother's voice was heavy when he spoke again. "They still will receive every bit of safety we can grant them. And no unnecessary or cruel tests will be conducted." His gaze swayed to Tobirama, leaving no question about how much he meant that.

Tobirama arched an eyebrow slowly. He certainly wouldn't treat test subjects carelessly - they were in short supply, held vital information and were his only outlet for testing substances he'd end up using on - you. "Of course." His voice still was icy, though.

Hashirama held his gaze a moment longer, but then turned to the laboratory gear in front of him. "Let's begin."

They set up a variety of standard chemical procedures to determine the contents of the leash - different experiments that would, based on their results, narrow down the ingredients until they finally knew what exactly they were dealing with. The problem was that for some of the herbs in question more detailed chemical information was not available and thus they needed to test them themselves - fortunately, Konoha had all of the plants available in the first place. No further delays - except for the time the experiments themselves would take.

Tobirama had a pretty good feeling about the results - the answer to what was in the leash was getting closer, at least its contents. Not just for the fact that if the Stone shinobi had used Konoha herbs for this - but also based on his own experience with poisons, toxins and what he had seen in you.

Frankly what truly set him on edge was the very real - very likely - possibility that this drug was a far more devious concoction using not just chemical components, but also chakra itself which would be more difficult to replicate - counter, too.

Not just difficult. Near impossible.

He had to fight that thought down. One step after the other. Nonetheless it made his work swift as he couldn’t help but wonder if he was running from something that’d be crushing him.

You, actually.

After they had set up the last experiment, he gazed at the clock. There still was time before you'd wake from the sleep he had put you in - before the first phase of the leash had worn off.

He decided to put it to good use.

"Get more rest, Tobirama," Hashirama advised, after they both finished washing their hands. Was there concern in his voice?

Tobirama snorted. "I did that. Don't worry, anija." He went for the door, holding it open for Hashirama.

His brother rolled his eyes. "I don't think Y/n would appreciate how you're treating yourself, brother." He mentioned in passing.

Tobirama's gut churned, his gaze narrowing immediately. He knew precisely what kind of response Hashirama had sought to elicit from him. Right now, it only resonated in his worry and heartache. "Maybe. But she's not here because I'm being forced to drug her and put her to sleep after."

Hashirama stopped in his tracks to stare at his brother incredulously. "Do you practice this kind of caustic demeanor?"

Tobirama locked the door and shook his head. "No, it comes naturally. Easily, actually after everything that happened. And all that still goes on." His scarlet gaze turned to his brother again.

Hashirama's shoulders drooped. "We'll save her, Tobirama."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to soothe the tight feeling in his chest. "We will."

Hashirama returned to his duties while Tobirama returned to a place he had high hopes for: the interrogation and torture unit's headquarters. Except there was one problem: it was late evening by now. Night, almost. A triviality to Tobirama, but it might cause a problem now of course. He still opted to stride in like he was part of the unit altogether - at the very least, they should know to expect him again after his first visit.

What a pleasant surprise it had been to actually find out not only had they known he'd return in a timely manner but also were prepared to receive him at this time of the day.

He could get used to that.

"Sleep deprivation is one of the most effective ways of… gaining information," his guide, Ikuro of the Yamanaka clan, provided after Tobirama had wondered that the building was still this busy this time of the day. A burly man, probably quite a couple of years older than Tobirama, who carried himself with remarkable grace for someone of his stature. His voice was deceptively friendly.

Tobirama was satisfied he seemed to be the one in charge of the six Stone shinobi.

"So, what have you found out about this 'leash'?"

Ikuro pursed his lips in a displeased manner. "I'm afraid they're all well trained when it comes to resisting our… methods," he answered slowly, waving for Tobirama to follow him down the corridor and the stairs he knew would take him to their cells.

However now, they took a turn into an adjourned office - where Ikuro picked up a piece of paper from the desk. "We've gleaned shreds from them, so far. The leash is more than just a drug administered to a victim, it seems."

Tobirama's neck hair rose up. Crossing his arms, he narrows his eyelids again to give Ikuro a glare that left little open about the urgency. Frankly he half had a mind to just snatch the piece of paper from him and read it himself.

Ikuro however was not fazed the slightest, in fact he had not even gazed up at Tobirama. "We can't say for sure yet, but what we learned strongly suggests it is a combination of drugs with some form of chakra. A jutsu, even, possibly."

That hit him like a punch in the gut.

Tobirama took a step to the side and raked through his hair with a hand. He knew this - his brother and himself had expected it, it had been logical - but to get the information now still felt like a physical strike. The heavy feeling inside of him had spread from his chest to his shoulders. He felt his heart hammer again in a painfully familiar war as he took deep and even breaths through the heartache that gripped him again.

Quickly, he forced himself to regain his composure. His task had just become a lot more difficult. He had known, really, prepared for this, so he should be calm - even if this was near impossibl-

No. He must not think that way.

Researching jutsu was even more up his alley than anything else in this mess. In fact, he’d go as far as to say the involvement of chakra made this all the more his business. Really, the daunting fact was he had never encountered anything like the leash and without a lead he might as well search for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

While you were dying.

He felt like shouting profanities. Actually, he should've expected this. He felt stupid for even thinking it might be as simple as finding out what herbs they used.

"I see. Anything else?" His baritone voice was neutral.

"The effects of the drug, though ... I'm sure you know those already." Ikuro considered him with a careful glance now.

Tobirama was getting more impatient. He sighed. "There still might be more information." He extended his hand. "Please?", he hoped that had sounded as polite as he wanted it to.

And not as irritated as he felt.

Ikuro hesitated again. “I must warn you.”

Tobirama’s gaze narrowed as he once more reminded himself why it was important to behave, not snatch up the paper and read it. Even so, he wouldn’t conceal the irritation in his voice anymore. Anyone who tries to stall him would burn up his patience faster than dry parchment. “I am very confident whatever it is, I can take it. As you know, I’ve seen and done a lot myself at this point.”

The burly man was entirely unfazed and only shook his head dismissively. “It is possible the information we got here might be flawed, or even incorrect, serving only to demoralise you. The prisoners are well equipped to handle torture. This? This was almost too easy to obtain. And… it isn’t pretty.”

An ice-cold shiver ran down Tobirama’s spine. He had a distinct notion as to what part of the leash this information did pertain. His jaws clenched so hard muscles hurt - only for a moment as he steeled himself for what was to come. “I need to know everything.”

Ikuro handed him the precious sheet wordlessly then.

Tobirama read it at record speed.

And instantly, his stomach clenched in a most uncomfortable way by now he only thought his heart would be doing.

In great detail, the effects of the withdrawal from the leash were described - starting with what you had experienced down to far more sinister and horrible stages. First came fever, disorientation, muscle cramps. Then, pain followed - this section was so colorful Tobirama knew someone had directed it at him. Searing, burning, splicing - from the inside out the victim would suffer brutally. After the pain came the real damage to the victim’s organs as their own chakra would try to repel the disruptors - the perceived pain became that of actual tissue dying, extremely excruciating while the body shut down piece by piece. Victims were confined to their own heads but never far away enough to stop feeling the pain. Death would be mercy, at last.

He closed his eyes momentarily to force away the pictures of you in the hospital bed; pale, lifeless, unmoving.

That won’t happen.

He would not allow it.

Inhaling a sharp breath he tried to reason this might be just a ploy as Ikuro had stated - or not. It didn’t matter, because this wouldn’t come to pass. Yet it didn’t exactly make stomaching the other bits to this report easier. Specifically the few clues about the nature of the leash - the implication was clear.

Chakra was involved in some way.

The question now was to what extent - how sophisticated. Was it responsible for the effects on your chakra network and therefore by extension the withdrawal, their main problem? Or did the chakra alter the contents in such a fashion they affected the chakra network? Already, Tobirama began to devise tests to ascertain just that.

While fighting against the constricting tightness that wound around his chest. Stole his breath. Stabbed his heart. You wouldn’t be lying dead in a bed-

It was daunting. And yet-

"You've not managed to break them, yet?" He finally inquired, rising up an eyebrow questioningly, perfectly at ease.

If Ikuro was surprised that Tobirama handled himself well - outwardly - then he did not show it at all. "I'm afraid it's not that easy. Not only are all of them resilient, they've also been subjected to several mental protection jutsu. Befitting for a squad with their task."

Tobirama exhaled an exasperated sigh. "Of course." He was irritated. Nothing came easy, here.

"Except," Ikuro spoke up again, arching an eyebrow, "For the prisoner called Akio. I must admit, I'm impressed with your work there, Tobirama. Though I'm afraid you've gone a bit too far. He's… broken apart." Ikuro tilted his head slightly.

Tobirama felt no shred of regret or pity for his actions or Akio. It had been absolutely necessary. Maybe a shinobi like Ikuro would've made better work of him, but they did not have such a person available then. It was as simple as that. Besides, he simply couldn't see past the current predicament he - you - found yourself in. "He is lowest in rank and didn't even know about the 'leash' to begin with. But I'll be sure to take lessons next time," Tobirama added in a sarcastic tone.

Ikuro smiled drily. "Oh, don't get me wrong - it was good work. Just intense."

Tobirama huffed. "It was an intense moment." He decided to leave it at that and switch the topic: "I'm currently replicating the 'leash' in order to secure Y/n's immediate survival," he explained as neutrally as he could, but the constricting sensation around his chest was becoming worse. "I'll need to test out my experiments results. I've gotten my brother's permission to do so on these six prisoners."

Ikuro's eyebrows rose slowly. A smile formed that might have creeped out a more fainthearted person easily. "I see. Well, we welcome such inventions," his tone was velvety.

Tobirama wasn't sure how to feel about that just now. This leash was a powerful weapon that would fit well in Konoha's arsenal. He left it at that.

"It might help cracking them open, too," Tobirama added.

"Indeed." Ikuro grinned now. Then, he mellowed somewhat. "We'll be working both angles. The leash, as well as breaking them to get the information needed to cure Y/n."

Tobirama gave a somber nod. That he was sure of.

By the time Tobirama walked back to the hospital, the moon was shining pale over the village. Still, he spared his surroundings no second thought.

His focus was entirely on his objective once more. It was easy to smother the looming sense of doom that haunted him by breathing the fresh air. Venting his mind. Reorganise, recuperate. Walks like this often helped him. There was a lot of work to be done.

You still were living on borrowed time, as it was.

And today he had learned that extending that time alone will be a far more difficult task than he initially had thought it to be. Frankly identifying the contents of the leash was the least of his problems now - he was quite confident the experiments they had set up would already show what herbs are involved. But the modification with chakra - to what extent had it altered the substance? Or was it chakra itself that caused the disruption? A jutsu?

Questions he had asked himself before, that now bored into his mind in a fashion that almost caused a headache.

The clock was ticking fast, and all he could do was come up with more questions while it stole the breath from his lungs. If he didn’t find answers fast, then you’d die one of the most horrible deaths he ever read about.

It was a huge, damn mess.

"Fuck!", he shouted suddenly, and in a rare fit of unleashed anger, he kicked at the next pebble in front of him.

A groan pressed past his clenched teeth as he raked through his short hair again. He huffed. Then he sighed. When he entered the hospital lobby and checked the clock in the hall, he cursed under his breath. His little excursion had taken longer than he had expected - he should have used his hiraishin seal to get to you. You should be awake again by now.

#tobirama #tobirama senju #tobirama x reader #tobirama senju x reader #sekhmet writes

41 notes · View notes

simonfarnabyslegs · 3 years

Note

please tell us about your ghosts ocs!!

!!!!! so i have a uquiz i made a few weeks back that includes some of them, but the summaries at the end aren't completely detailed. i may update it to include the others.

i thought i had ten, but i actually only have 9 in all. they are:

marcus

period: roman

age: 40s

occupation: military guard

cause of death: stabbed by an intruder

summary: he's basically an ancient roman himbo. he's not very smart and was way too nice for his job. at button house, he spends most of his time outside or on one of the lower floors, but sometimes ventures upstairs to spend time with the other ghosts. the captain may or may not have a crush on him, kitty definitely has a crush on him, and mary Does Not Understand why, and makes sure to voice this opinion often.

outfit/appearance: dressed in a roman soldier's uniform with a stab wound at his neck near his collarbone.

face claim: either simon or jim. i keep flipflopping back and forth for various comedic reasons.

ingrid

period: viking age

age: 30s

occupation: farmer, previously a warrior

cause of death: poisoned by a neighbour over a land dispute

summary: ingrid is fairly intimidating as a result of her tall stature and slightly grumpy personality. her husband arne haunted button house alongside her for a while but moved on sometime during kitty's childhood. since then, she has been somewhat reclusive, keeping to herself and only leaving her room to venture out into the woods near the house on certain nights (mary suspects it's for some witchy ritual or other, but really she's just going to visit the places where she and her husband and children were buried). despite her reclusiveness, she is good friends with humphrey and she likes to play games and sing songs with jemima sometimes. julian once tried to flirt with her and she gave him such a look that he's still terrified of her to this day.

outfit/appearance: ingrid wears a long, brown dress with a golden yellow pattern embroidered down the front and at the hem of her sleeves. she wears black eye makeup and her hair is long and hangs loose, with a few small braids throughout, tied off at the ends with little glass and metal beads. she wears several bracelets and rings. she shows no outward signs of her death except for a bloody splatter on the inside of her left elbow.

face claim: ragga ragnars

arne

period: viking age

age: 30s

occupation: farmer

cause of death: poisoned by a neighbour over a land dispute

summary: ingrid's husband who died at the same time as her and who haunted button house for a few hundred years before moving on some time during kitty's childhood. none of the later ghosts know much about him other than that robin thought he was funny and his moving on is what caused ingrid to separate herself from the rest of the ghosts.

appearance: i haven't really decided yet since in the stuff i'm writing, he's only ever mentioned briefly by robin and mary and has never actually made an appearance. maybe some blood in his beard or on his shirt, like with ingrid.

face claim: again, haven't decided.

virginia, or "ginny"

period: early stuart

age: 40s

occupation: noblewoman

cause of death: smothered in her sleep with a pillow

summary: ginny is humphrey's niece who inherited the house after his death. she never knew him in life and thought poorly of him because of the supposed circumstances of his death. when she met him shortly after her death, she still didn't like him, but eventually decided he wasn't as bad as she thought he would be and is friends with him now. she likes listening to his stories while they sit or go for walks in the garden. fanny suspects ginny's husband was the one who killed her, but robin, who was downstairs when it happened, says he saw one of the maids going upstairs after everyone else had gone to bed and then coming back down a short while later.

appearance: she died while she was asleep, so she wears a long, white smock or nightgown and her hair hangs loose and is not styled.

face claim: alice lowe

peter

period: late victorian

age: 40s

occupation: groom and horse trainer

cause of death: dragged and trampled by a spooked horse

summary: peter worked at the house during george's youth and the early years of his marriage to fanny. he was killed sometime in the 1890s when one of the stable boys purposefully spooked a horse he was exercising. he and fanny knew each other distantly in life as they had several years in common at the house, but they were never really close in life as she was the wife of his employer. peter is irish and working class, so he and fanny don't really have very much in common at all, but they do get along fairly well as ghosts (though not as well as fanny and the captain).

appearance/outfit: a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, a black waistcoat, and black-and-grey plaid pants, dirty from being dragged through the horses' exercise track.

face claim: andrew scott

lizzie

period: 1920s

age: 20s

occupation: maid

cause of death: tripped going down the stairs to the basement

summary: lizzie was a maid who worked at the house in the 1920s. one evening, near the end of her shift, she was going down to the basement to retrieve some clean sheets from the laundry room when she tripped and fell, hitting her head. the plague ghosts were the first to welcome her, and while she was frightened at first and they backed off, a couple of them decided to stay with her and try to help her understand what had happened. she still didn't believe it, even when another maid came downstairs and discovered her body and she watched as it was taken away. she only ventured upstairs a few times over the next couple of decades while the people she knew and worked with were still in the house because it made her sad to see them, but eventually made her way upstairs to stay. she was friends with mary and annie (until annie got sucked off).

appearance/outfit: medium height, straight reddish hair tied back in a bun, black maid's dress.

face claim: saoirse ronan

ron

period: 1930s

age: 30s

occupation: musician

cause of death: electrocution

summary: ron was the cousin of the wife of the lord who owned the house. he was also a musician and was invited to provide entertainment at a party hosted at the house. however, he was electrocuted while helping set up some of the sound equipment (which may or may not be robin's fault). thomas does not like him and views him as a threat, but ron couldn't care less because most of thomas's concerns are unwarranted. ron still writes songs sometimes and tries to teach them to alison for her to write down for him and/or sell them to make money for the house, and he's very good, but due to her lack of musical ability and understanding, it never seems to work. alison downloaded some music composing software onto her laptop for julian to work with him on it, but julian is even worse at music, and because julian can only work slowly, it takes ages and they end up arguing a lot.

appearance/oufit: tall and thin with dark hair that was once neatly combed but now, due to his electrocution, has a habit of standing up no matter how much he tries to smooth it down. he wears a maroon sweater vest over a white button down and black slacks.

face claim: dev patel

johnny

period: late 1960s

age: 50s

occupation: unemployed writer and amateur musician

cause of death: drugged and beaten by some men at a party

summary: johnny is very friendly and laid-back. his main fault is that he is much too trusting and hardly ever suspects anyone of doing anything wrong, which he comes to realise is what probably got him killed. the other ghosts don't always keep him in the loop about what's going on in the house, so he often gets left out of activities and spends a lot of time alone or with humphrey (if he can manage to stumble upon him). he's scared of the plague ghosts because they were the first thing he saw when he "woke up," and much like alison, he thought they were zombies or a drug-induced hallucination. sometimes gets up to Shenanigans(tm) with robin and/or julian.

appearance/outfit: he is a shorter, heavy-set man with dark greying hair. he wears a multicolour striped cardigan over a white shirt and jeans, and his clothes are somewhat dirty from the altercation which led to his death.

face claim: michael sheen

jessica

period: 2000s

age: 17

occupation: none

cause of death: undetermined

summary: jessica is a teenager who died in 2004 at a sleepover. she loves music and dancing, so of course she and kitty are great friends. she has a small crush on thomas. i haven't really thought much about her cause of death; i just think it would be interesting to see a ghost from the 2000s because you never really hear about that sort of thing.

appearance/outfit: bright pink pajamas with purple polka dots, blue fuzzy slippers, and messy looking bun pigtails.

face claim: saoirse-monica jackson

#asks #anons #my ocs #ghosts ocs #bbc ghosts

16 notes · View notes

writing-the-end · 3 years

Text

LoL Chapter 51- Fallen Angel

(Sorry this is late! i got my vaccine and it mcfucking knocked me out lol)

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

The hermits return to Eremita from a restocking trip, to discover they have been raided. And one hermit has been taken.

Warning: Capture, slight torture scene

_________________________________

Eremita has become their safe haven, the last bastion for the guild. Even when the arcane guard chased them all the way to the water’s edge, no sane person would dare follow the hermits into the Ashioll sea. Which is exactly why they lived in its mysterious, misty embrace.

They could no longer simply fly off upon the backs of sky turtles, or even teleport into the towns they frequented. Now, when the hermits absolutely had to go into public for supplies they couldn’t make or grow themselves, they sailed in on Cleo’s pirate ship. And when they had to leave, they made sure that if anyone was following them, they took a roundabout direction back to their home. It adds time, weaving between the islands and through the mists, but ensures no one can guess where they live.

Cleo’s pirate ship beaches up onto the sand, nestling back into place as a wrecked vessel once more. The dream magic fades, revealing broken oak boards, seagrass growing through seams, and splintered masts of the ghost ship Cleo commands. Hypno blinks free from his sleep, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Already? Man, my dream was just starting to get interesting.”

With the help of rattling skeletons, their bones held together by magical muscle and sinew, the hermits unload food, meats, fabrics, and more. Enough for months, as if they were preparing to be snowed in after a massive blizzard. Almost all the hermits were a part of the flow of supplies.

Almost. Only three hermits stayed behind. Zedaph had an accident with his two explosive friends, and while it wasn’t the first time, Grian wanted to keep an eye on the burns in case the magic lingered. Mumbo stayed behind as well, but for very different reasons. One, he was easily recognizable. Everyone knows the multimage that Dolios wants captured alive. Him and Grian are the only two who Dolios demands be captured alive. He also was in the middle of inventing some new contraption, and was not about to leave it behind and lose all his progress. Last Cleo saw of him, he was extinguishing burning locks of hair. She wonders if he’s made any progress, or if he’s burned all his hair away at this point.

Once Impulse and Tango have unloaded their share of the shipment, they go in search of their friend. Both still feel bad for burning Zed, even if it was by accident. And they’ve all been burned at this point in all their years together. But it doesn’t mean they don’t feel bad, especially leaving Zed behind. At least they brought back a caramel apple from his favorite stall in the market, as well as fresh hay for his barn and animal friends.

“Zed? We have a surprise for you!” Tango calls, his voice twinged with mischief, as if they plan to prank their friend rather than give him a gift. No response comes from the flat roofed barn, except the distant bleat of a sheep. Tango looks at Impulse, fiery hair remaining vertical even as his head tips to the side. “Could he be taking a nap?”

“You know Zed and his sleep schedule, he wouldn’t interrupt it, even when he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed.” Impulse waves it off. “He probably just isn’t listening, or maybe pulling a prank of his own. Let’s go in.”

Impulse waves Tango through the gate, careful to keep the sheep, goats, and other farm animals from getting between Tango’s feet and causing his hair to ignite the dry hay in his arms. A horse nips at the bale, but Tango keeps it well away from catching fire. He’s relieved to lighten the load he’s carrying as soon as they're inside the barn. Both mages look to the bed tucked in the corner, but no Zedaph. Tango tosses the haybale aside. “He should be resting.”

They clamber over the piles of hay, searching every nook and cranny for Zedaph. Even his cookie stash, which they let him believe is still a secret. But Zed is nowhere within the barn he chooses to live in.

Concern pales both Impulse and Tango’s face, and Tango’s hair reacts in kind to the revelation. “Perhaps he’s being treated by Grian?”

Tango doesn’t answer, already following the path across the width of the island, from one shore to another. Grian’s floating cloud, the quartz tower with large archways and a glass domed roof. Perfectly built for a sky angel, his wings and speed. Not so perfect for his roommate, and all of Mumbo’s redstone machinery, his own lanky body climbing up onto the solid cloud and stairs to sleeping quarters.

The redstone workshop at the base of the building has been cleaned up, though a few vials seem to have rolled away, as if they were grabbed then subsequently dropped. But, just like the barn, no sign of Mumbo.

But there is a sound. Echoing from the glass dome, a sniffling, stifling cry escapes from above, followed by a gasping, shuddering breath. Impulse runs up the steps as fast as possible, each bounce from stair to stair accentuated with a tiny explosion to give him more speed. Tango blazes behind, fire burning bright as the sun as energy courses through him. He notices on the way up grey streaks against the pure white quartz.

“Zedaph?” Impulse breathes, screeching to a full stop. In the center of the room, Mumbo and Zed are huddled close, holding on tight. Their eyes wild with fear, and in Zed’s eyes he can see a shared memory. A shared trauma him, Impulse, and Tango all share. Two hermits, holding onto each other like its their last hope.

Only two. “Where’s Grian?”

Mumbo opens his mouth, but a strangled cry only escapes. Tears fall from both their faces, shaking like leaves. Something bad has happened to their friend. Tango slides across the floor, grabbing Zedaph and Mumbo. “What happened? Where’s Grian? Are you hurt?”

They both shake their heads, but finally Mumbo gathers enough of his voice to speak. It’s weak, broken apart like glass shattering. “He took him.”

__________________________________________________

A cold, wet air fills Grian’s lungs, biting into his skin like ice on a cold morning. When he tries to open his eyes, the dull ache of his skull becomes sharp, forcing the angel to screw them closed again. Grian grimaces, trying to figure out why he has such a terrible headache. Did he hit his head in training? No, he wouldn’t have been allowed to sleep with the hermits hovering over him. Perhaps he drank too much. Once again, impossible. Grian knows what his hangover is like, and it’s not this.

He realizes he’s definitely hanging, but not from drinking. Cold, hard metal presses flat against his wrists, suspended over his head. The iron bites into his skin, all his weight rubbing his wrists raw.

“Good, you’re awake. I was starting to get bored waiting, though I do quite enjoy relishing in finally having my prize thirty years in the making.” The snide, even tempo of Magistrate Dolios’s voice hurts worse than any headache or wrist, and Grian finally manages to open his eyes. The cavern he finds himself in is foreign, not even remotely similar to the brick and iron dungeons where he last woke up in Dolios’s clutches. So long ago, it feels like. The Championship. At the time, he felt like he was at the top of the world. Now? Now he feels like the world was crushing him.

Grian resists his bindings, but even when he kicks outward, his feet don’t even scrape the dank floor. He tips his head back, until the crown of his head collides with a smooth, hard material. Just at the touch, he can feel the oppressive energy of the crystal. In his vision, he sees the sharp tip of the massive gem. Each wrist is locked tight against the crystal, the nails buried deep in the crystal lattice.

He looks around, searching for other hermits. For Mumbo, the last face he remembers before…

The memories flood in, cascading alongside the fear and panic. He remembers everything, every terrifying second. Leaving Zedaph to meet with Mumbo, he remembers the scent of marigolds on his hands, just after crushing the petals to make a paste for Zedaph’s burns. The quiet island, most of the other hermits gone. He remembers patting his pocket, the note from his best friend telling him to meet at Iskall’s place.

But when he arrived, Mumbo was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t unusual, Mumbo tended to get distracted and be late. So he waited, plucking orange petals from his clothes, hair, and hands. He should’ve noticed the way the wind shifted, becoming cold and stale, before disappearing completely.

He should’ve realized something was very wrong when the grey stormcloud appeared. But he didn’t. He was so focused on waiting for Mumbo, then on getting rid of the flowers in his feathers, that he didn’t see the husks crawl their way free of the ocean. At least, not until the husk of a soldier came barreling for him, empty glowing white eyes and ashen, flaky form charging with halberd drawn.

Grian squeaked, dodging the attack. Stumbled over the writhing form of a cactus cat, the fading spines still quite sharp, he was saved by a pair of not-grey arms.

Not grey arms draped in wine red fabric, the hems decorated in gold thread. He realized who it was immediately, and scrambled to try and get away. But Dolios’s magic kept a strong grip, vines of black twisting and tying Grian’s wings to his back, while a hazy fog had grown around them.

He remembers the feeling of Dolios’s hands in his hair, pulling him to his feet as he struggled and fought against the vines and the fog that filled his mind. Hands clawing at his binds, even biting the magistrate at one point. He remembers the taste of blood, iron on his tongue and Dolios swearing, blasting Grian with magic.

And the last thing he remembers, before being knocked out and torn away from his home, was Mumbo’s face. Rounding the corner, completely oblivious to the fight occurring. It was at that moment that Grian realized, when his eyes locked with Mumbo’s that it wasn’t him that sent the letter. The confusion, of seeing Grian, the surprise on his face. He was walking towards the infirmary, dropping the box in his hand upon seeing the sight before him.

The fear on Mumbo’s face matched Grian’s own, as he was dragged into the sea. A second later, a swift burst of sonic energy knocked him out.

And now he’s here. Dolios saunters across the room, gathering ingredients and writing down notes. Grian swings his legs, and summons his wings to try and be free. But as soon as the blue and white feathers appear, they crumble into ash. Crushing weight sets in on his head, his shoulders, his lungs, and his magic, and the crystal he’s trapped against hums with power. “You’re quite different from the last angel I hunted. At least you fought back, but in the end they left me without the gift of their magic. This time, I’m not letting anything go to chance.”

The magistrate sets his bowl of guts aside, approaching the crystal and Grian. His hands are clasped behind his back, shoulders straight and head held high. The weight of the oppressive dark magic doesn’t bother him. Grian’s not ready to give up just yet. He attempts to kick Dolios, but the dark mage stands mere centimeters out of reach. So Grian decides to use his words. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”

“I’ve been told that once or twice before, yes. But the rest of Lairyon loves me. And why wouldn’t they? I’ve brought prosperity to this kingdom, done more than that stupid rainbow king could ever do, and all of this because of my power.” Dolios sweeps his hands, vapors of dark magic swirling from his fingers as his fingers clench to fists

“Stolen magic. If the citizens knew, they’d hate you just as much as I do.” Grian reels back his head, and does the best he can to annoy Dolios. He spits on him. The glob of spit lands on Dolios’s cheek, the magistrate flinching, then reaching up and wiping it away. A fresh anger in his eyes.

“And who would believe you? An outcast mercenary orphan? The last of your kind?” Dolios stoops low, plucking a husked feather from the floor. He walks back to the table, mixing the components and ingredients from his jars of death with Grian’s feather. “Your power is rare. Angelic mages are always powerful, a power I crave. You will be a wonderful addition to my collection of magic. The last of the angels to complete my set!”

A fearful shiver ricochets down Grian’s spine. “You’re going to turn me into a husk?”

“Oh, gods no!” Dolios laughs, so loud that it echoes off the cavern walls as he throws his head back, brown curls dancing across rich fabric. “I wouldn’t dare waste such magic to become simple energy for me and my beast. No, no. Do not fret, little bird, you will become so much more. I don’t plan to drain your energy. I plan to steal it.”

The hunger in Dolios’s eyes as he turns, the concoction in his hand, Grian realizes what he's seen all this time in Dolios’s eyes. Hunger. A madman hellbent on taking what he sees as rightfully his.. A predator stalking his prey. And Grian was cornered, pinned. Unable to fight back, unable to fly away. Fear is replaced by terror, a sensation Grian struggles to fight back. He needs to think clearly if he hopes to survive.

“The last angel died before my powers were…” Grian pauses, seeing the coy smile on Dolios’s face.

“I always had a-” Dolios pauses, waving his hand nonchalantly before marking the ground around the crystal spires with dark seal. “-fascination with angelic wizards. A dear friend of mine in my youth was one. Ever since then, I knew I had to have that kind of magic in my collection. So strong, each and every one of you. With magic even the ancient ones revered. And now?”

Dolios steps back, casting his magic circle. Rather than emitting color and light, it absorbs all color to make the pattern of his magic. He raises his hands, and two satellite crystals awaken. Darkness swirls in the lattice of the gems, mist eeking out through pores and filling the cavern with darkness. When the mist reaches the seal surrounding the crystal Grian’s chained to, the spire behind him, pressed against his back, activates. The pressure on his body, his magic becomes unbearable, breaking into pain. Like a harpoon through his chest, the dark magic takes hold. Biting down, biting in.

And slowly, agonizingly stealing his magic. So intrinsically tied to his soul, hsi lifeforce, it feels as if his very being is being dragged from every inch of his body in contact with the crystal. He writhes to escape the painful magic, but the bonds hold firm and he struggles to catch his breath. Dolios steps back, basking with ravished delight at the scene before him. Enjoying the pain that tears at Grian’s skin, soul, and spell. “Now the magic will soon be mine.”

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft au #hermitcraft fanfic #light of lairyon #wizard au #wizard hermits #lol #wizard grian #wizard cleo #wizard zedaph #wizard mumbo #grianmc #grian #zombiecleo #zedaph #mumbo jumbo

22 notes · View notes

cyhyr · 3 years

Text

Summer of Whump Day 24: Stitches

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: T

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi & Umino Iruka; Uzumaki Naruto & Umino Iruka

WC: ~2530

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Notes: Stitches, performed without anesthetic. Dissociation. PTSD. References to past non/dub-con between Mizuki and Iruka.

A/N: Heyyy I did a tiny bit of research, watched a video on how to perform these kinds of emergency stitches, and Have Never gotten stitches before in my life, anesthetic or no. I just wanna hurt the man, is that so bad lol

Two days after Mizuki puts a fūma shuriken in his back, showing his true colors and betraying the village, Iruka leaves the hospital because he is sick of laying on his stomach. The medinins refuse to heal him any further, saying that his body needs to help put itself back together without the use of chakra; still, though, they want him to stay for at least a week, so they can keep an eye on his stitches. Iruka knows how to care for stitches. And so, with minimal pain medication and Naruto’s begrudging assistance, Iruka signs his discharge forms and goes home.

The next day he goes back to work at the Mission Desk, as the Academy is on break for another two weeks before the next term starts. The work is physically simple, if stressful in other ways. There really should be refresher courses for shinobi with terrible handwriting.

The problem happens on his way home. And it’s really the dumbest thing.

A stray cat gets underfoot. Iruka stumbles. He twists just enough to catch himself before he falls, and feels some of the threads holding his back together rip.

He’s proud of the fact that he holds back any outward expression of pain. He’s also proud that he makes it the rest of the way home without attracting any attention or getting any odd looks.

Iruka heads straight to the bathroom once he’s home, and is able to shrug off his flak vest easily enough. There’s a spot of blood on the inside, soon to set into a stain. Iruka can’t be bothered. He tries pulling his shirt over his head and grits his teeth at the flash of pain—nope, that’s not happening. Instead, he pulls a pair of scissors from the vanity drawer, sighs for the hopelessness of needing to replace this shirt later, and cuts the fabric off of himself.

Once his shirt is in pieces on the floor, he turns around and looks over his shoulder as best he can to observe the damage. He’s bleeding sluggishly through the ripped threads, and the skin has split again. He should go to the hospital.

He really doesn’t want to go back to the hospital. It’s only been a day.

But he can’t fix this himself; if it were on his arm, or leg, or hell even his chest or stomach, he could do it. In the middle of his back, however? That’s just—

“Iruka-sensei, I’m home! And I brought Kakashi-sensei! He said he was going to have soup for dinner so I invited him! Who has just soup for dinner???”

Oh, shit. He forgot about Naruto coming over. He forgot about giving Naruto a key and teaching him the wards. And of course, Naruto invited his jōnin-sensei—which normally wouldn’t be a problem! But he can’t go out there like this.

Fuck.

Naruto knocks on the door. “Iru-nii?” He’s quiet, which is how Iruka knows that Naruto is worried about him. “Is everything okay?”

His instinct is to say yes, of course I’ll be right there but he doesn’t want to lie to Naruto. He’s not okay, and he won’t be okay if he can’t get his back—

Wait.

Kakashi.

He’s not considering this. He barely knows the man! But then, wouldn’t that make it easier to ask for a clinical, clean, stitch me up please with no weird feelings?

Naruto knocks again. “Iru-nii?” The handle jiggles like he’s about to open it.

“I’m… I—Actually, could you. Um.” He braces his hands against the vanity. He can do this. He gets it all out in one large exhale: “Can you send Kakashi-sensei in here, please?”

Naruto seems to pause—maybe even thoughtfully—outside the door before he runs back to the living room. Iruka whines through his teeth as his back continues to bleed sluggishly. He can hear the two of them talking in the apartment, Naruto’s voice getting louder as he comes back to the bathroom.

“Please, can you just—?”

A soft knock. “Iruka-sensei?” Kakashi’s voice is just as soft.

“Come in, please,” Iruka groans. “Don’t let Naruto in,” he adds quickly.

Kakashi steps through the door and shuts it behind himself. He crosses the bathroom in two steps and stands behind Iruka, examining the wound. He lets out a low hum. “I thought you’d be on bedrest for at least another week, sensei,” Kakashi comments. “I heard this was serious.”

Iruka ignores him. “There’s a suture kit in the cabinet above the toilet,” he says instead. “Is there any chance I can have you—?”

“Why not just go back to the hospital?”

“I… Gods, Kakashi-sensei, I hate it there. It smells wrong and everyone looks at me with either distrust or pity and I. I can’t. Please.”

Kakashi doesn’t respond verbally, but does go to the cabinet and remove the suture kit. He pushes his hands around Iruka, into the sink, and washes up; then he finds a washcloth, wets it, and carefully drags it along the skin around the wound.

“You still may have lost a significant amount of blood, sensei. You should—”

“I’ll take an iron supplement,” Iruka shakes his head. “Just. Close it back up, please.”

“There’s no anesthetic in here.”

“I know,” Iruka says sheepishly. “I used it up last time Mizu—well, I never got around to replenishing it.”

“I don’t know the medical ninjutsu to numb the nerves,” Kakashi warns. “This is going to hurt.”

“I’m aware. Just. Do it.”

He can feel Kakashi prodding softly at his back with the forceps, the metal cool against his skin. He prepares himself for the worst.

It’s been at least a year and a half since Kakashi has had to give someone else stitches. He sets the forceps aside, back in the kit, and selects a pair of gloves.

“No latex allergy?” he asks, to confirm.

“I wouldn’t keep them in the house if I had one,” Iruka grumbles.

Kakashi hums and pulls his own gloves off, replacing them with the latex. “Five stitches in total, sensei,” he says, assessing the length of the exposed injury. “You popped four, but I learned a different method of stitching; I’ll need to make five to cover the same distance.”

Iruka nods. “Whatever you need to do.”

“Do you have something to bite?”

Iruka nods, reaches up and pulls his hitai-ate down his face, and back to his mouth. Kakashi notes that he doesn’t put the metal plate in his mouth—either he’s had this done before, or he’s not stupid.

Kakashi loads the needle, picks it up with the driver, and presses the tip of the needle against Iruka’s skin. “Last chance to go to the hospital,” he says.

Iruka groans through his makeshift gag and shakes his head. Once he’s still again, Kakashi drives the needle into his skin, turns his wrist, and pulls the first half of the stitch out of the right side of the wound. Iruka’s curse is muffled, but what Kakashi can determine sounds… creative?

He’s careful in pulling at the wound with the forceps, placing the needle precisely and piercing the flesh. Another turn of his wrist has the needle point rising up through the skin. He shifts the grip and pulls the needle through, letting the suture thread follow.

Iruka is statue-still, but whimpering behind his gag. It’s… gods it’s impressive, how still he holds himself through such biting pain. Then again, he is a shinobi—even if he’s a teacher now, Kakashi remembers pulling field work with Sandaime’s newest pet. Pain is just part of the job.

That doesn’t mean they can turn their nerves off.

Kakashi loops the thread and ties it off, settling the knot on the left. Twice more he knots the thread to keep it from coming loose again. He might not be a medic, but his stitches don’t pop. ANBU was good for something.

“That’s one,” he mutters and readies the driver again on the right. Iruka nods, and he continues the stitching.

As he’s tying off the second stitch, he notices that Iruka’s shoulders are, perhaps, too still. He glances around Iruka’s body (he thought the man would be slight and yes, he’s smaller than Kakashi, but they’re built similarly and that’s not important right now damnit) and notices that Iruka is barely breathing.

He sets his tools down and puts one hand on Iruka’s abdomen. “Breathe,” he orders. Iruka immediately sucks in a breath, pushing on Kakashi’s hand. He nods, saying, “Very good. Keep breathing through it. You’re doing very well.”

He picks back up the forceps and driver, not realizing the effect his words have on Iruka.

The needle bites into his back for the third stitch and Iruka breathes deeply through his nose. The pain is sharp and intense and combined with the ache of the rest of the shuriken wound and how recent Mizuki’s betrayal is on his mind… Iruka’s worried that he’s going to slip away like he used to in the last few months of his and Mizuki’s relationship. Before he had threatened Naruto one too many times and Iruka asked him to leave and not come back unless he can respect both of them.

(Mizuki hadn’t come back. He, instead, had gone and gotten engaged. Turns out Asuma-nii-san was right when he’d said that Mizuki was using him.)

(That was over a year ago. He doesn’t cry himself to sleep anymore.)

The needle comes up the other side and Iruka braces for the oddity of thread sliding through his flesh. Then the discomfort of the wound being pulled back together.

Kakashi is good at this, though. He uses even pressure the whole time, so Iruka can be sure exactly how much it’s going to hurt.

“Three done,” he says. “It’ll be over soon. You can take it.”

Mizuki used to say stuff like that.

Just a little more, baby. I know it hurts, but you can take it.

Iruka fights to stay present. The needle goes in, and in, and out and out; thread slides along the way it’s guided.

Aww, ‘Ruka, you gonna cry from a few stitches? I thought you were stronger than that.

He whimpers. He can’t have an episode in front of Naruto’s jōnin-sensei. But this was an unfortunate perfect storm of pain and soft words and harsh action but gentle hands and. And. And.

He breathes in. And out.

“There we go, that’s it,” Kakashi murmurs behind him.

His eyes lose focus. He needs to stay still because Mizu—Kaka—because… The pain is dull compared to the ringing in his head and the throbbing in his teeth. He can feel his heartbeat in his neck.

He tries to get out a warning. That he’s about to slip. He’s dissociating. He’s—

“One more knot,” he mutters. “You’ve done very well.”

Kakashi finishes the final knot and snips the thread to size. There are surgical dressings and tape in the box alongside the suture kit; he tapes a large dressing into place over the whole wound, not just the new stitches. The latex gloves come off and fall into the garbage beside the sink.

Iruka hasn’t moved.

He puts his hands on Iruka’s shoulders and turns him around; takes the hitai-ate out of his mouth and lets it rest around his neck. Iruka is… dazed? His breaths are shaky, uneven; what the hell…?

“Are you okay?”

Iruka nods slowly. Maybe the pain made him non-verbal. Kakashi’s known shinobi for whom it’s happened before.

“You took that well. I don’t know many shinobi who would get that many stitches without anesthetic outside of a field situation.”

“Thank you,” Iruka says drowsily.

That wasn’t exactly the answer he was hoping for. Umino Iruka is known for having a smart mouth and a quick wit; this is something else. “You should eat something.”

“Not hungry.”

“Something light, then.” Kakashi tugs him along by his elbows, says, “Your bedroom, out and to the right?” Iruka freezes, for less than a second. It’s enough for Kakashi to notice; he hastens to explain, “You need a fresh shirt, yes?”

Maybe a sense of normalcy will bring him back. Should he treat Iruka differently in this…

Fuck, the man’s not even looking at him. He’s looking at their feet. He’s trembling.

Trauma response, his ANBU training supplies. Fuck.

He takes Iruka’s hands, over-projecting his movements, and says, “Let’s get you dressed, and then you can sit with Naruto for a bit?”

Iruka’s like a doll as he follows along into his room, and sits primly on the edge of the bed. Like he’s ready to slip off at any moment—shit.

Kakashi ducks his head out of the room and yells down the hall. “Naruto? Come over here.”

The door next to his hand opens up and Naruto stands in the doorway, clearly stressed and worried. “Is Iruka-sensei okay? What happened? You guys were in the bathroom forever!”

Kakashi holds up a hand to stop the rambling. “He’s alright, I think. He’s—well, something unrelated to what I—”

Naruto pushes by him and into Iruka’s room. He clearly takes in Iruka’s shirtlessness and position on the bed to mean something else, because he crosses to Iruka and pulls the man into a hug. Then, he glares at Kakashi.

The Fox glares at Kakashi.

“You! I trusted you! How dare you touch him like that—!”

The fury is rising fast, and Kakashi needs to do damage control before real damage becomes a problem. He raises both hands and tries to placate Naruto, explaining, “Iruka asked me to fix his stitches. The trauma response is unrelated to me, I swear. Naruto, I didn’t touch him without his consent.”

The heat in the room settles a little, as it looks like Iruka leans into Naruto and maybe even mutters his name. Naruto looks away from Kakashi, his eyes still exposing the Fox, and he grits, “Second drawer down,” while pointing at a chest of drawers against the wall.

Kakashi moves carefully—he’s not sure yet how much of the Fox is out of the seal’s control and he doesn’t want to risk it. The second drawer has a selection of uniform shirts and also casual tees. Kakashi picks the topmost civvie tee and brings it to Naruto.

“That’s close enough,” Naruto growls when he gets to the end of the bed. He’s three paces away. He’s not positive that it’s far enough to make a clean retreat should Naruto determine him to be a threat. He tosses the shirt the rest of the way, and watches while Naruto helps Iruka into it.

“I’m going to go and find him something light to eat. Stay with him?”

“Of course,” Naruto growls. “You don’t need to ask.”

“Naruto…” he hesitates, not sure he wants to know, but is too curious to not try and ask. “What happened? Who—?”

“You can ask Iruka-sensei when he’s back,” Naruto says.

It’s telling enough that Naruto understands what’s going on, that Iruka is dissociated and not present. Kakashi heads out of the room with a nod. Someone who inspires this much rage from the Fox, and who Naruto is comfortable enough with to call “brother”?

Kakashi absolutely intends to find out everything he can about this man.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump24 #stitches #fanfic #hatake kakashi #umino iruka #my writing

11 notes · View notes

northernindigenousbeautyhailey · 3 years

Text

TAMRA JEWEL KEEPNESS.

FEW CHILDREN IN CANADA JUST VANISH. Fewer still stay gone for longer than a couple of days. Some are found alive, others are hurt or killed, but rarely does a child simply disappear. The RCMP’s National Centre for Missing Persons and Unidentified Remains database lists 147 missing children, in a country of more than 35 million people. Of the sixty children under the age of twelve, a quarter are thought to have been abducted by their parents. A large portion of the others were lost to apparent accidents or misadventure, falling through ice or swept away in the pull of wild rivers, their bodies never recovered. The database shows twenty-four children in the past sixty years who have inexplicably disappeared. Because there are so few, we know them. In Edmonton, there is Tania Murrell, six when she vanished while walking home from school for lunch in January 1983. In Toronto, Nicole Morin, eight when she disappeared from a condominium building in July 1985. Michael Dunahee was four years old when he went missing from a playground in Victoria in 1991. In Regina, there is only Tamra Keepness.

THE LAST TIME anyone saw Tamra, she was five years old, with bobbed black hair and soft, round cheeks. In one picture, she wears a T-shirt dotted with flowers, standing against the colourful collage of a classroom wall. Her smile is broad and open, her eyes lively. She was so smart that her mother called her “my little Einstein,” so feisty that when a little boy pushed her once, Tamra shoved him right back, and harder. She liked playing Mario Kart on Nintendo and climbing her favourite tree, down the block from her house.

July 6, 2004, was the first time Sergeant Ron Weir would hear Tamra’s name. He was getting ready to leave on vacation that day when he got an urgent call back to the police station. Weir was a veteran cop with the Regina Police Service and head of emergency services, which included search and rescue. In a meeting, officers from the major crimes unit laid out what they knew: sometime between the night of Monday, July 5, and the morning of Tuesday, July 6, a five-year-old girl had gone missing from her home in central Regina.

Weir had been a police officer for twenty years. He knew that kids often went missing and turned up safe a short time later. Sixty-five percent of missing children and teens are located within the first day, and almost 90 percent within the first week. But Weir also knew that Tamra was too young to get far as a runaway. Patrol officers had already checked the neighbourhood to make sure Tamra hadn’t wandered away or ended up at the house of a playmate or relative, as was often the case with missing children. They’d found nothing. Even in the early hours of the investigation, Weir suspected this case would be different.

TAMRA LIVED with her mother, stepfather, and five siblings at 1834 Ottawa Street, a shabby brown-and-white two-storey with a windowed porch at the front. The house stood between 11th and 12th avenues, just east of downtown Regina. The neighbourhood was a mix of long-time elderly residents, young families drawn by low prices for heritage houses, and ramshackle homes where residents struggled with poverty and addiction. The area was sometimes known as the “low stroll,” a place where women and girls sold their bodies for drugs or booze and men drove around looking to buy them, circling the neighbourhood in trucks and station wagons. Many of the women and girls who lived or worked in the area were First Nations, like Tamra. Long before calls for a federal inquiry into missing and murdered Indigenous women would dominate the political conversation, women were going missing from those streets. It was from that same area that nineteen-year-old Annette Kelly Peigan disappeared in 1983, followed by eighteen-year-old Patsy Favel in 1984 and Joyce Tillotson in 1993. Two years later, two young white men picked up a woman named Pamela George, sexually assaulted her, and beat her to death.

The last public development came in November 2014, when a Reddit user posted to the website a scrawled map with the words: “Location of Tamra Keepness, check the wells.”

Tamra’s house was less than a block from the Oskana Centre, a halfway house for federal parolees, and not far from the Salvation Army’s Waterston House, a residence and shelter inhabited by former inmates and men struggling with drugs, alcohol, and psychiatric issues. Residents of both facilities had been responsible for serious attacks in the past. Just four months earlier, convicted violent sex offender Randy Burgmann had lured a woman into his room at Waterston House with alcohol, before violently sexually assaulting her and leaving her beside a dumpster to die. The Oskana Centre had previously been home to both serial rapist Larry Deckert and Billy John Francis Whitedeer, who began committing violent sexual offences on children when he was ten years old. A few blocks farther was the Ehrle Hotel, one of the worst bars in town, from which patrons spilled soggy and staggering onto the sidewalk, and which appeared regularly in police reports and court testimony.

Police also had serious questions about what was happening at 1834 Ottawa Street. There was a broken window and blood spatter in the porch. Social Services had been involved with the family since not long after the oldest child was born in 1993, and there had been more than fifty reports made to crisis workers, most often about Tamra’s mother’s use of alcohol and drugs, and neglect of the children. Her mother’s boyfriend had a history of violence and domestic assault. In most cases, investigators knew, children are hurt by people closest to them.

POLICE STARTED with a thorough search of the area immediately around the home, then cast their efforts outward in an expanding grid. As the sun rose on the morning of July 7, 2004, the search effort intensified. First, there were ten officers, then twenty, then more. Some officers accompanied trained volunteer search teams; others questioned family members and potential witnesses, going door-to-door gathering leads or chasing down tips. The RCMP training academy provided cadets, and members of the public soon began arriving on their own to help.

Police set up a command-centre bus in the parking lot of a nearby church, from which Weir co-ordinated the search. Though it was an urban environment, the terrain posed serious challenges. The area was filled with overgrown yards, empty houses, piles of garbage. Tamra weighed forty pounds, and stood three foot five. There were so many places a child could hide or get trapped or be held, where a child’s body could be concealed or dumped. Searchers in orange vests worked in grids, knocking on doors, inspecting junked cars and crumbling garages, peering under discarded mattresses and piles of wood, looking down manholes. Police stopped garbage pickups, checking all the bins in the neighbourhood, the trash putrid and reeking in the summer heat. Some bins had already been emptied, so plans were made to search the dump as well.

And what if she had been taken farther? Not far away were industrial areas, large abandoned lots and buildings, Wascana Creek, and beyond that, the vast Prairie. With a thirteen-hour head start, someone in a vehicle could have had Tamra in Vancouver before she was reported missing.

When they were not speaking to police, members of Tamra’s family waited anxiously on the fringes, watching the searchers, eyeing the growing assembly of reporters and news crews holding out microphones and pointing camera lenses. “It’s not like her to go off by herself,” said Tamra’s father, Troy Keepness, sitting on the front steps of his ex-wife’s house, his voice tight with worry. “We’re trying to do our best to get her back.”

Weir worked in the command-centre bus, surrounded by maps and whiteboards. A scribe logged every aspect of the search in real time, recording ideas and progress. No one wanted to break, not for food or rest. Everyone knew the situation grew more serious with every passing hour. As the heat of the day gave way to evening, Weir stood outside and looked up. A strong wind had come in, and storm clouds were spreading, darkening the Prairie sky.

The next day, police strung crime-scene tape around Tamra’s house and the one next door, drawing it through the back alley and across six garages, long slashes of yellow dividing the street. Officers guarded the perimeter while forensic investigators went in and out of the house in boots and masks. “While we don’t have any direct evidence that Tamra has come to any harm, we also don’t know where she is,” police spokeswoman Elizabeth Popowich told reporters. “And if, in fact, this comes to a point where we determine that she’s come to some harm and it’s because of a criminal act, this location could potentially be the scene of some evidence.”

THERE WERE three adults in the house that evening: the children’s mother, Lorena Keepness; her boyfriend, Dean McArthur; and a family friend named Russell Sheepskin, who had been staying with the family. All three had come and gone during the night, and investigators were starting to question their movements. There were no signs of forced entry to the house, and there were gaps, inconsistencies in their timelines that didn’t make sense to investigators.

The story the three told publicly, compiled from various interviews, was that Lorena and McArthur got into an argument while watching a movie on Monday evening, and McArthur and Sheepskin left the house around 8:30 p.m. to go drinking. The men returned briefly to drop off a bottle of formula for the baby, then left again. Lorena went out around 11 p.m, kissing Tamra goodbye before she went. The oldest child in the house was ten-year-old Summer, the youngest was Lorena and McArthur’s nine-month-old baby. Lorena returned briefly to check on the children and then left again around midnight. At about 3 a.m., Sheepskin returned home drunk and saw Tamra sleeping on the couch. Not long after, McArthur got back to the house and assaulted Sheepskin on the porch, punching him through a window and then stomping on his head. (Both men later said the fight had nothing to do with Tamra.) Sheepskin walked alone to the hospital to get stitches, and McArthur went to stay at his aunt’s house a few blocks away. Though it should have been a short walk, he said he got lost and kept passing out as he walked there. He didn’t arrive for at least two hours, until 5 or 5:30 a.m. Meanwhile, Lorena got home around 3:15 or 3:30 a.m., climbed in through a window, and passed out on the couch. She said that she got up to undo the latch on the door for her mother around 8 or 9 a.m. and that the two eldest children, Summer and Rayne, left on their own in the morning to attend a summer day-camp. Lorena didn’t realize Tamra wasn’t there until about three hours later, when the five-year-old didn’t come downstairs. At 12:16 p.m., a family member called the police and told them Tamra was missing.

Rayne, who was eight, said he had gone to bed squeezed into the space between the wall and mattresses piled on the floor in an upstairs bedroom. He told his mother he felt Tamra get up at some point, the slight movement of a child’s weight. All he could remember was that it was light outside.

FRIDAY WAS hot again and wet from the previous night’s rain. An odour of decay hung in the air around Ottawa Street. Tamra had been gone three full days and become national news. Her picture seemed to be everywhere, hanging on street poles and store windows. In news stories, she became “missing five-year-old Tamra Keepness,” but more often she was just Tamra, as if we knew her. The front page of the Regina Leader-Post spoke directly to her, asking, “Tamra, Where Did You Go?”

Tips flooded in to police. On the street, there were rumours that Tamra had been seen at a dollar store with an older woman. Business owners in the neighbourhood said detectives had been looking for a middle-aged white man named Roch or Rocky, but police wouldn’t confirm whether that was related to the search. Lorena and McArthur said they gave police the names of five people they thought could be suspects, including a man who had befriended Tamra and later been discovered to be a pedophile. For a while, there was even a theory that Tamra had never existed at all, that she had been a scam to get extra money from Social Services. (Hospital records proved that was not the case.)

Searchers were coming from around the province to volunteer, streaming into the city from towns and First Nations communities, motivated by the faces of their own children or grandchildren to help in whatever way they could. “I’ve got a boy, and he’s twenty-one,” said Jerry Scott, one of the volunteers who joined the search. “And if he left, I’d go nuts, too.” Around the city, people organized vigils and barbecues, brought water and snacks for the searchers, wrapped ribbons around trees to show their support. Some left teddy bears and angels on the steps of Tamra’s house. Days of intensive searches had turned up lots of items that seemed as though they could be connected—clothing, a child’s shoe—but none of it belonged to Tamra. “I’m starting to go on different conclusions, like maybe someone took her, I don’t know,” Troy Keepness said. “I just hope nobody would hurt my daughter.”

WHEN Tamra had been gone a week, police announced they were suspending the ground searches. At a press conference, Regina police chief Cal Johnston announced a $25,000 reward for information and vowed, “We will find Tamra.” Police questioned sex offenders living in the area and obtained surveillance tapes from convenience stores, bars, gas stations, and the Greyhound bus depot nearby. Johnston confirmed that “criminal interference with Tamra is a distinct possibility” and drew attention back to Tamra’s house and family. “There were comings and goings from the house that night that remain not fully explained to our satisfaction, and we continue to ask those questions,” he told reporters. He would not elaborate.

Tamra’s family was growing increasingly angry at the police, and the strain of the situation was starting to show. Lorena told reporters she’d signed consent forms for police to search her house and had given her DNA, but still she felt as if they were focusing too much on her family and not enough on trying to find Tamra. She was angry that police hadn’t closed the highways out of the city and that there was no Amber Alert because police said it didn’t meet the criteria. “I’m fed up,” she told reporters. “They are wasting time. This is my little girl we’re talking about.”

The family was growing frustrated with the media, too. Lorena’s mother yelled obscenities at reporters one day, and on another, members of the family nearly came to blows with a TV reporter doing a live update from the front lawn. They had been watching the news inside the house when they heard the reporter imply what many in the city were already wondering: If not someone in that house, then who?

On July 19, two weeks after Tamra had been reported missing, police charged McArthur with assaulting Sheepskin the night Tamra disappeared. McArthur told reporters he had been interrogated for twenty hours, not about the assault, but about Tamra and about what had gone on inside the house that night. “It was always the same questions, and they were assuming that I knew the answers to those questions, but I didn’t know the answers, and I still don’t know the answers,” he said. “I would never hurt a hair on that little girl’s head.”

Two days later, Tamra’s brothers and sisters were removed from the home by child-protection officers. Tamra’s twin sister wore messy pigtails and clutched a colouring book and a yellow blanket as two women led the children away down the front steps of the house. Neither government officials nor police would say whether the children’s seizure was related to Tamra’s disappearance. When the children were gone, police searched the house again.

One night late that summer, Tamra’s father, Troy, showed up at the house with a baseball bat and confronted her stepfather, McArthur. Troy was charged with assault, though McArthur later said police “got things misunderstood.” “Everybody’s looking for answers,” he said. “We more or less talked.”

LORENA KEEPNESS was fourteen years old when she ran away from her home on the White Bear First Nation, 200 kilometres southeast of Regina. She had been in residential school for about three months, but that wasn’t what did it. For her, it was the same ugly stuff at home. She found her way to Regina. When her mom tried to take her home, Lorena wouldn’t go. She lived on the streets instead.

She had her daughter Summer Wind when she was twenty, her son Rayne Dance not long after. It was after the ultrasound for her third baby that she walked home in a daze and told her husband, Troy, “We’re having twins.” She kept repeating it until it sunk in, and then they just stood together in the kitchen and laughed. Her mother said “Way to go!” but Lorena told her, “They came from God. Not like I planted those in me.”

The babies were born on September 1, 1998. Fraternal twin girls, each weighing more than six pounds, carried almost right to term and curved around one another like pieces of a puzzle. Lorena and Troy split up when the twins were little, and after that, the girls stayed sometimes with their mother, sometimes with their father or with other relatives. Lorena and Troy each struggled with substance abuse, and their lives were sometimes too troubled and unstable to have the children with them. At five, Tamra was bold and courageous, and protective of her twin sister. Once, Lorena heard a soft knock in the middle of the night and opened the door to find the twins standing there. The children had left their father’s house and walked four blocks back to Lorena’s in the middle of the night, Tamra leading her sister by the hand as they found their way through the dark. REGINA POLICE received more than a thousand tips in the first six weeks after Tamra’s disappearance. At one point, a Volkswagen van that had been stolen the night Tamra disappeared was found burned outside the city. A jail guard told police she and a former inmate had stolen it, picked up Tamra, and then dumped the child’s body in a ravine on the Muscowpetung First Nation. Ron Weir led a week-long search on Muscowpetung, draining multiple beaver dams with compressor pumps, while searchers slogged through water up to their hips. The jail guard later confessed she had made up the story. She was charged with mischief and wrote a letter apologizing to the police. In court, her lawyer said she had been trying to get her abusive boyfriend locked up again.

Returning from medical leave to the police department in the fall of 2004, superintendent Troy Hagen could feel how Tamra’s disappearance was weighing on his colleagues. Hagen noticed it in everyone he spoke to, from the police chief down, whether they were involved with the case or not. Sergeant Rod Buckingham, one of the lead investigators, was among those who felt the growing frustration. “It’s a mystery,” he would say. “And I don’t like mysteries.”

Officers had spoken with more than 6,000 people by then, but there had been no arrests, and leads were drying up. Shortly after, a special task force was struck to re-examine the case, to see whether anything had been missed. The name of the project was iskwesis ayishowak e mamayahi, a Cree term meaning “little girl bring people together.”

TWELVE YEARS LATER, Lorena Keepness spends her days doing odd jobs and picking bottles, trading them in at the depot for cash. She is forty-three and lives with her eldest son in a rundown shack of a house on Victoria Avenue, a fifteen-minute walk from Ottawa Street. Lorena’s children were never permanently returned to her custody after the disappearance, and the three babies she had after that were all taken by Social Services, too. Tamra’s twin sister is seventeen now. Lorena says she is an athlete, smart and beautiful. Lorena lost her family pictures when someone threw all her stuff in the garbage a few years ago. The only photos she has of Tamra now are the ones on missing-child posters.

Tamra’s twin and her older sister, Summer, don’t want to be interviewed. Neither does Tamra’s father, Troy. McArthur couldn’t be reached. Lorena needs a six-pack of Black Ice beer to talk. She doesn’t really want to be interviewed either. She has never liked reporters or their questions, and it hurts to talk about that time. “But part of me wants to,” she says, as her face crumples. “Part of me needs to share what the fuck happened. Someone stole my child.”

Lorena has heard many theories about what happened to her daughter. Some believe Tamra wandered away and was abducted by a driver cruising the area or that she got lost, then crawled in somewhere so small she has never been found. Other theories focus on the adults in the house that night. Some officers will say off-the-record that they think Tamra is in the dump but that they just couldn’t find her in the mountains of debris. Many in the city believe that Lorena and McArthur sold or traded Tamra to pay off a cocaine debt. Lorena has heard that one the most. One night, she was at a bar and heard some women talking, loud enough so she could hear. “Yeah, she sold her kid for dope. She has a whole bunch of babies. She has kids just to sell them for drugs.” Her friend told her not to listen, but Lorena couldn’t ignore it. She swore at the women, promised she would get them for even thinking she could do that to her child. They met at the same bar again the next day, and that time they fought, a tangle of hair and fists. One of them had a knife and slashed her twice on the back of her arm. More scars to wear for life. It wasn’t the only time. One night, she was attacked in Moose Jaw. Not long ago, a woman shouted “Baby killer!” at her across the street.

Lorena and Dean McArthur are still together, on and off—“more on than off,” she says. Police tried hard to turn them against each other, but she always believed him in the end. He may be all kinds of things, she says, but he’s not a baby killer. “If I thought he did something to my daughter, I would have killed him myself,” she says. “I think the police were just so sure. They figured, ‘These guys are a bunch of nobodies. She did her own child.’ They already had their conclusions drawn before they even tried to look for anything.”

The suggestion she could have had something to do with her daughter’s disappearance still pushes Lorena to the point of violence. You can see her eyes flash, her muscles tighten at the question. But she holds back— it’s not worth going to jail. She’s had enough of the police, has grown used to the accusations. In the past twelve years, she’s repeated her story publicly many times, and it has never really changed.

REGINA POLICE have never released full details about the investigation into Tamra’s disappearance, on the grounds that it remains an open case that they still hope to solve. In an interview, Troy Hagen, now Regina’s police chief, would not speak about any working theories or confirm any specifics of the investigation, including whether one of the people questioned about Tamra’s disappearance had failed a polygraph test. Instead, Hagen echoed what police have said since the beginning: That there remain important unanswered questions about the comings and goings from the house on Ottawa Street that night. That they will continue to investigate every tip. That they won’t stop looking for Tamra until they find her. He pointed to cases in the United States where children have been gone for years, sometimes decades, and then been found alive. In Canada, twelve-year-old Abby Drover was held in an underground bunker in Port Moody, British Columbia, for six months after being abducted by her neighbour in 1976. There was an intensive search of her community—including by her abductor—but she had been only feet away from her house the entire time. She was found alive. It seems impossible, but it happens. “I refuse to lose hope,” Hagen says.

The years since Tamra’s disappearance have exposed the epidemic of missing and murdered Indigenous women in Canada. Suspected serial killers are facing charges in the Prairies, but there has been no public indication that Tamra’s disappearance may be connected to any of those cases. Hagen said police have also explored a possible connection with thirteen-year-old Courtney Struble, who disappeared from Estevan, a city 200 kilometres from Regina, four days after Tamra was last seen. Investigators initially believed that Struble was a runaway, and she had been gone for seven years before RCMP announced that her case had become a homicide investigation. No one has ever been charged, and her remains have never been located. Hagen says it’s strange to have two unsolved missing-children cases linked so closely in time and geographic proximity. He says the possibility of a connection was “very much” explored by police, but there doesn’t appear to be a correlation. The police investigation into Tamra’s disappearance is one of the largest and costliest in Regina’s history, but Hagen says it has never been about the money. If there were more leads or work for investigators, the police chief says he would reconvene the task force “in a heartbeat.” But the flood of tips has slowed. The reward for information that leads to finding her, now $50,000, sits unclaimed. The last public development came in November 2014, when a Reddit user with the name MySecretIsOut posted a scrawled map with the words: “Location of Tamra Keepness, check the wells.” The person later wrote that the map belonged to their grandmother and had come from a great-aunt who had visited an inmate in Alberta. “We, like many others, haven’t forgotten about you, Tamra, and continue to search and hope you are found,” the person posted. Police searched twenty-one wells around Muscowpetung but found nothing.

Sheepskin died on January 1, 2009, “with his family by his side,” according to his obituary. Many of the police officers who worked on Tamra’s case have retired or moved from the department to other jobs. Hagen says he thinks of Tamra whenever he is walking through the forest, not looking for her but always half expecting to see her there. Sometimes he looks at people he passes on the street, examining their faces and imagining what Tamra might look like now.

THROUGH THE YEARS, Lorena has developed her own theories about what happened to her daughter. These days, she mainly wonders about a drifter who used to stay with them, a woman Lorena knew from when she was a girl. A woman who sometimes told people she was pregnant even though she wasn’t, who Lorena knew by one name but whose medical documents said something else. The woman was around so much that Lorena’s children called her Big Auntie. Big Auntie had been staying at the house before Tamra disappeared, but left after she and Lorena had a falling out. Lorena says it took a long time to realize Big Auntie wasn’t coming around any more. When she did, she put word out on the streets, but no one there had seen her either. Big Auntie didn’t even show up for her own sister’s funeral in Regina a few years back. Lorena says she told the police about Big Auntie many times, but doesn’t know whether they ever found her, or whether they even looked. “She’s just gone now,” Lorena says. “Same time as my child.” Maybe it’s something. Or maybe Big Auntie is missing, too.

When I ask Lorena whether she thinks Tamra will ever be found, she struggles for an answer. “I don’t know,” she says. “But can I tell you about a dream I had?” There are two, both so vivid it’s as if they were real. In one, Tamra is inside a big house in a city Lorena has never seen. There are silk clothes draped around, and broad windows, and Tamra is upstairs, sitting on the edge of a bathtub putting on stockings. She is grown, with dark, shiny hair like her mother’s but cut straight all around. In the other dream, Tamra is still a little girl, running into her mother’s arms. “There you are!” Lorena says. “There you are!” She picks up her child and holds her, until Tamra wriggles free and is lost again.

7 notes · View notes

bibliocratic · 4 years

Note

i found writing proposal fic really fun !! or wedding planning :) maybe u would also find that fun? x

jonmartin post-160 proposal fic

Jon tries to write vows.

Hunched over, crow-spined and squinting in the feeble cast of the firelight, he scribbles, mutters, scratches out, furrows his brow and clenches his fingers and snarls under his breath in irritation, at his fumbling incapacity for words. He was not born with a poetic soul, and his admiration for Martin's humble offerings grows each passing minute. His words sputter out of him with all the ease of water from a broken tap.

Jon has taken first watch, and it's a duty he approaches solemnly. They've broken into a boarded-up hairdressers, set up their sleeping bags and meagre provisions and the small fire in a waste-paper bin for warmth in the cramped office space at the back. Every noise, creak and snap and distant shriek has Jon straightening, widening the circle of his Knowing like a fishing net, giving it an exhausted push outwards that gets harder each time. The lawless world they are in has at least one advantage; nothing but the most fool-hardy of things wants to touch the architect of this nether-world of horrors, nothing skulking or spiralling or swooping wants to challenge an unfettered Avatar. It's more people, these days, that they have learned to avoid.

Martin twitches in his sleep. Sleeping bag pulled up over his face, head pillowed by folded-over barber capes, his body snug against but turned away from Jon, who is sitting up, his back supported by plastic wrapped boxes of industrial-size shampoos and hair rollers. Jon frowns again, his lines only deepening as he listens to the soft, undisturbed in and out of Martin's breathing. Because he wants to get this one right. To place words like mosaic tiles to create the imagery of his intention, to capture everything he feels he needs to say.

Martin deserves this. Jon can give him so few words, these days. Jon wants to give him ones that will mean something.

His impatience is one of the few things that the last few years hasn't chewed out of him. He huffs, irritable and discontent, his frustration leaden under his skin, and scrunches up another paper to sacrifice to his petty mood.

When Martin takes the next watch, he finds a nest of fire-scourged paper balls dying in the embers.

–

Jon tries to find rings.

His intention is to be a few minutes. He unpeels himself around dawn from Martin's heavy arms, gently shushing the unhappy noise this draws from his mouth. The jewellers is ten minutes from where they've holed up today, and Jon steals away guiltily, keeping his Eye on Martin long after he's left to make sure he doesn't wake up to find him gone.

Jon is away too long. He reaches the small, high-street shop with no issue, doesn't even need to pick the shattered lock of the door. Inside, he finds a scatter of rings and necklaces, but they're all soot-charred, twisted from an unnatural heat, their metals warped irreparable. And then there is something tooth-filled in the recesses of the jewellers, something that smells the human stench of him and feels hungry, and it takes Jon an hour to give it the slip, leading it into a fog-bank half a mile away to be subsumed by the greedy pull of the mist.

He Looks out of himself, and against the borders of him, he feels a blanketing heat-shimmer of terror and knows it isn't his own.

His long legs take the streets at a run, huffing as he reaches the grey-stone public square at the centre of the city, exposed and empty of people. Getting nearer, he hears a looping, repetitive nightingale whistle, low and plaintive. It stops, waits, and starts up again.

Jon, with perfect mimicry, makes the high harsh caw of a crow in reply.

Martin is standing at the door of the Wagamama's they broke into, his feet unshod by shoes, his hair uncombed and flattened at one side. The creep of dawn is not so faint that Jon can't see the pale wash of his face, the tightness of his jaw, the relief that cascades across it like the release of a dammed-up waterfall when he sees Jon haring his way across the vacant, space of the square to greet him.

“Where were you?” Martin demands even before he reaches him. His hands running over him as soon as Jon gets close enough, checking for hurt, injury, his voice high and pitchy and failing to translate his panic into something else. “God, I woke up, and – don't do that Jon! Anything could've – I had no idea where you'd – and what the hell were you thinking?”

Jon's hands motion, miserably, desperate to soothe and knowing it can't be that easy, sorry, sorry, sorry.

“Where did you go?” Martin repeats, insistent, almost angry but forcing it down to simmer at a panic-laced frustration. He doesn't usually push, usually recognises the limits of what Jon can communicate, allows them both space to sit down with paper and pencil and is patient with the slower exchange of this. But his shirt is coated with sweat around the throat and arms, his hands curling into fists to stop their juddering, nerve-shocked motions, and Jon tries to imagine how he would feel, should he wake up, and find Martin gone.

He pauses before opening his mouth.

“Looking for something,” he says carefully with a stolen clear-cut pronunciation, bathed in an entitled, self-absorbed air. Rifles through his records, despairing to find no words that he can chop-and-change together like a collage of explanation, glances up at Martin's distressed expression.

“Did you find it?”

Jon shakes his head.

“I feel like an idiot,” he tries again in a pleasant, justifying voice, and wishes someone had put to records some better expression of apology. Wishes someone had used the right words in the appropriate manner; stronger still, wishes his voice was his own again, a domain he could claim unsullied by the burden of his title. That he could say something, anything to wipe the blanket fear from Martin's scruffy face.

“Yeah, well,” Martin grumbles after a while, wiping at his eyes. “I knew that already.”

Sorry, Jon signs again, but Martin is stilling his hands, gentle even now, and bundles him into a tight, bone-squeeze of a hug.

“Don't do that to me again, Jon, please,” he whispers shakily.

Jon doesn't try and find rings again.

–

Jon tries to plan a proposal.

He knows, deep down, that the best intentioned version of himself is a planner. Likes order and alphabetized files and organisational stationery, is happiest with a well-crafted spreadsheet or a completed to-do list. Jonathan Sims is a man easily satisfied by things as they should be, appeased and engaged by the challenge of a logical puzzle, a knotty problem he can sort by analysis and application.

He also knows that there is another version of himself. The one that rashly takes an axe to possessed tables and jumps into fog-bound seascapes and soil-choked coffins after the people he loves.

He does try. He thinks of picturesque spots he can take Martin, places where the scenery isn't so horror-fucked, where there are still banks from which they can watch sunsets. But the picturesque spots, when they aren't shadow-infested or crawling with overzealous fungal growths that warn of Corruption nearby, are chilly, and there's not exactly time to stop and admire the views much anyway. The sunset-stained bank is a near success; drought-scoured and pocked with frost-damage, but the evening colours are unashamedly glorious. Jon spends hours trying to muster the courage and words and correct gestures, only for Martin, drained and wiped out from a run-in with the Flesh, to fall asleep on Jon's shoulder, his hair flopping over his face, a comforting dead-weight. Jon adjusts them carefully so Martin's head is cushioned against his thigh, and scratches his fingers soothingly through his hair as he watches the sunset alone.

But one day they're making their way through the Peak District, and they've found a tumbling river with a small waterfall. Martin's flicked water at him with a butter-wouldn't-melt smile, and Jon replied in kind, and Martin had made a shrieking giggling scandalised 'Jon!' as he continued splashing him. And it might have been the way the water dripped down his face and over his freckles, or the way the dim daylight caught his profile, or it might have been the bold and untempered heat that burnt like a forge in Jon's chest to hear the high, bright sound of his rare happiness, but whatever it was, the other version of Jon resurfaces. Decides that he doesn't need romantic scenery or rings or vows or other people's words in his mouth, that life is short and this can't wait and he wants this, wants Martin, more than anything.

First, he drags Martin to him. On his tiptoes, arms locked around shoulders, feeling Martin hum, surprised but pleased as he kisses him.

It is a good kiss. One of his best. Jon feels a little bit smug about it when they separate and Martin is slightly out of breath, a comet-streak of heat across his face, looking a bit struck at Jon's forwardness.

Jon seals his first kiss with a second, smaller, softer kiss, making sure Martin's looking at him.

Then he lowers himself onto one knee.

“Jon, what are you – ?” Martin asks, his face creasing with confusion. But Jon has chosen the most unsubtle non-verbal gesture he can, and refuses to look away from him, gazing up and waiting for the penny to drop, even as his knees complain on the hard rocky ground, even as his own doubts swarm that Martin won't understand, Martin won't want to, Martin might say no.

Martin gives a little sucked-in gasp.

“Jon, are you, are you asking...?”

Jon is nodding, almost feverish, and Martin's face has gone the colour of a vibrant sunrise, moisture welling up in his eyes. Jon reaches out, takes one of Martin's hands in his smaller hold, touches with the pad of his thumb the space where, if he could, he would have slotted a ring.

He lets go and precisely and delicately, he signs I love you. They don't have the vocabulary for grander expressions, but Jon doesn't have anything else he needs to say anyway.

“Jon, you – god, I love you,” Martin replies, damp-voiced and faint, a broad and beaming smile widening across and lighting up his face. There's not a pause before he's eagerly going to his knees to join Jon, pressing fierce, hopelessly charmed kisses against his lips, cradling his face in his hands, and Jon's so dazed by the onslaught, it takes him a minute to sign Yes? at Martin.

“I – oh, yeah, yeah! Of course, yes,” Martin replies, still struck by a thoughtless delighted giddiness.

Then: “Oh! Oh, oh, wait just a minute I – ”

He's digging his hands into his left trouser-pocket, tugging it out, pressing what he's found into Jon's hands.

Jon opens the travel-knocked, slightly cracked box to see two unpolished plain bands sat snugly in their display, and his own smile blossoms like a firework on his face.

send me prompts if you fancy!

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #prompt fill #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #there was a happier comedy version of this in there somewhere #but other and more skilled writers than try for that

410 notes · View notes