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afictionalwhore · 3 years

Text

Oh Baby!

A/N: this was something sweet inspired by some of my babies at the daycare but then at 1 am, it turned into something completely different. I’ll try to make a part two out of the original idea. I struggled hard with a title. Titles are the worst

TW: mentions of kidnapping, soft yandere, smut, pregnancy

2.4K words

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Ever since Keigo kidnapped married you, he had kept you tucked away in your new home, a cozy cabin up the side of a secluded, lesser known mountain. You lived so high up in such a densely forested area that only Hawks could find you, completely cut off from the outside world. He never had to worry about you leaving, one woman with a common healing quirk that would do nothing to help in navigating down the mountain. The locals, inhabitants of a small village at the foot of your mountain, believed the woods to be enchanted, so Keigo had to worry less about a villager managing to stumble their way into your backyard.

It wasn't so bad. Keigo made sure you were never bored. For when he wasn't home for you to tend to his needs, Keigo kept your home well stocked with books. It was the first thing he had shown you in your new home: your personal library. A whole room of the quaint house, your favorites, a whole shelf dedicated to just literary classics, as well as everything on your "to read" list. There was never a shortage of cookbooks. He was so excited that his large wings were flapping as though he were a young puppy wagging their tail, the giant scarlet curtain nearly knocking a shelf down on you.

"I hope you like it." Keigo looked at you, his eyes shining like an innocent puppy. "As much as I love you, I can't be with you all day. Someone has to keep food on the table." He chuckled while keeping a tight grip on your waist, and looking down at you expectantly.

"Oh. Thank you," you replied, your voice small, but loud enough for Keigo to hear. The hold on your waist loosened, and Keigo resumed his tour of your new home.

Of course, there was no TV, lest you stumble upon the news. While he's at it, no newspaper either. You didn't need those to know what was going on outside. It was a scary world out there, full of villains who wouldn't hesitate to snatch you up and use your healing quirk for their own. You were perfectly safe here with him.

It took some time, but eventually you had come around and loved Keigo back. You were always curled up on the couch, book in hand, waiting for him to come home. As soon as he was in the doorway, you'd make your way to him, like clockwork, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek while helping him shrug off his heavy coat. Your voice was still small and hesitant around him, as though you were afraid of him. This irritated him, as Keigo didn't understand what could make you so jumpy still. He had never raised a hand against you. The two of you would have dinner, usually having to reheat whatever you had made because Keigo often worked overtime. Keigo was so happy you were making use of the cookbooks he gave you.

You were turning out to be the perfect wife. Keigo was certain you loved him just as much as he loved you, or as close as someone could come to that level of love. He didn't believe anyone could match the way he felt about you. You were even going to have a kid together, a testament of your love.

When you first announced your pregnancy to him, Keigo was ecstatic. He had come home that day, exhausted and overworked, excited to be welcomed home by his little wife. His stomach growled as he landed in your front yard, and he wondered what you decided to cook up for him. He noticed you'd gotten experimental in your cooking, always asking how things tasted. You were so cute when you had him guess whatever secret ingredient you added.

When you weren’t at the door to greet him with open arms and a kiss, Keigo was disappointed in you. You were doing so well. He shook off his coat and stretched his wings, taking up the better half of your living room. You weren't nestled in the couch, engrossed in a book, as you sometimes were too distracted in your literary world to realize he had come home.

"Baby," Keigo called out, his voice echoing against the wooden walls of your homely cabin. "I'm home. I know it's a lot later than usual."

Keigo figured you must have gone to bed already. He could forgive you for not staying up for him, he thought it was rather cute, though next time, he wished you'd fall asleep on the couch.

When he entered your shared bedroom, Keigo saw you curled up on the bed, your back facing the doorway. You trembled—or was it a shiver? You must be cold without his body heat beside you. Keigo was his own heating unit.

“Baby bird,” Keigo took a step into the room. “I’m home."

No response from you.

Another step.

"Can I get a kiss?”

You shivered again.

Keigo had taken off his uniform as he was making his way towards you and the bed. Now in just his boxers, Keigo heaved himself on the bed, his weight causing the mattress to sink slightly. He laid on his side to spoon you, wrapping a large, warm arm around your center. At this distance, Keigo heard it: your small sniffles. You weren't asleep; you were crying.

"Baby, what's wrong?" Keigo asked, worry sickening him. "Did ya miss me that much?" He tried to joke, more for his sake than yours.

After no response from you, save for a few more sniffles, Keigo asked once again what was wrong, a little more urgently. His racing thoughts of you leaving, of you not loving him, were sending him into a panic.

You mumbled incoherently.

"What was that, baby? I couldn't hear you." Keigo struggled to hang on to his cool.

You mumbled yet again, causing Keigo's growing panic and frustration with you to snap. He clamored over you, swinging his legs so that you were caged underneath him, his hands at either side of your head. Golden eyes locked onto your watery ones, staring you down.

“(y/n),” Keigo said firmly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

"I'm pregnant" you spat at him, frustrated at the fact itself and having to repeat it three times. The more you said it felt like the final pat of a shovel packing the dirt above your grave. You wiped away a tear before turning and shoving your face in your pillow.

“Oh baby.” Keigo was almost at loss for words. He had been anticipating this moment—stocking the bathroom cabinet with pregnancy tests the moment you arrived—yet in it, he didn’t know what exactly he wanted to say. He took your face in his hands and turned your head to look at him.

“Are you for real?”

“What would I gain from lying?” You attempted to make your words hit him like poisonous darts, but your quaking voice only managed to soften him.

“I love you so much,” Keigo dipped his head down to give you a chaste kiss, softer than his usual greedy ones, as though he were afraid of breaking you. Your eyes shut instinctively.

“This is so exciting, (y/n). You have no idea how happy I am."

A kiss to your cheek.

"I love you."

A kiss to your other cheek.

"I love you."

Keigo rose up on his hands and knees again.

"I promise to be the best father to our child."

You felt something splash on your cheek. You slowly opened your eyes again to see Keigo crying above you.

"I love you, too," your voice small and shaky as you looked up at Keigo, knowing he would just continue to stare at you and cry until you said it back.

Keigo beamed down at you before dipping down for another kiss, this one a little rougher, more passionate is how Keigo would describe it. His warm mouth worked against yours, his lips chapped slightly from the harsh wind on his rushed flight home.

You thought Keigo would deepen the kiss, expecting to feel his impatient tongue poking between your lips and licking your bottom lip. Instead Keigo pulled away and sat back on your legs, the bottom half of his own legs tucking your legs under him. He studied your body, eyes trailing down your form, stopping briefly at your stomach.

Keigo bent down again, lips now hungrily, but gently, pecking at your neck. He pulled your shirt off, delighted by your lack of bra underneath, before making his way down your chest to pepper your body with kisses. Between each small kiss, Keigo whispered "I love you" against your body.

His large hands came up to cup your breasts, careful not to squeeze too hard lest he hurt you. Usually Keigo would give them more attention, but that wasn't his main focus for tonight. He hummed as he kissed between them, flicking your nipples lightly. You couldn't suppress a small moan.

Spurred by your shy noises of pleasure, Keigo continued to move down your body. When he reached your lower abdomen, right below your belly button, Keigo's whispers of "I love you" grew more frantic, as though he was trying to tell the baby that was forming in you that he loved them.

When Keigo finally reached between your legs, he planted sweet kisses on the insides of your thighs while dragging your panties down. He tossed them to the side and lifted your legs onto his shoulders before nestling down. Keigo's face between your legs was hit with your heat. He inhaled your sweet scent, and his honeyed eyes looked up to meet yours.

"I love you, (y/n)," he stated before dipping down to lap at your puffy folds.

Keigo was excited, as any man in his position would be. As much as he wanted to pound into your until your voice hoarse from your cries and screams of his name, his main goal tonight was to make you feel good while being as gentle with you as possible. He was terrified of hurting his child in you because of his lack of self-control.

His tongue flicked at your clit, continuing to hold your gaze until your head rolled back with a low groan. Your hands found themselves tangling into his tousled golden hair, your back arching in attempt to push yourself into his mouth. Keigo chuckled against your swollen clit, the vibrations causing you to cry out and tug on his golden locks.

This spurred him on more. Keigo pushed a rough finger into you before hooking it and dragging slowly out of you, drawing a sweet moan of his name to fall out of your lips. This repeated motion combined with his sucking and lapping at your clit caused you to climb higher to your orgasm.

“Keigo, please,” you begged, seeking relief from the coiling in your gut.

Keigo hummed again against your clit, eliciting the same sweet moan and tug from you as before. He took his chance to slip another finger into you, curling both fingers against your spongy spot before dragging them down your walls.

"Keigo, I'm so close," you whined.

"Then come, baby bird." That was all you needed for the band to snap. Moans of his name and incoherent phrases tumbling out of your pretty lips.

While you were climbing down from your orgasm, Keigo found the time to remove his boxers.

Keigo sat down back down on the mattress, settling beside your shaking form with his back to the headboard. His own need was now too painful to ignore. Not wanting to put any unnecessary pressure on your stomach, Keigo pulled you up and into his lap, your entrance, slick with your own cum and his spit, hovered over his weeping cock, close enough for the heat radiating out of you to tease him.

“I love you.” Keigo held eye contact with you as he sank you down on his cock, his large hands holding your hips. Once you were fully seated on him, Keigo leaned back against the headboard. He gave a few shallow thrusts to test what you (and the baby) could handle.

Keigo settled on a steady, but gentle rhythm. You splayed your hands on his broad chest as he bounced you on his cock. Despite the gentleness and the shallowness of Keigo's thrusts and your bouncing, you were quickly climbing your way to a second orgasm. Already sensitive from your first, Keigo's cockhead managed to nudge against your sweet spot with every roll of his hips.

"Keigo, I'm close." you cried, hiding your face in his neck. One of his hands left your hip to allow his thumb to roll your sensitive bud, causing your walls to tighten and convulse around him.

"Me too, baby." Keigo said, breathless. "I'm so close. So close. Come with me, baby."

With a strained groan, Keigo's thumb on your clit sped up, causing the heat that had once again built up within you to break. You scratched desperately at Keigo's back, hiding your face into the crook of his neck. Your hot walls clamped down on him, the final push Keigo needed to fall off the edge himself.

With chants of "I love you", Keigo began to hump his cum into you before stilling, his hips flush against yours, head tilted back and back arching off the headboard.

Once you had both come back to earth, Keigo laid you onto your back before pulling out his softening dick from you and rolling off you onto his side, white cum leaking out of you.

"Not that this really matters anymore now," Keigo couldn't help the chuckle that left him. With the pad of his index finger, he pushed his now cooled cum into you.

At that statement, the fog of your two orgasms lifted, and the realization of your situation set in; you could never leave now. You let out a choked sob as Keigo rested a hand on your stomach before pulling you into him and wrapping a large, red wing over the two of you like a personal cocoon. Nuzzling his face into your neck, facial hair tickling the crook, Keigo gave you soft kisses and gentle words of praise, chalking up your soft sobs to the hormones adjusting your body to his child.

#yandere hawks #soft yandere #hawks bnha #hawks x reader

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juliandev0rak · 3 years

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Familiar 🐸

Eight: Familiar – what was their first meeting like? What exactly does their familiar do for/with their magic?

echoes of the past event

@arcana-echoes

Aster, she / they

The outskirts of the city, Vesuvia

7 years before the events of The Arcana, Aster and Asra are 17

Words: 2029

Warnings: none

mood for this fic:

“Hey, Asra!” Aster yells.

“Aster? What are you doing up in a tree?” Asra calls up to her.

“What are you doing in the forest?” Aster replies.

“I asked you first!” He calls back, grinning up at her.

“Did you follow me?” Aster smiles back, watching as a leaf flutters down from the tree to land on his head.

“We’re friends now, right? I just wanted to make sure you were safe out here.” Asra says, “The forest isn’t always safe!”

“I know! That’s why I’m in a tree.” Aster explains matter of factly.

“Uh, what?” He looks around warily, half expecting something to pop out from behind a bush.

“I heard a noise so I decided to climb this tree.” She continues,”But I think it was a false alarm.”

“Do you want to come down from the tree then?” Asra asks, unable to stop his smile from growing. He’d been headed back to the hut in the forest when he spotted her. He’s never invited Aster to visit before, he has a feeling his friend who lives there wouldn’t take Aster’s outgoing personality as well as he does.

Ever since he and Aster had met a few years prior they seem to run into each other wherever they go. He’s found her in some interesting situations, and he’s helped her out of plenty of interesting situations gone wrong. Just last month he’d helped her steal a gondola in the middle of the night. He never found out why she wanted the gondola, but the two of them had rowed out to the harbor and watched the stars for a while before he’d convinced them to return the boat before anyone noticed it was missing.

They always have fun, but more often than not Aster’s escapades leave them running from palace guards and hiding in back alleys. He would say that trouble follows her if she wasn’t the one causing the trouble. Still, he can’t say he’s ever found her in a tree before.

“No, I kind of like it up here. I feel like a bird.” Aster smiles, moving her arms up and down to emulate flapping wings. She climbs up to a higher branch and Asra watches carefully to make sure she doesn’t slip. “AH!”

“Aster! What is it?” Asra calls, already preparing to catch her or climb up if need be.

“I found a frog!” She shouts gleefully.

“A frog?” He asks, breathing a sigh of relief.

“AHH!” She screams again.

“What now!” He shakes his head. Faust pops out of his bag to see what’s happening and gives his wrist a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s so cute!” Aster yells, holding a small frog up to show him.

“How did you find a frog all the way up there?” He asks now that he’s certain she’s safe. Aster doesn’t respond, she’s staring at the frog in her hand with rapt attention.

“Asra?” She turns to look at him with wide eyes, “Can frogs talk?”

“Uh, not usually?” Now he’s intrigued. “Come down here, let me see the frog.”

She clambers down the tree one handed, still holding the frog in her other hand and managing not to fall. She lands right next to him and holds her hand out for him to look.

“She talked to me.” Aster says, “She said she likes my dress!”

“Looks like a normal frog to me.” Asra says, leaning closer to inspect the frog. The frog croaks in response to him and he raises an eyebrow. “Did you understand that?”

“She thinks you have pretty eyes.” Aster smiles in wonder at the frog in her hand. Asra bursts into laughter and reaches a finger out to gently stroke the frog’s back. “She was just sitting on the branch staring at me!”

“Well she must be a very special frog then.” Asra reasons, “Maybe she felt your magic.”

“Like Faust?” Aster asks, watching as Faust slithers her way over Asra’s arm to take a look at the frog.

“Maybe so.” He grins, listening to something Faust is saying. Aster sometimes feels like she can hear Faust, but it’s more of a vague impression of emotions rather than the clear words she’d heard from the frog. “You’d better bring her to your aunt, maybe she can help.”

“That’s a good idea. Froggie, do you want to come back to my house?” Aster asks, bringing the frog up to eye level.

The frog must have agreed because Aster squeals in delight and starts to walk away, thinking only of her new friend. A few steps away she remembers Asra and turns around to smile at him over her shoulder.

“Asra, you have a leaf in your hair.” She laughs. His hands go to his hair and he pulls the leaf free, staring at it with an unreadable expression. “Come by the shop later?”

“I’ll be there.” He smiles, waving the leaf at her in goodbye. Satisfied, Aster turns back around and heads for home, already trying to come up with a name for the frog. Asra watches as she leaves, practically bouncing in excitement as she walks, her gauzy dress caked in dirt from climbing the tree.

He wishes he could stop chasing after her, but at this point he thinks he might be in too deep. She says jump, he says how high, she asks him to steal a gondola and he says “what color?” It’s quickly becoming a problem, how much he’s willing to do for her.

Back at the shop Aster introduces her aunt to the frog, and her aunt agrees that maybe at last she’s found her familiar. Or at least a very friendly frog. Her aunt suggests practicing some spells with the frog nearby to see if it changes her magic in any way. Aster decides to practice her favorite charm, turning things pink. She’s used it frequently, on everything from trees to buildings to a sleeping palace guard’s helmet.

Asra knocks on the shop door an hour later like he usually does and Aster’s aunt lets him in. Sometimes he comes for dinner, or sometimes just for tea, but Aster is the real reason he shows up. He finds her sitting in the backroom with her back to the door frantically leafing through a book of spells. It takes him a minute to notice that her hair is a shade of bright pink.

“I like your hair.” He jokes, causing her to spin around to face him in surprise.

“It was an accident.” She laughs, holding up the frog. “I was trying to practice turning a pillow pink but I turned my hair pink instead. It must be the frog, my magic isn’t usually this strong.”

“I think it suits you.” Asra grins, sitting down next to her. “She must be your familiar then!”

“Well I’m glad it suits me because neither my aunt nor I can figure out how to turn my hair back to normal.” She frowns, pulling at a pink curl.

“I like it.” Asra says again. She smiles at him and puts the frog down. “Have you given her a name?”

“I tried to ask her but she says she doesn’t have one, she forgets what it was.” Aster replies, still flipping through her spell book.

“Well that’s mysterious..” Asra peers over her shoulder at the book, it’s about simple charms but she’s right- none of the pages seem to contain anything about breaking curses. “I wonder how old this frog of yours is, and where she came from.”

“She said she’s from a swamp somewhere far away from here.” Aster says, closing the book with a sigh. “I give up, I think I’ll just leave my hair pink.”

“It’ll make it harder to sneak around the city.” Asra teases.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to wear a disguise then.” She laughs, “And besides, your fluffy white hair isn’t very incognito.”

“Hey don’t drag me into this, I’m not the one wanted by the palace guards.” Asra grins, poking a finger into her hair.

“Fine if you don’t want to join me anymore, I’ll bring Ophelia with me.” Aster says petulantly, her lips pulling into a pout.

“Ophelia?” Asra asks.

“I just decided that’s her name,” Aster looks at the frog, “It’s the perfect frog name!”

“I like it.” Asra says, leaning over towards her, “Hi, Ophelia, I'm Asra.” Ophelia croaks in response and both of them laugh.

“She says ‘nice to meet you purple eyes’.” Aster translates. Ophelia croaks again and Aster’s face pulls into a frown, “She says my hair is too bright. Well you know what Ophelia? Maybe if you weren’t such a powerful, magical frog this wouldn’t have happened!”

Asra watches on as Aster argues with her frog. It’s not a particularly heated fight as far as he can tell, but it’s definitely entertaining.

“I take it back, Asra gets to be my partner in crime again.” She pouts and Ophelia croaks back indignantly.

“I’m not so sure I want to do crimes,” Asra starts.

“Well too bad, I decided I like you so you’re an accomplice.” Aster interrupts with her trademark grin, “But Ophelia can come along, she’s my friend now too.”

Faust pops her head out of Asra’s bag and slithers her way over to Aster and Ophelia. Aster gives her a little boop on the head as she passes and Faust sticks her tongue out in greeting.

“Faust wants to meet Ophelia.” Asra explains. “No squeezing, Faust.” Faust hisses politely in response and coils her way around the spot on the carpet where Ophelia sits. The two familiars regard each other in silence for a minute as Aster and Asra grin at each other.

“I think they like each other.” Aster says, reaching out her arm for Faust to wind her way around. Faust gives her arm a gentle squeeze.

“I think they’ll be friends.” Asra agrees. “Hey do you think pink hair would look good on me?”

“No.” Aster says firmly.

“What? Why not!” Asra pouts, grabbing a strand of her hair to play with.

“Pink is my color, we can’t both have pink hair.” She responds with a grin.

“Oh come on! You’re just worried I’ll look better.” He teases, watching as her eyes widen slightly in anger.

“You would not!” She sputters in annoyance. She’s easy to rile up but he knows she isn’t really mad at him.

“Dye my hair pink then and we’ll see.” Asra says, challenging her.

“I am not dyeing your hair pink Asra, Need I remind you this was the result of a curse? My hair is literally cursed now.” Aster wonders what the other side effects of the curse are. If she wakes up with pink skin tomorrow, that might be too much even for her.

“I want cursed hair!” Asra argues.

“Ok well yeah.. it is pretty cool.” She grins, pulling at her hair to look at it better.

“I want pink hair..” Asra mutters under his breath.

“Shut up or I’ll turn your hair green, and that won’t go with your aesthetic at all.” Aster warns, waggling her finger at him.

“Ugh fine, I’ll just ask Ophelia to do it then.” Asra says, reaching for the frog.

“Hey! Get your own familiar, she’s my magic frog.” Aster says protectively, snapping up the frog into her hands before Asra can.

“Faust, should I dye my hair pink?” Asra asks, holding the snake up to eye level.

“No.”

This time even Aster can hear the snake’s answer and she and Asra break out in laughter. It’s the kind of laughter that makes their stomachs hurt, gasping for air.

The memory of that night is one that Asra revisits often as the years go by. After he loses Aster the pain is nearly unbearable, but he takes care of Ophelia while he works to bring Aster back, and he knows that if he could understand the frog she would say how much she misses Aster too.

When he finally manages to bring Aster back he can’t help but wonder if her hair will still be pink in this new body, and he’s overjoyed to find that it is.

#arcana eotp #apprentice aster #ophelia the frog #hehe lil bit of angst there couldn't help it #i simp for them so hard #the friends to lovers trope was MADE for them #y'all catch those over the garden wall references

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general-mahamatra · 4 years

Text

Visus Cæcus

Focus: Eret

Genre: Spooky Season

TW: Blood and injuries

Pairing: Platonic Fundy and Eret

Wordcount: 6283

Read it on AO3 here

Note: This is part of a trade with the glorious @strawberry10 !! They have my whole heart and this piece has been a work in progress for maybe a month now. It’s only fitting I post it so close to Halloween :)

The crunch of decaying leaves and broken twigs mixes with the soft chirping of birds. Sunlight peeks through the leaves, sending shadows across the path and illuminating the forest and accentuating the vibrant green of the foliage. On such a perfect afternoon, the forest is lovely. Tranquil and perfect--almost too good to be real.

A soft breeze rustles the canopy followed by the scutter of a squirrel climbing a nearby tree. Everything is serene… virtually untouched by humans despite the man-made path twisting through the forest.

It goes for ages, disappearing through the trees. Where it goes is impossible to tell with the way it turns. Undergrowth stretches over the brown trail, small bushes encroaching as young saplings reach across--a strain for sunlight.

Laughter breaks through the peace and the crunch grows louder. Shoes tread along the footpath, ignorant of the bugs that scuttle out of the way. Two people walk along the trail, bags on their backs, and dressed for a hike. They were chatting, entertaining each other as they made their way down the path.

One of them nudges the other, grinning as if they had just said the most clever thing. The other, a brunette, rolls their eyes with a small smile.

“C’mon Eret, you know I’m right!”

The brunette--Eret--scoffs. They shove the man back, just enough to make him stumble. “You are not. There’s no way that’s even possible!”

“What do you mean?!” He exclaims, eyes wide with shock. "I'm always right! I'm literally always right!"

"Fundy," Eret deadpans.

"Yeah?"

They stare at each other, quiet for a moment.

"How the fuck are peanuts meat?"

Fundy can barely contain his laughter as he tries to explain, “but they are! They’re literally meat, they’re with meat on the food pyramid. And, AND! They basically have the same protein. SO,” he points at Eret, “checkmate.”

“That’s not how that works!” Eret protests. “That’s not how that works at all! Just because they’re with the meat doesn’t mean shit!”

Fundy hums. “Uh-huh, sure.”

“They’re a nut!” the brunette whines. “They have nut in their name, they’re not ‘pea-meat’!”

The ginger chuckles, covering his mouth as the other tries to argue. It was clear Fundy wasn’t going to back down from the dispute, he had no intention to let Eret win, even when they had a point. Besides, he’s not dumb, he knows they aren’t meat. It’s just fucking hilarious.

After calming down enough to talk, the points to Eret’s pocket. “Get your phone out, prove to me they aren’t meat!”

“Fine! I will!” Eret fumbles with their shorts and pulls out their phone. A couple of seconds pass followed by an “aha! They aren’t meat!” They began to triumphantly read the blurb, far too confident over the fact that they won the debate. “Peanuts do not come from animals. So they are not meat. Although they are called a nut, they are not... a nut…” they trail off, a small frown appearing. “The peanut is a legume, related to the pea family.” Eret huffs and turns off their phone, shoving it in their pocket.

Fundy cackles, the sound disturbing a nearby bird. With a flurry of black feathers, it flutters off.

“It’s still not a meat,” they grumble.

Fundy steps closer to them, grinning as he pokes their shoulder. “But they’re not a nut~” he coos, clearly proud of his victory. If it could even be called that.

Eret rolls their eyes and shrugs the man off but the upturn of their lips is a hint of their amusement. They were enjoying the back and forth--it was far better than the two walking in silence. After all, they weren’t too sure they’d last a week in the woods if they didn’t have the sort of chemistry for lighthearted banter.

The two found the forest a week ago just driving around town and immediately decided to explore it, especially since they’re visiting Fundy for a couple of weeks. What could go wrong anyway? It’s just a forest in the middle of nowhere.

Though there were times as they were getting ready that Eret thought about some of the… warnings they’ve seen. They never took them seriously, but they always found the posts interesting.

They were warnings about going to certain places in the dark or at night--warnings about the things that stalk the cornfields of the Midwest or the forests around the world. Hell, even the creatures that lurk beneath the surface, just waiting for a ship to pass by to take without a warning.

As the two continue, Eret’s mind wanders. It drifts to the text posts they’ve seen and just how serious they seem. They were so detailed and specific, it made them start to wonder if maybe there was something behind them. There’s no way someone could come up with those warnings and make them so realistic without having something to back them on.

One that won’t leave them alone is a caution about the forests. The number of times they read it… they had it memorized at this point.

Start traveling during the day, it is always asleep by dawn and it will leave you be.

Never move at night.

Stay on the path at all times.

Never set a campfire outside of a designated area. It can smell the smoke and it will find you.

Always travel with a group. Never go solo. If someone gets injured, never leave them alone.

When the forest goes silent, stop moving immediately.

If you don’t, the crowns will come. When you see the crows, it sees you. Stop talking immediately, find a different way to communicate. It can mimic your voice.

When the crows swarm, run. Do not let them injure you. It can smell the blood.

If you stray from the path, find it again as soon as possible. The longer you are off the path, the more likely it will find you.

If you can't find the path, never stop moving at night. Rest during the day, run during the night. It hunts at night and if you stop, it will attack.

Keep anyone injured close, never leave them alone.

If you hear someone call for help, do not go to it. It’s a trap.

Eret shakes their head to clear the thoughts. There was no reason to be thinking about the list. The paranoia is stupid. It was made to scare people--a short thing for the niche group of people addicted to horror.

They're on a hike with their best friend, not on an exploration trip to try and get murdered by some forest monster. Whatever that forest monster is.

The thing is only ever referred to as "it".

But the reassurance that it's fake doesn't do much to calm Eret's nerves. If anything, it leaves them anxious--wondering if maybe… just maybe it isn't fake.

No, stop. It's fake, it's literally fake. Why the fuck would this stuff be real?? They think. It's just a forest.

The absence of their friend next to them is what makes Eret pause and look around. So caught up in their thoughts, they didn't even realize Fundy stopped walking. Turning, they find the ginger frowning, brown eyes staring at something obscured by the trees.

"Fundy?"

The man raises a finger to his lips, shushing Eret. Slowly, he points to his ear and glances at the brunette. "Do you hear that?"

Confused, Eret looks the same way Fundy is. When greeted by nothing but trees and chirping, they shake their head.

"Listen closer," Fundy insists.

Eret glances at Fundy, slightly concerned but curious nonetheless. They fall silent, this time trying to focus on the noises around them.

At first, there is nothing but the regular ambiance of the forest. Nothing out of the ordinary.

A few more seconds pass before they finally notice it. A rustling--faint and distant. It only grows louder, almost as if it’s approaching. It puzzles Eret, making them frown slightly as they comment, “What… is that?”

Fundy steps closer and squints into the trees. His hands wrap around the straps of his bag, his quizzical expression mirroring Eret’s feelings.

“I have no idea.”

The two stand there, watching. Maybe if they were thinking straight, they would’ve continued. But not everyone is bright, are they?

It’s the first crow darting out of the dense tree line that makes them jump, the bird squawking and frantically flapping its wings. Eret watches it, mouth agape as they stare. Confused, they can’t pull their gaze off the struggling bird.

They don’t even realize the shuffling is still getting louder.

Eret points at the bird and turns to Fundy. “You’re telling me we got scared by that?” There’s a slight smile on their face that only falters when they realize Fundy isn’t smiling and is instead still looking at the trees. “Fundy?”

The ginger doesn’t respond and instead backs up. Slow at first, speeding up within seconds as he grabs Eret. “Move, MOVE!”

Eret doesn’t get a chance to react before more birds burst from the trees. Their screeching is quick to overwhelm the two as a couple of birds turn into ten, then twenty, then a giant shrieking mass.

Feathers are everywhere, flying around as the crows swarm. They twist and turn, diving around as they grab each other with their talons. They rip each other apart, spraying blood and guts everywhere. The cawing never stops as bodies drop to the hiking trail, the hot crimson liquid misting the two humans as they try to get away.

And then the birds turn their attention elsewhere: right on the two.

“GO GO GO!” Eret cries, throwing their hands in Fundy’s direction. They make contact and manage to shove the man, forcing him to turn around and book it to the trees. He’s able to get his arms over his head to protect him from the birds. Eret, though?

They weren’t fast enough.

Crows latch onto them. Peck them, claw them. Their clothing tears under the sharp talons as Eret tries to swat the frenzied animals away. Panic gripped them and completely emptied their mind of conscious thought. It left them running off instinct, and it’s their downfall.

It only takes a couple of heartbeats for the crows to start digging into their skin. They shred the brunette’s shoulders, drawing blood under their sharp claws. Eret cries out and frantically tries to rip the birds off.

But a slash to their cheek is what utterly terrifies them.

They don’t even hear Fundy shouting at them to run.

Some of the birds stick to their upper body, but others go for Eret’s head. More specifically their face.

Razor-sharp claws do their work. They make the brunette finally start to try and cover their face. Even with the birds in the way, Eret did what they could, trying to force the animals away. But not before the most excruciating pain they’ve ever been in radiates from their face.

A blood-curdling scream tears through their throat. High--full of terror and agony. Their hands were on their face as the birds kept coming. But the simple touch only makes it worse, stinging every open wound they touched. Made Eret lower their hands only for them to come away hot and sticky. Bloody.

Eret stumbles back, shaking and terrified as the birds keep coming. They’re quiet, trying to back away…

Another slash to their face.

The world goes black.

They can't stop screaming.

Hands grab their shoulders and drag them back. Eret struggles to stay upright, feet catching on roots and bushes. They fumble around, frightened. They can’t tell where they’re going or who’s holding him or what’s going on. Their hands shoot out and grab onto a tree. Nails dig into the bark, break under the pressure.

A whimper falls from their lips as they continue to be pulled along.

But the birds are gone.

Eret’s pulled along for a few more paces before they’re stopped. They stumble, lightheaded and sick for reasons they don’t understand. All they know is the feeling of something trailing down their cheeks. Blood… tears… a mix? It’s everywhere.

Arms wrap around them, stabilizing them. A soothing voice follows the action.

“Eret… Eret listen to me, I need you to listen to me.” Fundy. Their friend. “Eret please, look at me.”

They turn slightly, blindly following the man’s voice. It’s dark… Why is the forest so dark…

A hand guides their head, making them turn a bit more.

“Open your eyes,” Fundy says.

It’s then Eret realizes they’ve been squeezing their eyes shut the entire time. It hurt so much to open them. Like something is stuck in them, stabbing their eyes every time they try to look around. They reach up, pressing their hands to their eyes only to gasp. The shock of pain that rushes through them is enough to make them let out another small whimper.

The hand never leaves their face and Fundy tries again. “Eret, don’t- stop. Don’t touch them just open them, please.”

Eret shakes their head.

The pain…

It’s horrible.

They’re shaking at this point, arms now wrapped around themselves as they lower their head. They don’t pull away from the touch… instead, they lean into it a bit.

The only soothing thing in the world of agony Eret’s living in.

“Eret… please,” Fundy begs.

A shaky breath. They look up and open their eyes. The sound that comes out of their friend is nearly lost to Eret as they immediately close them again. It hurt… so much. More of whatever was in their eyes fell down their face, wet and sticky. It trails into the corners of their mouth, leaving a salty… coppery tang on their tongue.

Blood and tears.

Fundy starts mumbling. Eret doesn’t understand him. Everything around them fades out, sounds becoming muffled as if their head had been dunked underwater. Their stomach knots and their body sways. A dizziness takes hold, making their breathing short and head spin. They can’t seem to catch their breath, every inhale shorter than the last as they struggle to breathe.

Eret digs their nails into their arms. They couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think.

The bag on their back is really heavy, teetering their balance.

Take it off…

Cold, clammy, unsteady.

So much is overwhelming and yet there’s nothing at all. The world is dark and quiet but the pain in their eyes reminds them they’re still awake. The feeling of Fundy’s hands on Eret’s elbows trying to keep them upright…

They open their mouth as if to talk but all they can do is wheeze.

Breathe breathe breathe…

A second passes and their knees buckle. Eret collapses against the ginger and before they even drop that far, they fall unconscious.

Eret moans as they wake up, body sore. Their head is fuzzy, mind vacant of thoughts. Everything is black and their awareness of their surroundings is gone. The only things they can tell are they’re lying down, the bag is gone, and there’s a weird pressure on their face. It rubs weird and keeps their eyes shut when Eret tries to open them.

The pain that follows only makes them whimper.

But then a voice… someone is talking to them. It’s inaudible. Can’t tell who’s talking.

Shuffling followed by someone’s hand on their shoulder.

They nod off as the person tries to get their attention.

The next time they wake up their arm is slung around someone’s shoulder. An arm around Eret’s waist is what’s keeping them upright as they’re being partially carried, partially dragged through the forest.

Their foot catches on a root, causing them to stumble. Eret’s reaction is delayed to the point they’re guided by the man carrying them, only barely managing to pull their foot away with the man’s help.

“Come on… ..almost… ..got this.” Fundy. It’s Fundy carrying them.

Eret doesn’t catch much of what the ginger says, only nodding in reply, hoping that it’s the right answer.

Fundy’s hold on them tightens.

Time passes as a blur. Unable to see, Eret is barely able to tell how long they’re awake. Sometimes they fade to unconsciousness, sometimes they’re aware and helping walk around. Their sense of direction has long since vanished as well, the brunette completely relying on the man carrying him.

Eret trips; their legs come out from under them. Fundy catches them, a death grip on the brunette.

“I gotcha.”

Fundy’s mumbling under his breath. They’re still moving, only much slower. He’s messing with something at the same time, Eret can tell from the way the man is struggling to hold them up with one arm.

“Come on… Turn on…”

“Where the fuck is the path?” Fundy mutters.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Don’t die, come on!”

Eret gets tugged along, Fundy seemingly more frantic than before. He’s moving fast, trying to get the taller one around obstacles with less care than before. Panicked, almost.

Both hands are on Eret now. Tight, nails digging into their wrist.

The ginger breathes heavily and Eret can feel him shifting around, constantly looking back.

“Eret, Eret wake up. Wake up right now.”

They lift their head, dazed and confused as they once again become aware. Their face scrunches up as they turn their head towards Fundy.

“We gotta go, you gotta move,” Fundy hisses. He sounds freaked out… Eret can’t figure out why. “You gotta move.” He starts to pull them along, forcing them to get their feet going.

Caught off guard, they lose their balance. Fundy doesn’t wait, not this time. He continues to tug Eret along, set on wherever their destination was. Forces Eret to get their act together and stay upright. They try their best, struggling quite a bit to keep up.

Eret manages to hold their own despite being unable to see. With their feet on the ground and the ginger guiding him around trees and undergrowth, the rush becomes easier. It gives them a chance to finally talk. “Why are we-?”

Fundy shushes them. Pulls them along faster. “Stop talking, just keep moving.”

They fall silent.

Eret didn’t even realize they passed out again until they’re suddenly being dragged along the forest floor. Arms wrap under their shoulders and around their chest; their feet trail through the brush and debris.

They lift their head. Barely moves much else, lulling in a fit of exhaustion.

Breathing is hard… really hard. Short, rapid, erratic. Can’t get enough in can’t take a deep breath why is it so hard to breathe?

They start to move but it’s sluggish. Weak hands reach up and try to pry the arms off.

Breathe… need to breathe…

Fundy is quick to try and get them to stop. "Stop- stop it! Quit moving, you're only going to slow us down more!" His voice is low and hurried. It seems strained and distant…

...is he running from something?

The brunette wakes up to being propped up against a tree. The two had stopped moving at some point. When, Eret wasn't entirely sure.

With Fundy no longer holding them up in some way, Eret assumes the guy had finally found them a place to stop so he could sleep. It only makes sense.

Rubbing their eyes, they come to find their face covered in bandages. The rough cloth was stark compared to the smooth skin they expected to feel. Carefully, they run their fingers along with the bandages. They're wrapped around most of the upper half of their head, concealing their eyes and ears.

Covering the horrible wounds that mar their face.

Lowering their hands, they find more haphazardly wrapped gauze around their shoulders. It pokes through their shredded shirt.

Makes them wonder just how bad it was.

Their hands shake as Eret pulls them away from their chest. So much so fast…

The two just wanted to hike, to explore. And yet within hours, everything had gone to shit.

And now they have no idea what time it is or where they are or where Fundy is.

"Fundy?" They try to sit up further, looking around despite being unable to see. Somehow the darkness only makes the world lonely.

There's shuffling nearby followed by the crunch of leaves. "You're awake!" More movement and then a hand is on Eret's shoulder. "How are you feeling? You alright?"

A stupid question really.

Eret feels like shit. Constantly being jostled around while unconscious, waking up over and over and being forced to run… it's hard to feel alright after all of that. And yet, at the same time, they were in considerably less pain than before.

"I'm… okay?" They sound uncertain. "What happened?"

Fundy doesn't say anything at first. He seems lenient to explain and the silence has a weird air to it. It doesn't sit well with Eret.

Soon enough, the ginger says, "a lot. So much.” There’s a pause. “After we got thrown off the path by those birds we got lost and… and I tried to get back to the trail.” The hand falls away, fingers trailing along Eret’s shoulder before dropping entirely. “I couldn’t find it. But! You slept pretty hard I’m glad you’re alright.”

Eret frowns. That… That’s not…

That didn’t explain what happened every time Eret woke up. The carrying, the running, the dragging, none of it.

“What else?” they press, tone skeptical. “We were running, right? Why did we run?”

And there’s the hesitation again. Almost like Fundy doesn’t want to answer him. “Uh- It- It was nothing! Nothing really!” The man spoke quickly, voice pitching up at the same time. “Just thought I saw the path!”

Odd.

“Where are we?” Eret asks.

Leaves crunch as Fundy moves. “Somewhere in the forest. I don’t fucking know where.” He sighs. “I got lost last night… I have no fucking clue which way is what.”

Night.

“You mean it’s morning now?”

“Well, yeah.”

< If you can't find the path, never stop moving at night. Rest during the day, run during the night. It hunts at night and if you stop, it will attack. >

The thoughts come back, whispering in their ears and latching on to Eret’s conscious mind. Paranoia and anxiety refuse to leave them alone, pushing for them to think about the short list. That horrid, horrid list.

< When the crows swarm, run. Do not let them injure you. It can smell the blood. >

Eret froze, their entire body growing tense. It's just a list, it can't be real. Some stupid post they saw one day that happened to stick with them. They're just paranoid.

< “We gotta go, you gotta move,” Fundy hisses. He sounds freaked out… Eret can’t figure out why. “You gotta move.” He starts to pull them along, forcing them to get their feet going. >

They reach out, shaking hand finding itself on Fundy's shoulder. "Fundy," Eret says slowly. It earns a small hum. "What did you see?"

The voice that answers is quieter than usual. Small, frail almost. Vulnerable in a way Eret has never remembered Fundy being.

"I- I don't know."

The two ended up sleeping, exhaustion overtaking their need to stay awake and leaving them napping throughout the day. Though, more often than not, Eret finds themselves awake. Sitting propped against the tree, head resting against the truck as they stare up into the black expanse that is their vision.

They never were claustrophobic. Small spaces didn't make them feel too bad despite their height. Busses, trains, rooms… they were always fine. But the inky darkness that became their reality is constricting. It wraps around their body, suffocating them and leaving them to writhe and struggle in isolation.

But it's all mental. Up in their head in a world only they know; a world they'll never escape. The only signs of the toll the blindness takes on the man are the faint, quick breaths in and out. And with Fundy asleep somewhere nearby, there's no one there to see Eret holding themselves, lips pressed in a line as they try and stay calm.

If there weren't bandages over their face, maybe a trail of tears would adorn either cheek.

Shuffling makes them perk up. Drags them out of their head and forces them to pay attention to their surroundings. Something was moving nearby.

“Fundy?” Eret calls quietly, just in case the man was still sleeping. The lack of a response is enough of an answer. “Hello?” Now it was more directed to whoever or whatever was moving around.

Not like an animal could reply to them, but maybe someone was wandering off the path. Someone who could get them out of the damned forest. It was worth the shot.

When nothing answers them, Eret sighs and leans back against the tree. The small flicker of hope that ignited in their chest dwindles, snuffed out by the silence.

How far from the path are they anyway?

For all Eret knew, they could be ten feet away. Move around a couple of trees and there it would be. The man-made trail hikers travel on every day covered in sticks and decaying leaves, surrounded by beautiful plants and scenery and just… perfect.

But they’ll never know. They’ll never know just how close they are to the stupid path because those fucking birds STOLE THEIR SIGHT.

They take a deep breath, nostrils flaring as their hands ball into tight fists. A second passes and they slam the side of their hand against the cold hard ground. Frustration and anger isn’t a common emotion for Eret, it never has been. But sitting there with one of the most important senses ripped away from them, drowning them in a world of perpetual darkness… it’s starting to get hard to keep their emotions in check.

Sighing, they force themselves to relax, fingers uncurling and shoulders slouching. There’s no way the two of them are gonna be able to get out if they can’t stay calm. With so little experience getting mad, there’s no telling what could happen.

Tilting their head back, Eret stares up towards the sky. Wonders what it looks like… how the canopy must look with the yellow leaves dispersing the golden rays from the sun across the forest floor.

Shifting grass right next to Eret startles them. It’s faint, only audible because of the silence that hovers in the clearing, and it confuses them. Sitting back up, they carefully reach their hand towards the sound.

They lower their hand, fingers outstretched as they try to touch whatever is there. It could be a rabbit. A fuzzy little animal just hopping around trying to find something to eat or somewhere to sleep…

What they feel is not a bunny.

Slimy and boney, gnarled like a tree root but warm like a living creature. It writhes beneath their hand, moving around like a… a finger.

The sound that comes out of Eret is one of disgust and horror. A distorted scream rips through their throat as they try to pull their hand back only for whatever it was they touched to grab their wrist. A strong, wretched hand tightens its grip. Larger than a human’s, nails sharper than should be possible. Digging into their wrist, slicing up the delicate skin.

They kick out, squirming in the thing’s hold as they try to shove it away.

“Let GO of me!” they shriek.

Their foot makes contact with something solid. A grunt follows and the grip loosens.

THUD.

The thing lets go, a warbled cry following suit. Heavy breathing can be heard above Eret before something heavy is dropped on the ground. Barely even a second passes before Fundy speaks, the man on the ground next to Eret with his hands on their shoulders.

He sounds breathless as he talks. “Hey, hey it’s alright. Eret. Eret, look at me.”

Probably the worst thing someone could say to a blind man but it got the brit to react anyways. They turned their head slightly, hoping they were facing the right direction. They reach out, trembling hand finding a perch on Fundy’s arm. Once certain they were holding the ginger, their grasp tightens. A grounding.

“Breathe,” Fundy directs. “For the love of God, please calm down. It’s gone, you’re alright- we’re alright.” The reassurance is partnered with the gentle pull into a hug. Arms--human arms--wrap tenderly around their body. The ginger stays there despite the tension in the brunette, refusing to pull away until Eret finally melts, burying their head against Fundy’s shoulder as they return the gesture.

Fists ball into Fundy’s shirt and a choked sob rattles through the brit’s body. The slow-motion of the ginger rubbing their back is joined by what sounds like his own struggle to keep from crying. Hiccuped inhales and steady exhales… Fundy was... Trying…

Eventually, Fundy whispers, “it’s evening, we need to keep moving.”

Walking with the guidance of someone with sight is more off-putting than trying to learn a new language. At least, that’s what Eret would compare it to. It’s like relearning how to walk. Their perception of reality permanently altered, sense of balance destroyed, and their ability to perceive their surroundings forced to rely on their hearing and touch. But surrounded by a thick forest, they’re more than thankful for how accommodating their friend is.

Fundy laughs quietly. “Come on, you know it’s true.”

Eret scoffs, wishing they could roll their eyes at the man’s stupidity. “I can’t believe this is your focus right now.”

“Would you rather me talk about the fact we’re lost in a forest nearly out of food traveling in the middle of the night with no service, a dead phone, and your severe lack of a phone?” Fundy asks, voice deadpan. “Personally, I think my Minecraft boyfriend is far more important.”

Using their free hand that’s not wrapped around Fundy’s shoulder, the brit lightly punches the ginger’s side. “You proposed to him with a diamond only for him to get possessed! And then he had a fucking baby and George claimed to be the father!”

“WELL,” Fundy started, “that’s beside the point. Fuck you.”

Eret chuckles with a fond grin. It’s nice, being able to have a normal conversation despite the impending doom of whatever the hell went after the brit back where they were resting.

A slight discomfort is felt on the back of their head, making them shiver. A weird feeling. One that sets them on edge and spikes their anxiety. But they ignore it, preferring to focus on Fundy.

"Can't believe you got engaged and your man had-"

"Help!" The distance cry of what sounds like a young child can barely be heard. At first, Eret thinks it may be a trick of the ears, the wind whistling just right through the leaves. But Fundy stops walking.

He heard it too.

The child calls out again and it sets in stone the reality of the situation. "Please! Help!"

The two adjust their course and start to make their way towards the voice. Stumbling through the undergrowth, tripping on loose plants, and smacking against low hanging branches.

< If you hear someone call for help, do not go to it. It’s a trap. >

The wails grow louder but so does a weird smell. It makes Eret scrunch their nose, face contorting to one of disgust when they're first hit by the scent. "What the fu-"

Fundy shushes them, shutting them up. He doesn't clarify why, simply pulling the brit further along. Closer and closer to the cries of the young child.

"I want my mommy!" The kid cries, voice cracking with sadness.

The two come to an abrupt halt and the horrendous stench assaults Eret's senses. Malodorous and foul, it makes them gag as the smell becomes unbearable and so fucking strong they can taste it.

Eret covers their mouth, biting the inside of their cheek to keep from vomiting right then and there. Nothing could describe what they were experiencing. Nothing would ever be able to describe it. From everything they’ve dealt with in their lives, nothing prepared them for the sheer revulsion they were feeling

Something they vaguely remember their mother telling them creeps into their mind.

< “You never forget the smell of rotten human flesh or burning flesh. People say it haunts them for years.” >

They blocked that memory out years ago but now that they’re standing there, struggling to keep their head clear because of the stench, they can’t help but think about it again. Their head spins, dizziness growing as they reach up to cover their mouth.

Buzzing… Is that buzzing? Is all Eret can hear now that the child has gone silent. Loud and annoying, way too similar to the sound of a fly.

The tickling feeling of a bug landing on their hand is what confirms their suspicion. Shaking the bug off, they go to grumble a complaint but it’s drowned out by Fundy’s panic-stricken commands as the ginger drags them back.

“Come on- Eret work with me we need to fucking move right now.” He lets go of the brit, instead of focusing on grabbing their shoulders and spinning them around, shoving them back the way they came. Forces them to run--to get their legs moving.

The young child calls out again. “No- wait- please! Come back! Where’s my mommy?”

Fundy’s grip moves from Eret’s shoulders to their wrist, now pulling them along. Weaving between trees, ignoring their protests as they stumble around and run into branches. The two don’t stop moving and soon enough, Eret figures out why.

Crashing follows them. Plants being trampled and branches being ripped apart. Distorted voices begging for the two to come back. Children, adults, boys, girls… all warping and twisting like a broken record.

“Please, come back-”

“-not scary-”

“Hurt you! We won’t!”

“Come back…”

“I wanna go home.”

Heavy breathing… feet slamming against the hard ground… being yanked around every which way as Fundy navigates the forest. Getting them away from the thing chasing them, away from the horrible image Eret can only imagine had been laid out before them.

Their shoulder rams into a tree and the brit gasps and trips up, feet catching against the roots and making them stagger, nearly falling right then and there. The shocking pain that shoots down their arm disorients them. Hit right on the bandaged gashes from the birds’ sharp talons.

It makes Fundy grab them by their upper arm, becoming a better support as their fleeing continues. “Come on, keep moving. We gotta keep going.”

Eret’s only response is a nod.

Move.

Keep moving.

A warbled shriek from behind makes them cringe. Panic and adrenaline. A rush to run. Get away.

Run.

It’s the motivator that gets Eret to finally match Fundy’s pace, finally managing to ignore the obstacles in their way as best as they can. Trying to get away from the creature right on their tail.

“I think-” Fundy pauses for a moment. “I think I see something!”

A small spark of hope ignites in Eret. What the ginger sees, they have no idea, but that doesn’t stop them from hoping. Maybe, just maybe-

An excited cheer comes from the ginger. “Yes! YES! LIGHTS!”

Safety.

The two continue their push forward, exhaustion starting to set in and nearly making the brit slow down. But they can’t. They can’t. They’re so close…

Something grabs their ankle and tugs. Pulls their foot out from under them and sends Eret flying to the ground. They slip from Fundy's hold, falling into the dirt with a cry cut off by the wind being knocked out of them. They reach out, scrambling for purchase as the thing pulls them back. Nails did into the dirt, rip up small shrubs…

They finally get their hands on something. A tree root. Rough bark digging into their skin, leaving small cuts as it scraped against their palms. "FUNDY-"

They kick, doing everything they can to hold onto the roots while trying to dislodge the creature. It’s to no avail, the thing tugging and nearly making Eret let go. The bark shreds their hands and rips their nails. Makes them scream. Makes them almost lose their hold.

The ginger says something. What it is, Eret can't tell, but it vaguely sounded like "hold on."

No shit.

A pained, gargled cry, and then the creature let's go.

Fundy's helping them up now, getting Eret to their feet so they can keep running towards the lights. "They're so close, we're almost there!"

Breathing ragged, the brit does what they can to stay upright and focused on moving. It burns…

Their breath hitches when they run into another tree and it takes Fundy guiding Eret to put their arm around his shoulders for support to get them to ignore it.

It hurts…

Eret flinches when the ginger starts shouting. Presumably at whoever had the lights. They can’t process the words but from what registers, the man seems just as hopeful as the brit.

The two slow down, finally done running. More hands find themselves on Eret’s shoulders and arms, more voices speaking up and talking all at once. The touch makes them snap into reality--makes them listen to what’s going on.

The first thing they hear is Fundy. Breathless, happy, relieved. And a hand on their cheek as Fundy lets go of them… then they’re pulled into a tight hug. A head buried against the crook of their neck, cold, shaking hands wrapped around their shirt…

“We did it,” Fundy whispers. “We’re out…”

Eret returns the embrace, limbs weak and movements slow. They refuse to let go. Even when the ginger begins to profusely apologize. On and on… and Eret refuses to listen.

They’re safe.

#eret #the eret #fundy #itsfundy #dream team rpf #rpf #prince's writing #horror #halloween #spooky szn :)#l'manberg #dream smp #dream smp rpf #fanfic #platonic

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delimeful · 5 years

Text

all reason flown (1)

Day 10: Broken

warnings: fear, injury, panic, mention of euthanasia, mentions of abuse

Patton woke up to darkness.

He lay there for a moment, unable to tell the difference between the dark around him and the back of his eyelids. This wasn’t the labs. Where was he?

He remembered flying for hours, pushing himself to exhaustion, terrified and elated to finally spread his wings again. He remembered a storm, rolling in fast and hard, catching him in its tearing winds. He was tossed around, unable to muster the strength to break free, until-

He’d hit an invisible wall at full speed, and blacked out from the pain.

His wing!

He sat upright, twitching his wings automatically, and was immediately hit with a wave of agonizing pain, his nerves aflame. His heart sank.

After he’d done so much, come so far… He was finally free, and then fate had to yank the updraft from beneath his wings, leaving him spiralling down. He reached out, feeling for the comforting downy feathers to see how bad it was, but when he felt around for his injury, a different texture met his hands. Cotton… Bandages?

Humans, he realized with a jolt, his breath quickening. Humans had found him, and now he was trapped again, theirs again.

Except this time, there wasn’t any hope of escape. He was grounded, useless, as good as dead. Patton slumped back against the fabric he was laying on, trying to hold back tears. His wing was broken, and with it, his spirit.

Virgil took a deep breath, scrolling frantically through a web search on bird injuries.

He’d already tried searching for Avian-specific help, and been thoroughly horrified at the number of results telling him that the most humane thing to do was euthanize it or take it to a testing center. Like the little being he’d found crumpled on his porch was some dumb animal that couldn’t make choices for itself.

It was just a wing. The little guy had taken significant damage from the fall, and Virgil suspected he had some sprains as well, but the only thing broken was one of those tiny tawny wings. It was important, yeah, but if it couldn’t be saved, the Avian could still live without it!

And that Avian wanted to live. Virgil had seen it in his eyes, in the way he struggled and pushed against his hold even while barely conscious. He wanted to live and Virgil was going to do everything he could to make it possible.

He’d already carried the little guy inside, wrapped carefully in a towel, and then rushed to the nearest pet supply store for vet tape. He’d folded the wing into its normal resting position and wrapped the tape thoroughly around it and the little guy’s torso, keeping it pinned to his back.

He’d waited a few minutes for him to wake up, and then started worrying about shock and put him in a large, padded box instead. He cast another glance over to where it sat on the table, wondering if it would be better or worse to have the top open so he could check in.

As though on cue, there was a light thump, and the sound of rustling. He sat ramrod straight before hurrying across the room, hands stopping just before he could pull the top of the box off. His mind raced, wondering what the right thing to do was, he’d barely ever even seen an Avian before, let alone-

There was the smallest sob from within the box, and Virgil’s hands tore the lid off without any conscious input.

The Avian yelped, one wing flaring out as he ducked away from the light, and Virgil felt immediately guilty. He shifted his body to lean over the box so that his shadow fell over the tiny form.

“Sorry, sorry. I forgot how dark it must have been in there.” Nice job, screw up. “Are you okay?”

He waited, but it seemed that the Avian wasn’t in the mood for conversation, because he scooted back and curled himself into a ball in the corner of the box, visibly shaking. His heart twisted, recognizing the panic he’d felt himself constantly.

“Okay, that’s okay, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Try and take some deep breaths, okay? I’m gonna get some water for you.” He withdrew slowly, and then hurried to the kitchen, grabbing a cheap plastic shot glass from a cabinet, washing it out and filling it 3/4th of the way full.

By the time he got back, careful not to stomp, he could see the Avian jumping for the top of the box, one wing flapping desperately as he bumped against the cardboard wall. He cleared his throat and watched awkwardly as the little guy immediately reverted to his tiny ball of panic, the unbound wing ruffled as though he expected to be attacked.

“You want out of the box, huh? I don’t blame you.” Virgil mumbled as he set the water down on the table. He reached a hand into the box, intending to lift the Avian out, but paused, watching the way the tiny form flinched at the sight of the shadow looming over it. He quickly retracted his hand, chiding himself. He wouldn’t want to be grabbed either.

“Um… Oh! I’m going to tilt the box so you can get out on your own, okay? Brace yourself.” He gripped both sides of the box and slowly tilted it to sit on its side.

The Avian seemed to unfurl slightly at his words, and once the box had settled, he scrambled out of the box, keeping his front to Virgil at all times, eyes locked on him. Virgil sat down, averting his gaze as he nudged the shot glass a little closer. “Uh, here’s water. I figure you’re probably a little dehydrated, you’ve been sleeping for almost a whole day since I found you.”

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked up in time to see the Avian take a running leap off the edge of the table, wing flared out as though it alone could possibly catch him. He must have made some kind of noise as he lunged out of his seat, but all he could focus on was catching the tiny form before it plummeted.

He hit the ground hard, all of the air forced from his lungs, but he could feel the Avian’s body struggling in his clasped hands, and he sagged in relief. He opened his hands, letting the tiny bird person scramble off as though burned. “If you wanted to get to the floor, you could have just asked.” He snarked, pressing his face to the ground as the adrenaline dissipated. “I get you don’t want to be grabbed but I could have worked out something that wouldn’t get you even more broken bones.”

He was honestly talking mostly to himself at that point, so it was a surprise to look up and find the Avian standing a few feet away, watching him. He took a few rapid steps back upon meeting Virgil’s gaze, but didn’t bolt away for the first time.

Virgil tried to offer him a reassuring smile, though it probably came off as more of a grimace. “Hey. Sorry. I’m… I’m Virgil.”

The Avian stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes, and then turned and fled to the gap under his sofa without a word.

Virgil sighed, letting his head thunk back down. This was going to be a long recovery period.

#g/t #giant/tiny #sanders sides #ts virgil #ts patton #writing #my writing #oct prompts #hiddendreamer67 prompts #avian #all reason flown #arl

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spyder-m · 4 years

Text

Melt

Summary: After taking a bad hit while clearing out monsters in the slums, Tifa turns to Cloud for help with patching up. Lime. Prompt 'Since the invention of the kiss, there have been only five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.'

A/N: Originally written for Day 4 of the Cloti/Zerith Endless Summer Week, only sharing now because I’m bad at Tumblr.

Ao3 / FF.net / Twitter

One might think that living underneath the plate would come as an advantage in the Summer, the steel sky shading grounders from the sun above. But the arid desert air still beat relentlessly against the Sector, thin and muggy with sweat. Some of the usual, more questionable odours of the slums were coated in an extra, unpleasant layer.

For Tifa, a job as routine as clearing monsters from Scrap Boulevard became noticeably more difficult.

It was harder to regulate her stamina, the speed and strength behind her blows slipping somewhat. It was only exacerbated by the drool that spilt from monsters' open mouths as they barred their fangs; they the dust kicked up, clinging to the sheen of her skin.

Still, she wouldn't let the weather keep her from helping with neighbourhood watch. For the profit, the reputation it brought to Avalanche and the well-being it ensured their little community.

That made it all worthwhile.

Tifa’s grimaced, pinching the damp fabric of her tank top between her fingers as it clung to her undershirt, before wiping her brow with the back of her hand. She lifted her arms above her head, a familiar, practiced stretch, hoping the exercise would cool her down.

Having a second set of hands did help ease the load somewhat. Though not much for the conversation, she appreciated the company. And if the heat was bothering her cohort, he hid it well; the picture of a stoic, disciplined Soldier.

Still, she couldn't help her smirk, noticing his blond spikes drooping slightly, sweat building along his hairline. Noticing her dither, Cloud lifted an eye.

“Could use a shower,” Tifa commented idly. “It’s a good thing we just changed those water filters.”

A country boy at heart, Cloud liked to think he was accustomed to the heat. Particularly in Midgar, having become familiar with the city in his time training under Shinra.

He hadn't, it seemed, spent enough time in the slums. He had not realised how suffocating it could get down there.

In particular, there was something disconcerting about the plate that loomed ominously above upon; the steel feeling as though it was closing in on them. It woke an unnerving discomfort for him. Vague memories of being crammed in a small, tight space, prodded and poked.

Must've been another one of those weird dreams.

Though, the season proved a blessing in helping Cloud get more work. There weren't as many willing to brave the harsh conditions.

As, he was getting to know his way around Sector 7, Tifa insisted on tagging along. She didn't have to push particularly hard to change his mind, not that he'd care to admit so aloud. He much preferred her company to Barrett's.

Though all of Avalanche had shown themselves useful in dire situations, he felt much more comfortable placing his trust in Tifa.

"So, how much further?" He asked, sheathing his Buster Sword, after they had felled the latest pack of Gorgers.

"We should be coming up on it soon, according to Wymer."

"Lead the way."

"Right. We should wrap up soon. I'll need to get Seventh Heaven ready and open before the lunch rush."

The mark in question was a lesser drake, lingering outside one of the factories.

Cautious, it kept to the skies as it circled the scrapyard, wanting to leave a distance between itself and potential threats. Tifa smirked, fixing her glove before she cocked her fist.

"Looks like it’s not going to make this easy."

With a nod to Cloud, she vaulted herself upward, catching their target in the ribs with a whirling uppercut. The drake gave gave a ragged, cry of pain, the wind was knocked out of its lungs; not having expected her to take to the air so easily.

Not allowing their mark a moment of recovery, Tifa continued to rain rapid, powerful blows to its body, hoping to stagger it. With its attention was focused on her, Cloud cycled through different spells, trying to uncover its weakness. Desperately, it began to flap its wings in wild arcs, sending powerful gusts of wind in their direction.

The cool air lashing against their heated bodies almost came as a relief.

The force blew Tifa back, but she managed to tuck her body into a roll, cushioning the impact. She cringed at the dirt that coated her arms in sticky clumps, before returning to her fighting stance as the bird swooped at her.

As she weaved out the drake's path, it abruptly changed direction, kicking up dust to keep out Cloud's reach. Tifa intercepted, soaring up and twisting her body into a kick, looking to deliver the killing blow. This time, however, the drake anticipated her attack, bearing its claws. It caught her across the back in a frantic, clumsy swipe. With a cry, Tifa was swept aside. Unable to brace herself for the fall, she collapsed heavily onto the ground.

"Tifa!" Cloud cried out, before noticing the drake turn its attention towards him. He growled, wanting to check on her but also knowing that it would be dangerous to let his guard slip.

Cloud racked his brain, needing a way to finish this fight quickly. Lowering his sword, he noticed the Wind materia Chadley had given him earlier for compiling Battle Intel. It was the one materia he hadn't tried yet.

Quickly conjuring an aero spell, the drake shrieked as it caught in a powerful gust, dragged towards Cloud. It collapsed to the ground, its wings clipped, leaving Cloud open to bring the Buster Sword down across its neck.

As soon as the drake's body dissipated back into the Lifestream, Cloud ran towards Tifa. His hands resting at her shoulders, helping guide her upright. Though, he kept her at something a distance, not wanting to exacerbate anything if she was hurt.

"Tifa! Are you alright?"

"Y- yeah. Although, now I'm definitely going to need that shower."

"We've done enough for today. Let's get you back to the bar."

Cloud was in a foul mood when they returned to base, hardly an ideal time to have to report back to Barret. He didn’t have the patience or energy to respond to his sarcastic quips and Barret was equally unimpressed to find Tifa had not returned from their routine job unscathed. He was met with an icy glare from Cloud when he tried to pass the blame for Tifa's injury on him.

No matter how Tifa tried to placate the Avalanche leader, insisting it was nothing more than a mistake, Barret remained adamant. Being an ex-employee of Shinra, Cloud was already skirting a thin line, and the lone slip-up was enough to vindicate his distrust.

As if having his skill called into question wasn’t’ enough, the idea that he would play a role in harm coming to Tifa; indirectly or otherwise; left a sickening feeling in Cloud’s stomach. He left the bar in a huff, retreating to his room.

Lounging back on his bed, Cloud found himself tempted to seek out more monsters, thinking perhaps it might quell his anger. Though, he realised it probably wasn’t the best idea. They had just returned from a hunting job, after all, and he wasn't in the clearest headspace.

If he was being honest, he felt that Barret’s words did hold some weight. Perhaps that was why they stung so much.

It was his fault Tifa had gotten hurt. He'd made a mistake to stay back and fight at a distance when she charged in. If he'd been up close, with her, they could have worked together. They probably would have beaten the drake much sooner that way.

At the very least, he could have taken that blow in her place.

He felt guilty. Avalanche had hired him to fight, to keep their members safe and it was a job he tried to fulfill to the best of his ability. Admittedly, he did so out of obligation, wanting to ensure that he got paid in full. But with Tifa, it was different.

Tifa was one of the few left he cared for, one of the first and only people in the Slums to show him kindness. Protecting her was something he took genuine care and pride in.

He truly didn’t want to see her get hurt.

She hadn’t left her room since they'd gotten back.

Cloud was beginning to grow worried.

Tifa had been insisted, stubbornly, that it wasn't a big deal and she would be fine after taking a quick break. One of the cardinal rules of Sector 7, after all, was that bed rest could help cure whatever ailed you.

Cloud hadn't been entirely convinced. So, he kept to his own room, wanting to be to close and keep on an eye on her, without violating her space or request not to be fussed over.

He couldn't make out much noise at first, sensing that perhaps Tifa had been telling the truth and was just sleeping.

After a moment, though, he could hear her shuffling around, the sound of someone setting things on the floor and muttering to themselves as they paced back and forth.

Tapping his fingers against the mattress, Cloud wondered what the problem might be. Why, if she was awake, was she staying cooped up in her room for so long? Did he need to check on her?

Sitting up from his bed and moving to open the door, Cloud eyes strained under the sudden burst of sunlight that assaulted his senses. Having adjusted to the shade and soft colours of his room, the relentless glare was an unwelcome shift.

Shielding the glare with his forearm, Cloud shuffled towards Tifa's door, stopping at the threshold. Exhaling, Cloud lifted his hand, wrapping his knuckles firmly against the door.

"Tifa, are you there?"

"Cloud?" Her voice broke after a moment. "C- can you come in?"

At the quiver carrying through her words, Cloud had to restrain himself from forcing the door off its hinges. He barged into her room, any inhibition he may have harboured evaporating, as concern for her well-being became the sole priority.

For as much she'd undersold her decoration job, Cloud was impressed by how homely Tifa had managed to make the drab apartment feel. The pictures lining the walls, the little nick-nacks on her desk and bedside table. Her clothes, books, CDs. The traces of her presence throughout the room made it feel lived in.

It certainly seemed warmer and more welcoming than his own room. Not that that bothered him. All he needed was a place to sleep.

"Cloud?"

As he turned, Cloud's eyes bulged upon reaching Tifa, stood underneath the shower head. Her gloves, boots and skirt strewn in a pile at her feet. Nothing but the dark material of her undershirt, shorts hugging her long, toned legs.

The shock churned into alarm at the sight of her white tanktop, stained with blotches of red, haphazardly tossed by the foot of her bed. His body, impulsively, staggered towards her, hands reaching her hips at either side.

It seemed the healing spell he'd used earlier hadn't quite been powerful enough. The Materia he'd gotten from Jessie was far from being mastered. There were still cuts littering the middle of her back, blood seeping into the material of her shirt from where the drake had slashed her.

"Do you think you could... help me out?"

Glancing up, Cloud followed her line of sight, spotting what she was talking about. The rags and bottle of rubbing alchohol lined in front of her shower, the bandages. The wound was in a somewhat awkward place to reach, even with Tifa's flexibility.

Even if she could, it was out of sight and she'd have no way of knowing if she was cleaning it properly, letting alone bandaging it up.

His mind eventually catching up to his body, Cloud noticed their close proximity and the way he was holding her. His hands ripped swiftly back, eyes lowering as he coughed.

"S- sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's alright."

Cloud was surprised she would ask for his help with something like this. Though they all received basic training, Soldiers were known more for hurting than healing, and... He wasn't exactly one for being gentle.

He'd scared away Marlene just trying to talk to her.

They hadn’t seen each other for years, and hadn't exactly been the closest friends when they were kids. Wouldn't it be awkward to have him cleaning her wounds when she was half-naked? Surely Jessie would have been better suited.

After all, from how casually Jessie and Biggs examined Wedge’s bare ass for burns and gunshots wounds, Cloud got the sense the group were more than comfortable being half-naked around one another.

Though, he had come to realise that there were secrets she kept even from Avalanche. From the brief words they'd exchanged, it seemed Barret didn't even know what had happened to her parents.

It made sense that she wouldn't want to mention the scar stretching down her chest, right between her breasts, from where the Masamune had slashed her. The very sight awoke a burning sensation in his stomach, a similar entry wound lining his abdomen.

It was a night that he too had lived through. The same pain that he had experienced.

For that reason, perhaps it was easier to ask him.

Sensing that he was the only one she felt comfortable turning to, made it almost impossible to turn down.

The thought that he had a connection, an intimacy with her that no one else did, stroked his ego. He wanted to flaunt it in the face of all those men in town who flirted with her, to their landlady who seemed convinced he wasn't good enough to even be around her.

It was so rare of Tifa to ask anything of someone else.

She had taken him in. Found him lying half-dead at the station when others seemed content to let him rot. The fact that he had been dressed in a Shinra uniform probably hadn't helped.

Yet Tifa had found him work and a place to stay, helped him build his reputation around the Slums and earn money, all the while holding her tongue, resolving not to bother him with the many, burning questions she likely had.

This was the least he could do to repay her kindness.

"Are you sure?"

"Mmm." Tifa hummed, coy. "I trust you."

Though Cloud, for a second, wouldn't hesitate to help her. He sensed they were teetering on the brink of something... dangerous. That if they were to go beyond this point, it could make things uncomfortable between him.

He knew how important their relationship was to Tifa, to him, and wouldn't want to do anything to jeopardise it.

Though, there was something about those soft, pleading, red eyes that coursed warmly through him, penetrating through his guard. Those eyes reassured him always that everything would be okay.

As long as he kept himself restrained, respectful, it should be alright.

Though, after all they'd been through together, he wasn't entirely sure they hadn't mean boundaries left to cross. They were already intimately familiar with each other's greatest hardships, their most personal scars.

There was a strange comfort in having someone see you at your lowest, most vulnerable point; a trust and sense that you no longer have anything to hide from them.

"Alright." He conceded eventually. "Turn around."

Swallowing, Cloud swept the thick curtain of Tifa's hair aside, reveling briefly in its weight and softness. He'd always thought she had pretty hair as a teenager, and now it had grown much, much longer. It must have been difficult to maintain. Yet somehow appeared free of tangles, even after the fights they'd just had.

Still, it couldn't have been comfortable in this heat, and would probably get in the way of him patching her up.

"Hang on," Cloud said, releasing the tie at the end of her hair. Her eyes lifted over her shoulder, curious

Recalling the ponytail he'd worn as a teenager, Cloud's fingers sunk into the dark tresses; softer than he had imagined. He shifted the band higher, tying them out of the way in a sloppy bun.

Tifa sighed, blissfully, as the itchy weight of hair was lifted from her shoulders, fresh air cool caressing against the heated skin. She relaxed at the touch of his strong fingers against her scalp.

The reaction was puzzling to Cloud. The sound coming from her not something he had expected. After having spent years training and perfecting his body as a tool, a means to fight, it felt alien for it elicit such pleasure.

He stepped back, suddenly conscious of the bare flesh he had exposed. The slender column of her neck, the strap of her tank top as it slipped slightly from her shoulder.

With a defiant shake of his head, Cloud steeled himself to lower his gaze, concentrating solely on the task at hand.

His hands hovered over her ribs, strangely apprehensive to cover the last modicum of distance between them. It was skin he had seen several times before, had already brushed against or caught a hold of, in the adrenaline of a fight.

Yet, without the rhythm of battle guiding his movement, anything else to capture his attention, Cloud became overtly conscious of the way his fingers traced each dip and groove of her body, the feeling it evoked within him.

There was obvious tension in her muscles. Something Cloud was unsure if he could attribute to the stress and heat of their work wearing on her, or discomfort from being so close to him. Perhaps once the lingering ache of her injury passed, she would be able to relax.

With practiced care, Cloud took the cloth in his hand, dipping it into the bottle of rubbing alcohol. With measured, delicate movement, he carefully worked the cloth over one of her cuts.

Tifa's muscles cinched up at the contact, hissing as her eyes crinkled into the slightest flinch. The reaction would have been imperceptible to most, but Cloud's hand ripped back swiftly, as though he'd burnt her.

"Sorry."

"It's okay," Tifa said. "Keep going."

Cloud frowned, upset at the thought of causing her any discomfort. Even if it was only fleeting, even knowing her strength and that she had endured far worse; that it would ultimately help her; he wished he could make it more pleasant.

Tifa had asked specifically for him. He didn't want her to second-guess herself or think that trust in him had been misplaced. Secretly, he wanted her to rely on him. To know that even she no longer needed a hero to save her, he would still support her.

Cloud needed to show her that he cared. There had to be something he could do to bring her comfort.

He tried to recall his mother. How she had tended to him when he fought with other children.

Though he would try to be strong and mask his pain, she would always know; lovingly pressing kisses against his forehead whenever a particularly bad wave took him. It made him feel safe and made all of his aches magically disappear.

It was the old cliche, kiss it better.

Looking down, he could make out beads of sweat trickling from the pores of her shoulder, Cloud's tongue slid across his hot, cracked lips.

He was drawn to the familiar, comforting scent of her; a fragrance attached to some of the few, precious memories of his childhood. Yet, there was something equally invigorating about the shape of her body, the parts of her he wanted to discover more.

Somehow, despite the humid weather, he was tempted by her body heat, feeling himself drawing unconsciously nearer. The desire to comfort her, to dip his head and trace his lips over her shoulder in a brief, feather-light caress, was taking over him.

She was so close to him already, it would be so easy.

Cloud urged himself to hold still and concentrate, not to be driven by selfish urges. There was a haze clinging to his consciousness, muddling his thoughts. It must have been the heat must have been making him light-headed.

Still, as he shifted back into place, delicately touching the cloth to her back, a silence rang out through the apartment. The room had become a private space for them, away from the rest of the world.

There was nothing for him to focus on but her.

For Tifa, the sting each stroke of cloth left was passed quickly, worth enduring to revel in the care that Cloud quietly expressed. The way his free hand rested against her lower back, supporting, occasionally massaging her flesh. The way his voice would dip, soothing apologies or words of comfort vibrating from his throat.

It was rare glimpse beneath the layers of snark and stoicism Cloud usually shrouded himself in. The Cloud from her memories, she could still sense traces of. It was a side she felt touched to know, he was comfortable enough to show around her.

Eventually, Cloud washed away the last flecks of blood and dust, leaving only the jagged, broken lines of skin. The scar Tifa would carry on the way to healing. Clearing his throat, Cloud set the cloth and bottle down, letting her know he was finished.

As Tifa turned back to face him, Cloud found himself engulfed by those soft, smouldering red eyes once more; holding him in a prolonged, unbroken touch. He shuddered, rapt by how such a seemingly innocuous, silent gesture could express such intimacy.

In how they knew him so well, could read the desire written in his expression. It was disarming, compelling him to lower his guard, to breach the distance they had always placed between one another. The tension once plaguing Tifa's muscles had melted away under his hands, leaving her slipping toward him. Her hands clasped his cheek, emboldening by the desire to penetrate further beneath those hard edges.

Her face hovered dangerously close to his own now, eyes wide and shining as he sunk deeper in, pulled unconsciously forward. Cloud's heart surged erratically as he felt her breath scorching against his skin. He couldn’t place what was coming over him, lulled by her the delicate flutter of lashes as her eyes closed, lips swelling.

His head tilted, covering the last vestige of distance between him.

His mouth sought hers without another moment to think, to hesitant. It was a movement that came so naturally, the cathartic release of years of pining, of feelings that seemed to daunting and complex to properly convey.

The touch of her lips was sweet, a gentle caress steadily growing firmer, and more confident, each time it was reciprocated. It was a gesture so inherently her. The way she kept him at a slight distance, wanting to show him affection but frozen by hesitance and fear that it might turn him away.

His arms surrounded her tightly, an embrace he hoped might help to ease any doubts about his affection for her, basking in the weight of her body as it melted against his. Her hand cradled the back of his head, fingers massaging soothingly against his scalp. Their kiss broke as a moan ripped from Tifa’s mouth.

The deep, throaty sound racked his body, a dull, throb coursing through his head. Cloud flinched, images burning, one after the other, into the recesses of his mind. Tifa, lying naked underneath him, her hair unbound and spread over patches of grass. Her body bathed in moonlight, face flushed and voice cracking in a series of eerily similar moans as he rutted against her. Her head resting against his shoulder as dawn bled into the sky.

Overwhelmed, Cloud slipped back, his breathing shaky. The room silently felt incredibly stifling, his head still swimming. Tifa's eyes were half-lidded as they pinned him quizzically, pants spilling from her swollen lips. The vision was almost enough to pull him back.

“I’ll, uh…" Cloud coughed, glancing down. "I’ll leave you to finish getting cleaned up.”

“Oh... Right. Thank you, Cloud.”

Keeping his gaze drawn to the floor as he left, he'd miss the flash of disappointment in her eyes.

#ffvii #final fantasy vii #ffviir #final fantasy vii remake #cloti #cloud x tifa #cloud strife #tifa lockhart #fanfiction

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thenightling · 4 years

Text

Dreams to Dream: Chapter 3

Bet you thought I gave up on this, didn’t you? Well, I wrote a bit more for a half hour today. :-P

Chapter may be fleshed out with more detail later.

Dreams to Dream: Chapter 3.

Disclaimer: Sandman belongs to Neil Gaiman and DC comics.

Darkness. Darkness and the plunging sensation of falling. Spiraling, spinning. Lucien was screaming. Matthew was fighting the powerful current with desperate and frantic flapping.

“MY LORD!” With one hand Lucien was trying to hold his spectacles on. With the other he reached out desperately for Morpheus, whom he couldn’t actually see in the maddening whirl of dark haze as he tumbled through the abyss. Lucien felt a sudden tug on the back of his jacket. Someone had him. Morpheus had him in a grip much stronger than Lucien may have expected considering Morpheus’ recent signs of weakness.

Matthew let out a surprised cry as he was caught in a pale, bony grasp.

They were descending now, more slowly. Gracefully. The trio landed on a platform floating in an oddly colored void. Around them was a vastness of a cloudy nebula that was somehow devoid of distant stars.

Morpheus released his two companions. Lucien dusted himself off and straightened his spectacles. He attempted to restore his usual appearance of being prim and proper. Matthew fluttered to get a higher angle and look around the strange nothingness that surrounded them.

“My Lord, what IS this place?” Lucien asked.

“This is a place outside of known reality. A place to commune.”

“Commune with who?” Matthew asked with a wary and cautious tone.

Morpheus chose against directly answering but instead reached out a pointed finger and started to draw in the air. A simple symbol- a pentangle of sorts. A simple five pointed star. Where his finger touched at empty air a golden aura of light lingered behind and soon the symbol took form. The star floated in the air as if suspended by an invisible wire.

“What’s that?” Matthew asked as he flapped down to settle a perch on his old boss’s shoulder. It was familiar and good, as if no time had passed between them at all, no time lost that they could have and should have shared- now on this strange adventure. And Matthew wondered- would Morpheus go back to being dead after this? Like really dead? Would he be gone again, inaccessible to them? For the first time in the entirety of his life as a raven Matthew wished he had arms to physically grab him and maybe give him a good shake to knock some sense into him. He dreaded the end of the adventure that he knew was bound to come.

“It’s a star.” Morpheus said simply.

“I can see that. I mean… Why are you drawing it?”

“It is a very old sigil.”

Matthew and Lucien understood this. Sigils were symbols of magick and power. Each of the family of Endless had a sigil. Death’s was her ankh. Destiny’s was his great, chained book. Desire’s sigil was a heart. Despair’s sigil was a hooked ring. Delirium’s was a strange splattering of rainbow color that maybe once vaguely resembled a flower.

“Whose sigil is that?” Matthew asked.

“Mine.”

“Yours?” Matthew asked and then Matthew and Lucien exchanged looks.

Matthew attempted to broach the subject delicately as if dying and current existence had left Morpheus addled somehow. “Uh… Your sigil is your battle helm. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, Matthew. I remember. But before the helm there was another sigil. Before I created the helm my sigil was a star. And He knows it. He knows I am the only one who would use it now. He will come to me.”

They stood in silence for several, awkward seconds. And just before Matthew could state that nothing was happening something did happen. A glowing vortex opened in front of them, golden in color and bright as the sun. And a figure emerged from this light, as pale as Morpheus but in a white roman toga that draped down to his feet from his midsection. A sash, also of white, was across his shoulder. And around his neck hung a pendant of bright green emerald. It glowed with power.

“Hello Dream.” Morpheus said without the slightest hint of recognized irony.

“Hello Morpheus.” Daniel replied in the same tone. The tiny star-like pupil in Daniel’s eye flared and the mirror that was Morpheus gave a bitter smile as the two walked toward each other. With Morpheus’ dark hair and dark clothes, and Daniel’s white hair and white clothes, the two seemed to be opposite halves of a yin yang moving in toward each other. Two pieces of a puzzle finally connected and whole. It was… weirdly beautiful to the raven but he would never say it.

There was some unspoken communication between Morpheus and Daniel, some silent communication that Lucien and Matthew could not see or hear. It passed silently between the two as an exchange of knowledge and memory. And when the silent exposition had ended Morpheus spoke out loud.

“I see.” Morpheus said as most of his questions were now more or less answered. “The girl? Ivy?” Morpheus asked as if the question conveyed a great deal more than it seemed.

“She is safe.” Daniel replied. “I have her.”

Morpheus nodded. “I underestimated your humanness. For that I am sorry.”

Daniel shook his head. “That which was human was burnt away long ago. I am no more human than you.”

For a moment it looked like Morpheus was about to protest but Matthew gave a croaking caw to get their attention, his wings flapping. “You’re both more human than you’d want to admit! So shut up and let’s postpone the pissing contest. We’ve got The Dreaming to save!”

“Quiet, Matthew.” Morpheus commanded.

“Don’t talk to him that way.” Daniel said.

“Yeah, you’re not the boss anymore. Don’t talk to me that way.”

“Matthew, quiet.” Daniel said.

And Matthew gave them both a look. He then turned his head toward Lucien. “It’s like he’s in stereo.”

Lucien wiped a tear at seeing Daniel. He was sniffling, trying not to sob. He was trembling from all he had recently experienced. From the A.I. that took over the dreaming, to the digitization of the library. To his exhaustion at trying to keep The Dreaming running without his king for a second (and somehow more trying) time.

“My lord, what are we doing to do?”

Daniel gave Lucien a warm and sad look, “There is nothing I can do. I am-…“

Before Daniel could finish what he was saying, Morpheus was walking behind him. He seemed to be circling Daniel like a vulture encircling prey. He placed a hand on Daniel’s back. “This…” His hand rested on the dream catcher tattoo, a geas spell that bound him. “This petty hedgemagicking? This is what has crippled you?”

“I am not crippled.” Daniel said indignantly.

Morpheus gave a tiny, strained smile. “Am I always so-?”

Matthew interrupted “Stubborn? Usually refusing help? Cocky? Acting like your shit don’t stink?”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘Incorrigible,’ Matthew.” Lucien said as he adjusted his spectacles, no longer quite sounding as if he was on the verge of a break down.

“Yeah, that. Uh…You are.” Matthew answered Morpheus.

“Ah. I see. Fascinating.” Morpheus said with actual consideration as he rested his fingertips on the dream catcher. He grimaced, trying to mask that the magick was hurting him. “This… This will not do. But Dream Catchers were never designed to prevent or stop dreams. Only Nightmares. And you are the master of both. Or… Are you?”

Daniel blinked. “You know how to remove it, don’t you?”

Morpheus sighed “At great sacrifice to myself, yes…”

“How so?”

“I can pull you through it, your very essence but the darker part of you. The part that governs Nightmares… That will be ripped from you. It will be painful. And you will lose much of yourself.”

“Where will that part of me go?”

“…Where it once was…”

Daniel nodded solemnly and turned to face Morpheus. He stared at him for a very long moment and understanding the sacrifice he was making, the freedom he was giving up to save him- to save his kingdom- the balance he meant to preserve, he took Morpheus’ hand, his fingers intertwining with his. And he breathed the words, “Thank you.”

Morpheus was briefly surprised by the sudden grasp of his hand, their fingers instinctively twisting together. Again Morpheus nodded sadly.

The two figures, one light, one dark, were rotating in the void, and speaking, now separate from the two dream creatures. They were away from both Matthew and Lucien.

“This will hurt.” One of the two similar figures said.

“I know.” confirmed the other as the light and dark figures moved in circular formations like a slow waltz.

“It will be like being born again.” Said one solemnly.

“It will be like dying again.” The other replied apologetically.

“And when it is over…” said one.

“When it is over things will never be the same again.” Said the other. But it was hard to tell which was speaking.

Matthew and Lucien were now on a platform of displaced terrafirma though Matthew did not remember leaving Morpheus’ shoulder. He was fluttering in the air (or was it air?). “What’s happening? What are they doing?”

“I… I don’t know.” Lucien said with puzzled worry.

There was darkness and then a great explosion of light. Someone was screaming. Both were screaming. An agonized cry, like a man dying, or a baby being born, or both. It was deafening and heartbreaking and all around Lucien and Matthew they could feel the rush of a tremendous energy. They knew they were witnessing something profound but they could not quite tell what it was.

After what seemed like a small eternity it was over. In a strange crater lay two naked beings. A burnt dream catcher made of wire, and a wooden frame, and beads, and feathers, with Hebrew letters Matthew could not read lay on the ground. It was as if the hideous geas of a tattoo had been ripped from Daniel’s back and made manifest into a tactile object. But in reality Daniel had been torn through the pentacle and the tangible object was merely all that remained of it now. It looked like someone had tried to shove a fire cracker (or a small star) through it. The mark on Daniel’s back was gone, but the flesh of his back was raw, pink and slowly healing back to bone-white.

Morpheus lay on the ground, curled in a fetal position as he laid been once before when summoned to the cellar of a human occultist, Roderick Burgess. He lay there with his eyes clenched shut. He seemed to be in a great deal of pain. Clutched in one hand was a pendant. A brand new, glowing amulet, a jewel hanging from a chain. Ruby? Perhaps garnet? A bright red new dream stone made from the torn piece of Daniel’s essence. He could feel the power of the dreamstone passing into himself, coursing through him. He couldn’t throw it away now. It had been the only way to save them- to save his world. There has to be balance. There must be two. Two sides to the coin. Light, and darkness. And he, as he had always loved his Nightmares, had accepted the darkness that could not survive the journey through the magick of the dream catcher. He placed the pendant over his head and let the stone’s weight hang against his chest. This was somehow very familiar.

Oh, certainly there was a way to give it back to Daniel now. If he thought about it for a few minutes he might have. But sometimes things happen for a reason. Sometimes sacrifices must be made. And sometimes… There must be balance.

Lucien had somehow made it from his safe, floating shelf, to the crater on the other floating ground. “Morpheus?” He asked.

Oh, poor Lucien. He hadn’t remembered to not call him “My Lord” that whole time and now he finally had remembered to disregard the formality. And now he was to be corrected again.

Morpheus slowly, shakily stood up, not too modest about his current nudity. “Is that any way to address your king, Lucien?” he asked softly. But though his voice was soft there was power there, familiar power. And Lucien felt him there, felt him and the other Dream- both in his mind.

“Ugh. Kings.” Groaned the other similar voice, correcting him.

Lucien hurried over to help the white haired one to his feet.

Matthew flew over to Morpheus. He could feel the restored connection too. “What have you done?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Matthew? There needs to be balance. That Dream Catcher would have destroyed a great deal of his essence if there was no one else to claim it. “We are now both Dream of The Endless.”

“My Lord!” Lucien exclaimed, while supporting the weakened, white haired Dream.

“Yes.” Both answered, as if it was a question.

#Dreams to Dream #The Sandman Fan fiction

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poisonivysparks · 5 years

Text

The Flightless Bird {Warren Worthington III X Reader}

A blonde boy, a little older than eighteen, was flying above me, his metal wings flapping gracefully in the wind. I wasn't that interested in him, so I just went back to the little hidey-hole that I was living in.

The Professor had invited me to stay inside, maybe take some classes, but I had declined, not liking the idea of me being around people.

I had no idea if the boy had noticed me before, we had never made eye contact or anything, I had just wondered.

I had been at the school for about two years, not being found until about a year ago by a man, whose name I found out was Hank McCoy, apparently, he was a teacher at the school. He was nice enough and looked kind of nerdy, so I trusted him. He had brought me off of the roof and down to Professor Xavier's office, where he had made the offer.

Hank brought me food every day, and I was quite grateful for him, he was like an older brother to me.

"Y/n? Are you in here?" I heard Hank say from the outside of my "home."

"Yeah." I got out and winced at the pain coming from my wings.

"When will you stop trying to tear your wings out? You're just hurting yourself, I don't think they're ever going to come off." He told me as blood dripped off of my wings and onto the roof.

"I know, but what's the point of having wings if I can't fucking fly?" I just wanted the damned things off of my body.

"God, Y/n, you're like a little sister to me, and I hate the fact that you're hurting yourself, just please stop." He rubbed my back comfortingly, not minding the fact that his hand was getting bloody.

"I-I can't, Hank, I just can't." I broke down, tears poured down my face as I clutched his shirt, probably making tear stains on his shirt.

"I brought you food since it's almost dark." He said, making me perk up. "It's (favorite food), your favorite."

"Thank you." I grabbed the plate of food he had and started eating. "Can you answer a question for me?" I asked him, my mouth still full.

"Shoot." He smiled as I swallowed.

"Who's the blonde guy with the metal wings? I've seen him flying above me, and I want to know who he is." I asked, knowing that Hank would know who he was.

"That's Warren, he's kind of new. He was the guy that had gone after Nightcrawler in the big battle that I had told you about. We had all thought he was dead, but he came to us, with only a few injuries, looking for help." He explained, making me think back to when the mansion got destroyed and I had frantically looked for Hank, but I couldn't find him anywhere.

"Oh, well, his wings are absolutely beautiful." I finished my plate, putting it a little bit too close to the edge. It slid off, breaking when it hit the ground. "Fuck."

"I'll clean it up when I get down there. Do you need anything from me before I go?" He asked, going towards the hatch that led to the attic.

"Could you maybe get me another blanket? It's starting to get cold again." I told him.

"You do know that you can sleep in the attic, it's really warm in there, it's right next to one of the chimneys." He opened the hatch.

"Are you sure I won't be in the way?" I asked, following him to the trapdoor, a small blanket around my shoulders.

"I'm completely sure." I followed him down the hatch, it was surprisingly warm. "You sleep well, and I want you to come with me to training tomorrow afternoon. You'll like it, because you're a great fighter, and you'll meet people your age. They're great kids, trust me."

"Fine, but that's the only time I have to come down, right?" I asked, making myself comfortable on the attic floor.

"Yeah, I won't make you do any more socializing than that unless you want to." He left after that, making the room go silent.

~Time Skip to the Next Day~

I sat on the roof, trying to tear my wings away from my back, black feathers were lying all around me, dotted with blood. It bled, staining my already red shirt an even darker red.

The boy, Warren, was flying around again, but he met my eyes and flew down onto the roof.

"Why don't you ever fly?" He asked, his voice like silk. I said nothing and got up, turning my back to him and walking to my hidey-hole. "Why are they like that?"

"I hate them. I want them to come off, but they just won't come off." I said in a small voice. "They'll heal in a couple hours, they always do."

"When I was younger, I had the same problem. It hurts like fucking hell, too." He said, his golden locks shining.

"Trust me, I've tried every single day, for the past ten years to get them off," I said, taking one of the rags that Hank gave me and dabbing my bloody wings with it. "And the worst thing is, is that these fucking things don't even work, they just slash and cut."

"Shit, that's rough. I can definitely see why you... umm..." He trailed off, probably feeling awkward.

"It's alright. So, you're Warren, right?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah, how did you know that?" He asked, a slightly confused look surpassed his face.

"Well, Hank McCoy has kind of been taking care of me for the past year. He's like a big brother to me. He brings me food in the mornings and the evenings, and he's just amazing." I explained, shivering and wrapping one of my blankets around me.

"Why don't you sleep inside with everybody else?" He asked, his wings moving a little as he talked.

"I just didn't want to be with other people, and take classes. I just want to be alone on the rooftop. D-do you know what time it is?" I ruffled my wings, or what was left of them.

"It's about noon." He stated, looking at his watch.

"So, Hank'll probably try to be here in about an hour." I whispered to myself.

"So, what's your name?" He asked, obviously quite curious.

"It's Y/n." I answered.

We talked for awhile, my wings gradually healing while we did.

"Y/n?" I heard Hank ask from across the roof. "Where are you?"

"I'm over here!" I yelled, waving my hand.

He smiled once he saw me and walked over to us.

"It's time for training, Y/n, and you too, Warren." Hank said, in an authoritative voice.

"A-alright," I stuttered, getting up from my spot. "Let's just hope my wings aren't too sore." I fanned them out, and smiled.

All three of us walked through the corridors, people staring at me as we walked. The Professor was rolling down the corridor that we were in.

He greeted us with a smile, "Y/n! It's nice to see you're doing well, I trust that Hank has been taking good care of you."

"He has." I nodded as we walked.

"It's also nice to see you off the roof." He rolled past us as we stopped at an elevator.

"It's nice to see you too, Professor!" I yelled back at him.

We stepped inside the small elevator, me and Warren's wings taking up most of the space, so Hank was squashed between us.

The elevator door opened with a ding, Warren and I exited first, Hank following. Warren seemed to know the way, so I followed him.

People were lined up in front of a closed, presumably locked, door. There were about five people lined up, a boy with silver hair, a boy with a red visor-like thing, a girl with vibrant red hair, a girl with a white mohawk, and a blue boy with a cool ass devil-type tail. They smiled and waved at Warren, while I hid behind Hank.

"Y/n, you need to go up there." Hank whispered to me, pushing me up towards them.

"Professor McCoy, who's that?" The redhead asked.

"This is Y/n, she's kind of been living on the roof for the last two years. I finally convinced her to come and do training with you guys." Hank told them as I just shyly looked down at my shoes.

"Hi." I waved, while they smiled.

"Can you fly?" I heard somebody ask. I shook my head no as Hank unlocked the door.

"I can fight pretty well, though." I told them, looking up.

"It's time for training, everybody inside." Hank said, ushering everybody inside the room.

I was confused on what we were supposed to do, were we supposed to fight? I had no idea.

Hank went to some sort of control panel, pushing a couple of buttons, while everybody lined up where the middle was. I followed their actions, standing next to Warren.

"Okay, so, Y/n, you should probably know everybody's names. That's Peter," Hank told me, pointing to the silver haired guy. "Ororo," The White haired chick. "Jean," The red haired chick. "Scott," Visor kid. "And Kurt." Blue guy.

"Okay, thank you, Hank." I smiled.

"Okay, everybody ready?"

~Time Skip~

I had been training with everybody for at least a month, and we were now getting ready for our first unsupervised mission.

I had kind of developed a small crush on Warren, I mean, yeah he was a complete dick sometimes, but he was caring at times and he had some sort of boyish charm that made me fall for him. I had been living in the attic for quite a bit and Warren spent most of his time with me, because he didn't take any classes. I had started to go down to the cafeteria for meals, and Hank was extremely proud of me for that.

Ororo was nice enough, she visited me once in awhile and we talked about girl stuff, I had even told her about my little crush on Warren.

We were in the jet, ready to go. Hank was in the pilot's seat, ready to drop us off. Warren and Ororo would go by themselves and everybody else and I would go with Kurt.

I breathed heavily, not ready for this shit. Warren had comforted me, rubbing comforting circles on my back, right below my wings.

"I hope this goes well." Warren breathed, calming himself down by rubbing his hands through his, now grown out, curly, golden hair.

"We're almost there!" Hank yelled.

I held onto Kurt's tail, bracing for impact, but the only thing I felt was rushing air around me, and solid ground beneath my feet.

Warren came swooping down after us, landing next to me.

The first part of the battle was boring, we kicked his ass, but the second part got a little more interesting, Warren and I were fighting side by side, Scott, Jean and Kurt were working as a team, while Peter and Ororo were working on their own.

He had brought out these little robot minions, they were quite cute and easy to beat.

The bad guy had apparently been defeated until we were walking away, and he grabbed one of my wings. "Ow! Fuck!" He pulled, getting up, but with a slight limp. "What the Hell, dude!?" The guy started running, and my wings got caught on something. I tried to pull them free but tall it did was make some feathers rip off. I pulled even harder, but they just would not get unstuck. "Well, looks like I'm going to have to do this the hard and painful way." I mumbled, knowing that it would hurt more than what I did daily. "C'mon, Y/n. They'll grow back, you know they will, this has happened to you before." I sucked in a breath of air, before pulling. A loud rip was heard, and I bit my hand to muffle my screams, drawing blood. I looked back, only a few feathers remained of my wings. "Fuck, where'd they go?" I asked, confused. They had completely disappeared, besides the feathers.

"Y/n! What the fuck happened?" Warren swooped down, obviously worried. "Oh my God." He gasped. "Where are..? What..?"

"I'm fucking fine, they'll grow back in a couple of weeks." I said, walking past him, I really didn't want his pity.

"Y/n, you're not fine, your back is bleeding really badly." He said, trying to touch me. "McCoy's going to be fucking pissed."

"He'll be fine, let's just go home." I stalked off, hearing gasps from everybody as I walked by.

"Vhat-" Kurt started, but I cut him off.

"Can you just take me to the jet, please?" I grabbed his hand, as he nodded."Thank you."

We teleported to the jet and Hank immediately came over to me and started fussing.

"What the hell did you do?" He said, hugging me.

"I got them stuck on something, couldn't get out. So, I did what I had to do." I explained simply, pushing myself away from him. "They'll get better in about a couple of weeks, it's happened before."

"Wait, when did this happen before?" He said in a confused tone.

"When I was about twelve, my mom hated me for what I was, and sh-she cut off my wings." I stuttered, walking away. "I ran away, staying in the forests with the animals, and then I found the mansion, you know the rest."

"Oh my God, Y/n. You're sleeping in the infirmary tonight." He told me as I sat down on a chair.

"Fine." I grumped, a little sad that my wings were gone, even though they were completely useless.

"What the fuck, Y/n?!" Warren stormed inside of the jet. "You just stalk off with no fucking reason on why you have no wings!" He ranted, being all pissy as I got up to face him

"Well, maybe you don't know what it's like for your wings to not even fucking work, Warren!" I yelled back at him. "You don't know what it's fucking like to be me! You're just being a dick, okay. Just, fuck off." I sat down in the farthest seat away from him, not leaning back all the way because of my back.

Warren huffed and sat down on the other side of the jet, while Kurt had teleported everybody back.

They all bombarded me with questions, but I tuned them out, saying "I'll be fine" and "they'll heal in a couple of weeks" once in a while.

"Hank, can we please just get out of here?" I walked over to him.

"Yeah, we'll be back at the mansion soon." He told me, reassuringly.

"Thank you, Hank."

~Time Skip~

I groaned, sitting up from the uncomfortable hospital bed. "Warren, what the hell are you doing here?" I spotted the blonde haired boy, who was sitting next to the bed in a very uncomfortable looking chair.

"Okay, I realize now that I was a complete dick to you the other day, and I just wanted to know what happened, you're my best friend and I care about you." He explained.

"Thanks for caring about me." I said, sad that my wings were gone, even if they were useless. I felt depressed, I tried to be happy, but it just wasn't happening.

"I can't help caring about you." He smiled, while my face remained neutral.

"Did you know that I've never flown, I've never been up in the air, never felt the wind in my hair. I've always wanted to fly, ever since I was little, and when I got my wings I thought it was a blessing, but they just taunted me, broke down my sanity, and I hated them, I hated their fucking guts. I kind of miss them, even if they were useless." I ranted, breaking down a little bit.

"I-I could take you flying, if you want." He offered, making me smile, slightly.

"Thank you, Warren!" I hugged him. "Can we go right now?"

"Yeah, but I don't think McCoy would like you being out of bed." He said as I got out of bed.

"Well, he's going to have to deal with it." I said as he got up, smiling.

We walked up to the roof, surprisingly not seeing anybody.

"It's dark?!" I said once we got up to the roof, it was dark and cold and I wasn't wearing a shirt. (there are bandages around those, so calm down)

"Yeah, that's why we didn't see anybody. Do you still want to fly?" He asked, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Of course! I'm going to grab a shirt, first though." I said, going over to my hidey-hole and putting on a shirt. "So, how is this going to work?"

"I don't know, the most I've flown with anybody was grabbing their hands." He admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "I could grab your waist if it's not uncomfortable for you."

"No, that's fine." I smiled at him as he held me by the waist, not quite ready to take off.

"You ready, Y/n?" He asked me.

"Yeah, ready as I'll ever be." I said as he lifted off. The wind whipped through my hair and I laughed. "This is fucking amazing, Warren! You are so lucky! You're an amazing flyer, like, holy shit!"

"Thanks, Y/n." He flew higher and higher, making me grin in excitement. "You're fucking adorable." He mumbled under his breath.

"Thanks." I smiled as his face turned slightly red.

"Oh God, you heard that." He said, holding me a little tighter.

"Well, you're adorable too, and that's why I love you." I realized what I said right after I said it. "Fuck."

"I love you too, Y/n, don't worry. I've loved you since I first saw you on the roof." He said, hovering in the same spot.

"You're an amazing person, Warren." I kissed his cheek, tenderly.

The air was silent between us, the only sound was wings flapping and the wind howling.

We slowly leaned in, and our lips met as I melted into his embrace. Sparks flew and I felt something tugging at my back.

"Y-Y/n, look behind you." He said, pulling away.

I obliged and looked back, seeing my wings, only bigger and more beautiful. I gasped, seeing the, now gray, wings.

"Holy shit. Warren, what happened?" I asked, alarmed.

"I don't know, we were kissing a-and they just sprung out of your back and it was really fucking weird." He said, panicking a little bit.

"It's alright, Warren. You did absolutely nothing wrong. In fact, they're bigger than they were and whiter." I reassured him, putting my hand on his shoulder.

I flapped my wings a little bit, slightly flying out of his arms. I gasped as he grinned widely.

"I-I-I flew. I few, Warren! Oh my God, I actually flew!" I smiled, flapping my wings and flying a few feet above his hands.

"I know, I don't know how, but you're actually flying!" He lightly laughed and I tried to hover. "It'll be hard to hover at first, but you'll get the hang of it, trust me." He held my hands, still grinning.

"Thank You, Warren, for everything." I hugged him and kissed his cheek. "I-I think you did something. You made something happen that I've been dreaming about and I can't thank you enough or do anything that could repay you."

"You could start by being my girlfriend." He suggested, our foreheads touching.

"I could definitely do that."

Masterlist

#X-Men #X-Men Apocalypse #x-men x reader #X-men oneshot #warren worthington x reader #warren worthington imagine #warren worthington iii #hank mccoy #angel #wings #mutant

81 notes · View notes

ladylouoflothlorien · 5 years

Text

Oh Honey Honey

Beorn x (gender-neutral) Reader

I just want to say that this is the fault of inspired by @luna-xial when I read this and became obsessed with Beorn, and honestly the last thing I needed was to be obsessed with yet another character from Tolkien’s magical brain world but there it is.

Warnings: none, but it’s absolute stinking trash

Word count: 1462

Being the only human in the company, you valued any alone time you could get and the adrenaline rush you’d just received running not only from Azog but a giant fucking bear meant you definitely weren’t sleeping any time soon. That’s how you found yourself thoroughly content exploring the House you’d found yourself in, surrounded by 13 sleeping dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit.

Maybe exploring a home when the host wasn’t present - and quite likely didn’t want you there at all - was rude, but you figured that so long as you didn’t break anything and you didn’t move anything from its proper place there was no harm in it. Besides, this was your precious alone time and you were going to do whatever you damn well wanted to do.

As a trained healer and avid amateur baker, supply cupboards intrigued you and so those where what you explored first. This house’s layout and furnishings made you feel tiny - a strange sensation after traveling for weeks with incredibly muscular but incredibly short dwarves (and an even shorter hobbit.)

Upon opening the first cupboard, you came face to face with the biggest jar of sugar you’d ever seen. You blinked, wondering how big your host truly was (and how big was his appetite.) There were several other jars on that same shelf, and you stuck your arms out to root around and satisfy your curiosity.

“Hmm.... jam. Strawberry or ...?” It didn’t say on the label. You took a moment to glance around, looking incredibly shifty and suspicious, and when you noticed everyone was still sleeping you quietly unscrewed the lid and dipped a clean finger into the red mixture. You tasted it with a wrinkled nose and quickly screwed the lid back on. Whatever flavour it was, it was too sweet for you. No doubt it would taste better on toast.

You put that jar back carefully where you found it and dragged another to the front of the shelf.

“Honey?”

You loved honey, and were just about to pop the lid off the jar when you heard a noise outside the cabin. It made you jump and you almost knocked the jar of honey to the floor but luckily it was too heavy for your flailing hand to budge.

You hurried to close the cupboard and dive back to your bedroll before you could be caught snooping by who you assumed was your host. You hadn’t realised how tired you were and now that the adrenaline rush had worn off you were asleep in mere minutes.

A soft buzzing noise woke you the next morning and you opened your eyes to see the biggest bee you’d ever seen hovering just above your nose. You gasped but stayed still, not wanting to get stung accidentally. Once the bee moved away you sat up and stretched; all the other members of the company seemed to have already woken up and had left their bedrolls. What you didn’t notice was a set of dark eyes watching you from the shadows.

Blinking away sleep, you ran your fingers through your hair in an attempt to tame it and as you did you noticed another buzzing sound, but this buzzing wasn’t as constant and sounded distressed. Glancing around, your eyes found another giant bee on the floor. This one was clearly suffering and you felt your heart squeeze in your chest. As a healer, you hated seeing any living creature in pain.

“Oh dear... what are you supposed to do with dying bees...?” You muttered to yourself, wracking your tired brain for an answer until you suddenly remembered.

“Ahah!” Scrabbling to your feet you made a bee-line (shoot me) to the cupboard you’d been looking in the night before. Flinging open the door, your hands firmly gripped the giant jar of honey and you opened it. Forgetting your manners once again, you dipped two fingers into the golden liquid and scooped some out. You screwed the lid back on awkwardly with one hand, all the while trying not to drip honey onto the floor.

Clambering over several empty bedrolls, you made your way back to your own bedroll where the struggling bee was still making a fuss.

Carefully and slowly you moved your fingers closer and closer to the bee - you still didn’t want to get yourself stung by the extra-large stinger. After a moment the bee seemed to notice the honey and it stopped its frantic buzzing to shuffle across the tiny distance from where it was to where your honey coated fingers were.

The bee ate the honey off of your fingers and you focused on keeping your hand as still as possible. Once the bee had eaten enough to get its strength back, it flapped its wings a few times experimentally before lifting off into the air. You smiled brightly and began to lick the remaining honey off your fingers. Your eyes slid shut and you hummed in delight, only to snap your eyes open when the buzzing sound of the bees suddenly grew a lot louder.

There were at least 10 bees buzzing around your head, each one bumping into you occasionally as if they were drunk, but it seemed almost ... affectionate?

“They like you, little flower.” A deep, unknown voice made you freeze. In your peripheral vision you saw a massive hand gently shooing the insects away from you and you felt your shoulders hunch as you instinctively made yourself smaller.

“U-uhm.. hello..” you pretty much squeaked, not moving from your position as the owner of the hand slowly moved to a place where you could see him. He was huge. Massive. Gigantic. Enormous. You were snapped out of your thoughts by the man talking once again.

“I have already met the rest of your company, but you I see are not a dwarf … or a hobbit… or a wizard.” He continued, his voice slow and unhurried and you couldn’t quite prevent the shy, fluttering heat building in the pit of your stomach as he spoke.

He leisurely crouched down, hands on his knees, till his face was almost level with yours - though he was still a little taller even in that position.

“So who are you, little bee keeper?” He seemed amused and though he was gigantic he seemed friendly enough, so you just about managed to find the courage to reply.

“I’m… [y-y/n]… human, n-nice to meet you.” You were about to offer your hand in a polite shake when you suddenly found two big hands around your waist and with an embarrassing squawk you were suddenly placed on a very, very broad shoulder. As he carried you outside - with you clinging tightly to his head for fear of falling - he continued talking completely normally (as if he hadn’t just scooped you up from your very comfortable place on your bedroll and plopped you on a very precarious position.)

“I am Beorn the skin changer.” You squinted as you were suddenly out in the open and once your eyes adjusted you saw the rest of the company already outside, gawking at you. You waved awkwardly.

“You should have introduced this one first, wizard. I like this little bee keeper the best, they have a pure heart.” The company, knowing you well, couldn’t disagree with him. In fact, they all started offering instances where you’d proven yourself to be an incredibly caring, thoughtful individual.

As sweet as that was, you couldn’t help but notice you were still on Beorn’s shoulder and on top of that, the skin-changer seemed to have absolutely no intention of putting you down.

“E-excuse me?” You asked, but over the cacophony of dwarvish voices you could hardly be heard. You tried again, but still no one paid attention to you. Considering they were literally talking about how wonderful they thought you were, this only made you more frustrated than you otherwise would be.

You’d finally had enough, and so you wrapped your hands around a big chunk of the skin-changer’s hair and prepared to give it a firm tug, only to notice that the entire company had suddenly fallen silent. The dwarves were all open mouthed and staring at your hands. You looked from them to your hands and slowly let go of Beorn’s hair, unsure as to why your action should warrant that type of response.

Beorn, however, had slowly begun to laugh - a deep, rich laugh that matched him completely. He turned his head a little and lowered his voice to speak to you in a manner that was almost conspiratorial.

“I may not care much for dwarvish customs, little bee-keeper, but I believe in the eyes of your company… we are now engaged.”

Permanent tags list:

@sweeticedtea

@cd1242

@strongandfreedc

@pixierox101

#the hobbit #the company #the company x reader #beorn #beorn the skin changer #beorn x reader #beorn fic #bees #beorn's bees #beorn's honey #the reader is a sneaky jam-stealing THIEF

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rhabakoli · 5 years

Text

Targets On Their Backs

So, here it is, Part two of this HC by one of @dreamwritesimagines followers, bc I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s about 2.2k words, 4 pages long, and it’s quite... something.

Also, if anyone has a better title, shoot.

Gala and Ubbe had moved Ragnars bed into the new room, while you were walking around in circles, holding you son to your chest and humming softly, trying to keep him calm and quiet. He had started fussing, when Eitr flew out the door. The bird had yet to come back, which made him restless. Ubbe sat on a chair, feet on the table and played with his dagger, his axe on his lap. Even you, inexperienced in war and fighting as you were, could tell what he was doing. “Do you think there’ll be another attack tonight?” He scoffed. “If there’s more than just the one assassin, they’d be mad to try. But I’m still not leaving until someone is here, who can at least throw a dagger.” “I can throw a dagger.”, you murmured. You almost accidentally hit your husband, but who had to know. As it was, you still were glad he wouldn’t leave. “Thank you, Ubbe.”

He made a dismissing gesture. “You’re family. I can’t let anything happen to you.” Gala put the last furs on the bed and then came over to you. “Do you need anything else, before I go?” You smiled at her. “No, thank you, Gala. Get home and rest, today has been… well.” She nodded, gave Ragnar a little wave and was about to leave the room when Hvitserk stepped in, his arms laden with books. They almost collided but he reacted quickly, shifted the weight in his arms and steadied Gala by grabbing her shoulder. “Excuse me, I didn’t see you, Pri-” “It’s Hvitserk.” One corner of his lips pulled upwards. “I don’t like when you call me by my title. I’ve told you before.” “Yes, Hvitserk.” He lit up when she said her name and then went to put the books on your table. “You’re gonna stay here for a while, I thought you might like to have your books here.” “Thank you.” You noticed Gala turning towards the door once again. “Hvitserk, won’t you join Gala on her way home? I am not comfortable with her being alone after the attack.” He didn’t need much convincing. Gala looked at you with wide eyes, before blushing and pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders. Your brother-in-law motioned to the door and bent slightly at the waist. “M’lady.” Ubbe snorted and winked at you, when you turned to him. “Subtle, Sister. Real subtle.”

Ragnar was sleeping in his bed with Eitr, now clean again, residing on the head end of it. She was staring at the door, as if she was expecting someone to storm in at every given moment. You went over to her and stroked her soft feathers, kissed her small head and spoke to Freyja, expressing how grateful you were for her present. You stood there for a while, watching your son and your bird, and you tried not to think about all the ways tonight could have ended. Your son could be dead. Eitr could be dead. Hel, more guards and Gala could have been killed. Oh Gods, Gala. The poor thing had been through so much with you, already. You’d have to prepare a present soon. Something to express your fondness and how much she was needed and appreciated. Maybe you could find her another cat. Surely, Earl Erik could give you some pointers, perhaps he knew someone who had kittens. Then, something else came to mind. “Ubbe.” At you voice, he raised his head and turned slightly in his seat. “Who’s the best at throwing? Daggers, I mean.” “Ivar.” He turned around fully now, sitting backwards on the chair, one arm on the backrest, the other hanging over it, swinging his axe slightly. “Why? Do you want to learn?” “Least I can do, no?” Ragnar gave a little snort, making you look. His soft baby hair was in complete disarray, and you wondered who he had it from. He had a lot of it too. You wished you could ask your mother. “Y/N, do you think that’s the best idea?” “I can’t always rely on you all. At some point, someone’s going to get through, get to us when no one is around.” You straightened your back, raised you chin as you threw him a look. “You said it yourself: You won’t leave until someone’s here who can at least throw a dagger.” You shrugged. “And daggers are way lighter than swords, after all.” Ubbe laughed and shook his head. “You and Ivar really deserve each other.” “What, because it’s uncommon for a woman to handle a weapon?” “No, not for born Vikings. But they also can hold a sword for more than 5 seconds.” “I am not christian anymore, am I?” “I think you’ve never really been.” He leaned his head on his hand, tilting it to the side. “You’ve adapted way too fast. Maybe it was fate after all.” “Thank you.”

Ubbe turned towards the door, when you heard voices. Soon, the door opened. Ivar stepped in, closely followed by Bjorn. “Ivar, you can-” “I know what I can, and what not.” He looked furious. “Don’t try to tell me what to do.” “I’m not, I’m just saying, maybe you should-” “You should shut up.” Ivar came straight towards you, letting his crutch fall to the floor and pulled you close to him. Immediately, your arms were around him and you were pressing your face against his neck. Bjorn threw his hands in the air in a slightly exasperated move and shook his head. You peeked out underneath Ivars jaw, seeing Bjorn pointing at you. “Talk some sense into him.”

Then he turned, gave Ubbe a slap to his shoulder to make him move. At the door, he stopped, smirked, bent at the waist, with one arm stretched to the side and went after the oldest brother. After the door closed, Ivar relaxed a bit. He softened his hold on you and looked over the cribs sides, watching his son sleep. Eitr flapped her wings once and let out a hoarse croak. “Ah, I’ve got something for you.” You raised your head, surprised. “Are you talking to my bird?” “Yes.” Your eyebrows almost left your forehead at that. Ivar ignored you in favour of your bird, who watched his every move. Your husband conjured up a piece of meat, dark, juicy, fresh as could be. He lifted it, Eitr following his hand with her eyes. When he was sure she’d react, he threw it and watched the falcon catch it midair. “You… did you slaughter a goat just for that slab of meat?” He laughed. “No. The cook did.” “But you specially went to get it.” He looked down at you, frowning slightly. “Yes. She murdered an assassin coming after our child.” The look on his face turned grim. “I’d serve her a whole horse, if she was able to eat it.”

You slept awfully. Every other noise made you wake up in a panic, frantically looking towards the crib, where Eitr still watched over Ragnar. Ivar awoke right with you, always, pulling you back down against him, shushing you and stroking over your hair in an attempt to soothe you. Thus, you were exhausted and pale, with red rimmed, dry eyes. You could hear the guards outside talking, muffled voices and laughs. Ivar slept next to you, seemingless dead to the waking world. You slowly got up and went to see your son, who was just like his father. There was no denying it. He was sleeping on his belly, spread eagle in his crib, a bit of fur gripped in one tiny fist and drool collecting on the sheets. You weren’t saying Ivar the Boneless, most ruthless Viking to live, was drooling in his sleep, but… well, if his sleep was deep, contrary to usual... “Y/N.” You jumped, barely keeping in a yelp. “Ivar.” You swallowed your fear, trying to calm yourself. “Did I wake you?” “No, love.” He sat back against the headboard, raising an arm towards you. Quickly, you went over to him and joined him under the covers. His hand came to lay on your back, not breaking contact, even as you positioned yourself against him, arms around his neck and leg thrown over his hip, the other curled against his side. This way, you were eye to eye with him. “Morning.” Ivar nudged your nose with his, pressed his hand between your shoulder blades and kissed you good morning. He came away humming and a serene smile splayed on his lips as he pressed little, soft pecks all over your face and down your neck. “How is the little prince?” “He’s well. Sleeping, drooling, just like his father.” You squeaked, when Ivar bit you in turn. “You dare being this brazen towards your king?” His voice was rough from sleep, deeper than usually. He let his fingertips of his free hand wander up your thigh, pushing up your shift in the process. “I can do as I please, I am the queen, after all.” “Hmmm.”, he rumbled. “That you are.” He grabbed your bum with both hands and lifted you, placing you in his lap. “Ivar!”, you protested. “Oh, shh.” He took your face in his hands, studying it, tilting it from side to side and lastly brushing your hair back from your face. “Are you alright? I know you didn’t sleep well.” “As alright as one can be, after last night.” You stroked over his shoulders, followed his tattoos down his chest. “And I feel like I should ask you that question. You couldn’t have slept much either, with me waking you up all the time.” He shook his head, frown in place. “No, don’t you worry about that. I am more used to it.” He heaved a shaky breath, stopping your hands on his skin by laying his own on top of them.”Y/N.” The way he said you name, made you fear the worst. “What?” “I feel like it is my fault.” “What, the attack?” You were ready to launch in a long rant about his tendency to talk bullshit, when he stopped you. “All of them. Your poisoning, the tea-” His voice broke and he cleared his throat, as he laid a hand on your belly, probably thinking about the child that would have been your first. “The attack on Ragnar.” You took his hand, kissed the palm of it, silently encouraging him to go on. “You can’t deny, it’s been a lot, and it’s been awful for you, for the child as well…” He took a deep breath, eyes now glassy. “And I-” He clenched his teeth, jaw muscles tensing so hard, you were afraid he’d never be able to release them. “I think I should let you go.” “What?” You felt as if he had punched you in the guts. “How did you even-” He clamped a hand over your mouth, big, round eyes looking up at you, pleading. “A better man would let you go, release you from your vows, so you can go away, far away and live without a target on your back.” His eyes hardened before he closed them, hands coming to the back of your head, pulling you back down to him. Ivar breathed you in and leaned his forehead against yours. His hands fisted your hair, holding you close. You mirrored him, stroking your hands up his chest to his jaw, thumbs dragging over the bone. “I am not a good man, love. I can’t let you go, I am too selfish. I need you close, I need to know where you are at all times, so I can protect you, shield you.” It was no lie. He was too headstrong, too impulsive to be a truly good man. But he was good enough for you. He was loving, gentle, with you as well as Ragnar. He even bettered his behaviour towards his brothers. And that you told him. Your fingernails scraped over his skin, brushed through his hair, calming him, as it always did. “You don’t need to be good, to be right for me, Ivar The Boneless, King of Kattegat, most feared Viking of all lands.” He watched your face, hands now on your hips, simply holding you against him. “I don’t think sending me away would do any good. I’d be an easier target, even. I’d still be your wife, I wouldn’t have the heart to deny it. And why is that?” A small smile showed on your husbands face, before he answered what you’ve asked him innumerable times now. “Because I have it.” “You do learn, after all.” Eitr let out a coo from her spot over the bed, a sign that Ragnar was waking up. And true it was, just moments later his baby-blabber filled the room. He was happy and talk active in the mornings, making you dread the time when he’d be actually able to form words. “So don’t think like that. You might be selfish, but you are not at fault. It is the people who seek your throne, your misery, who are to blame.” Softly, you pressed a kiss to his lips and then got up. “The young prince awaits.”

Part 3

#posts i've hijacked #Targets On Their Backs #Ivar the boneless #SEND HELP #IT'S GETTING SO LONG #the baby murder incident #thats the title i saved it under #im awful

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windlion · 4 years

Text

Transmigrator Pile-Up

Nanowrimo shall be Nerdlord’s Adventures in Transmigration. Which means the very first thing I get to do is kill him. TIME TO SUFFER!

It was a stupid mistake: he knew better, he knew that he knew better, and that still didn't stop him from reaching for the safety line that wasn't there as he was falling.

It wasn't there because he hadn't secured it first.

Because he'd gotten excited when he saw the flicker of movement and something that looked like it got cleaned out of a vacuum cleaner.

Because he'd thought that the rock ledge that had held for centuries would likely hold for at least another five minutes.

Because he'd leaned just that little bit too far trying to get a better look at the nest and the next generation of idiots that have finally, finally managed to reproduce.

And the outcropping under his left foot gave way.

His eyes flinched closed automatically because he was most definitely not brave enough to stare his death in the face for the whole ten seconds it would take before he inevitably hit some nice pointy rocks. Between the sound of his own heart thundering and the air rushing past his ears, approximately two thoughts occurred to him.

First: Shit, this was a really dumb way to die. Stupid fucking cantilevered cliffside nests.

Second: If they find his field journal, he damn well knew that Maria was going to put something terrible in his obit like "He was out looking for chicks and he went down a lot faster than he came up."

The worst part was he wouldn't be able to argue because it's factually correct. And he'll be dead. Worst or worser?

One last thing: none of this would be a problem if he could just fly.

He had the feeling of something irreplaceable breaking, shattering. Even aside from the ground that was very much not beneath his feet, that horrible free-fall moment in your gut when you answered an unfamiliar number and they addressed you by name.

I'm sorry to inform you. . .

Something was gone. In face of that loss, all he could do was struggle to open his eyes and think of something else, anything else. Like the wind rushing past his face, his hair streaming in a ragged banner behind him.

The mountains don't look right. He knew the peaks, the park, the range, where the highway curved through in the distance and the town huddled beyond. Nothing like that here; he couldn't see a man-made object below in any direction. This landscape was too bleak, too harsh, the peaks too high and rough.

And then there was the giant fucking eagle below him, golden brown wings outstretched to either side of him, pinions the size of kayaks spread against the sky. He was sitting on a saddle, hunched up like a jockey. Fuck, that cracking was his skull, wasn't it? His brain was spread across a square yard of rocks and somehow this was what the last misfiring neurons managed to produce.

At least he wasn't in pain-- oh, no, his mistake, there it was. Impact. Like crashing a car at fifty except worse because they were in the air--

The eagle screamed, outrage and pain and frustration, abruptly losing height as it flapped once, twice, struggled to keep its wings extended. And he could barely breathe through the sharp pain seizing him. It would have been nicer if he couldn't see what happened, but no, there was nothing fucking subtle about the giant goddamn spear that had slammed through first the bird and then his entire torso like a poultry and long pork shishkabob.

and it hurt and it hurt and it hurt so fucking much

He couldn't get the breath to scream. Probably because his right lung was currently pierced on an artsy diagonal, the spear punching low through his ribs and high out his back. Maybe he hit his head, maybe this was a hallucination, maybe he hit a tree on the way down and this was how his brain was frantically trying to parse his last moments.

The eagle tried valiantly to steer, swerving around an incoming mountainside and into a sharp valley beyond it, and he could feel through his knees when the heart gave out. One more frantic flap, a desperate struggle that sent hot blood spraying through the sky, and gravity won.

Going down.

His hands floated up into free fall before him, and he practically punched himself in the face with a bracer. Really, he was already dying, did he need that insult to injury?

And all he could do was huddle behind his hands and hold on as trees came closer and closer and really he could do with passing out any time now.

The sound when they hit was the worst. Snapping, cracking, a heavy meaty thump that jolted through him. The spear shifted on impact, shoving through another foot or so in a shock that he really, really wished he wasn't aware of. Red filled his vision, and his hands clutched spastically at the feathers before him. The eagle.

In the echoing silence as the trees stilled, he could only hear wet, sobbing gasps. His. The bird was still. Instead, he shook, trembling and curling forward where he was pinned in place.

Maybe it was all a metaphor and his dying imagination was trying for an Oscar but it wasn't fair it wasn't fair it shouldn't have died he knew it shouldn't have this was his fault.

If he was dying, it would be a mercy if he lost consciousness. Any time now.

He must have got his wish. There was a period of blank emptiness. Until something prodded at him, sparking lightning pain from his side to his limbs and back again. He moaned, hands scrabbling at air. Dead?

Not yet. It hurt too much.

Something was there, a shape he slowly managed to blink and bring into bleary focus. Three circles in rings, black and white and an almost neon red. The giant disc flickered and focused on him with interest, and then there were two of them, above a violent curve of black. Those were eyes? Fucking terrifying, thanks.

At least it should be. All he felt was a detached interest instead. Giant eagles. He'd wondered if there was a giant anything else. So at least he got to see a giant vulture while he was dying. Cool. Definitely counted as a lifer for his list.

Well, deather under the circumstances, but beggars can't be choosers now fucking can they?

The vulture cocked its head at him, making a low deep chirr noise, and a hooked beak meant to handle mammoth bones surged at him. He watched. It wasn't like he could dodge. The crack shook the spear through his guts in an unpleasant way, and the crunching noises right behind his head was . . . uh. Alarming.

Front row seat to his own dying and being eaten by a carrion bird. Sweet. At least he was putting his nutrients back into the environment. Part of the food web, all natural-like. Good job, subconscious, excellent special effects, great metaphors, A++ would die again. Death wasn't really the problem here.

The vulture tipped its head in the opposite direction, studying him like party goers faced with a fancy canape where you weren't sure what it was made of much less what it was supposed to taste like. Delicious, thank you, he was 100% all natural human, even tenderized in advance. Didn't you just taste test? Please, after you, I insist.

The vulture struck again, this time jolting the spear in front of him. He could see the several-inches-thick wood snap into splinters under its beak. Dying? The bird chirred again at him, a warmth settling into his bones that was at odds with the incredible spike of pain and the extremely unsettling feeling of wood moving through his guts as he fell backwards. Not yet.

He passed out before he hit the ground.

#sometimes I write #nanowrimo #Transmigrator Pile-Up #that will be the tag to block if you wish to evade my nonsense #Leo: Wind. Have you considered NOT putting the trauma first?#Me: Nope it's a genre convention. Gotta evict that soul to get it moving!#there is a read more #but does it work? DEPENDS #this is all the worst of the physical trauma #and then I move into embarrassing the crap out of him because he's a derplord #what's that you say it's the first day of nano and I don't have a real name for my MC?#NEVER

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mint1412 · 5 years

Text

D・N・Angel - Balance(Fanfic)

My take on a possible direction the DNANGEL finale might go.

Daisuke has to choose between breaking his promise to Freedert and breaking his promise to Satoshi. AKA Daisuke’s promise with Freedert + Satoshi’s family curse of dying early = ?

Story underneath read more

A03 and FFN link added to the reply section since it doesn’t show up in the tag with them linked. :(

“Please..don’t choose death to protect your love. To protect your love....no matter what...you must live.” - Freedert

As he watched Satoshi’s nearly lifeless body fall to the floor amidst the pained and confused screams of the Black Wings, Daisuke couldn’t believe how quickly everything had gone wrong.

It had all started with dreams of the first Niwa and Hikari. Daisuke had dreams of them here and there for years, but had never really put much thought into the dreams. Until, that is, he saw Hiwatari Kei. At first, he hadn’t realized the significance Hiwatari senior’s appearance, and had attributed his appearance to an identical ancestor-just as both Satoshi and Daisuke’s were identical to the Hikari and Niwa within Daisuke’s dreams. However, Dark, being a part of Daisuke and therefore privy to his dreams from time to time, began to recall seeing someone identical to Hiwatari senior enough times to be suspicious during his time with Daisuke’s family. Each and every generation of Hiwatari had been identical down to the smallest mole. Seeds of suspicion were planted.

But before Daisuke and and a protesting Dark were able to confront Satoshi about it(or, to be accurate, before Daisuke was able to gather his courage to ignore his family’s protests and confront Satoshi about it), they’d felt a massive surge of power as the last of the Black Wing’s seals finally broke.

As it, for once, hadn’t been a school day (thank the kami for small miracles), Daisuke and Dark were able to contact the rest of the Niwas to make a plan, and, that night, headed to where they could feel the presence of the Black Wings to make their daring theft. As it always was with Satoshi absent, getting through the police and to the target was embarrassingly easy.

Once they arrived though....things went downhill fast.

In a series of events too fast for Daisuke to follow, Dark and Krad had both been absorbed into a now berserk Black Wing, and Satoshi was a forced participant of a ritual that rid Hiwatari Kei of his apparent age. This seeming immortality of Hiwatari Kei, the shortened lifespan of the Hikari line, the constant background appearance of Hiwatari senior look-alikes during Dark’s life near the Hikari descendants painted a clear picture. For hundreds of years Hiwatari Kei had used the abilities and life of the Hikari line to essentially make himself immortal.*

As the ritual finished, Hiwatari stood triumphant. Behind him, both personalities of the Black Wings seemed to agree on something, as the furious Black Wings(Dark? Krad? Or... Daisuke wondered, looking at one white and one black wing both? ) viciously attacked Hiwatari senior, lobbing him high ober Daisuke’s head. From behind, Daisuke heard the sound of bones crunching as he smashed into the wall. Daisuke shuddered when he heard the thud of Hiwatari’s body hitting the floor, and knew there was no way the man had survived. But the Black Wings was furious, and white wings(Krad?) flapped overhead as they flew to where Hiwatari Kei lay dead on the floor.

At the sight of Hiwatari senior’s blood splattering the floor, the Black Wings again went berserk, clutching their head in their hands and screaming with the pain as it tried to reconcile the halves that had been separate for far too long. With one threat eliminated Krad fought to eliminate Daisuke, the problematic Niwa, and Dark fought to protect his tamer. Their hair, wing, and eye color rapidly flipped back between their light and dark colors as they each fought for control, the constant switching as they yanked control from the other leaving them temporarily immobile.

But Daisuke didn’t see any of that.

Horrified, he watched as Satoshi swayed dangerously where he stood. With all the speed his aching body could muster, he sprinted towards Satoshi’s falling form. Before he could reach him though, Satoshi, like his “father” before him, landed knees first with a sickening thud on the floor.

“HIWATARI-KUN!!!!!” The shout tore from Daisuke’s throat as he skidded to a stop near Satoshi’s unconscious form. Daisuke knelt on the floor and lifted terrified hands to give Satoshi’s prone shoulders a hard shake.

No response. Icy fear flooded Daisuke’s veins.

“Hiwatari...kun..?”

Daisuke gave him another shake. No response.

Was he...???

Daisuke shakily moved his right hand to look for a pulse on Satoshi’s neck. After a few agonizing moments of fumbling and worrying, he finally found it.

Badum.

A small relieved sight slipped through Daisuke’s chapped lips.

Satoshi was alive. His pulse was weak, but it was still there.

Gently he shifted Satoshi’s too light and too cold body to rest Satoshi’s head in his lap. He left his shaky right hand on Satoshi’s pulse as he leant down further over Satoshi to listen for breath.

Daisuke shook as he tried to come up with a plan. He didn’t know what to do- usually when something went wrong Satoshi or Dark would be there to fix it. But this time Satoshi and Dark were the ones that needed help, and Daisuke had nothing. He wasn’t smart like Satoshi and he wasn’t helpful like Dark.

Like always, Daisuke was completely and utterly powerless. Terrified tears filled his eyes as memories accosted him.

“My family is short lived. My mother died young and I probably don’t have long either. ”

“We will do something. No matter what...we’ll do something...!!!”

That’s right. He’d promised Satoshi that they’d do something to save him.

Died young? Daisuke knew of another woman who had died young. A woman who’d selflessly given all her remaining time to a loved one.

Daisuke’s head jerked up as he realized.

“That’s it!” His time! He could save Satoshi! He could-

“Please..don’t choose death to protect your love. To protect your love....no matter what...you must live.”

Those words spoken by Freedert as she mourned her fate burned within Daisuke’s skull as Satoshi’s laboured breath stabbed it like ice picks. The two warred within him, determination burning like fire through his veins, and fear flooding his veins with ice. Daisuke knew from Freedert’s experience that giving your life, your time, for someone else’s life only ended in tragedy. He’d seen that very tragedy with is own two eyes. And yet, when push came to shove, he couldn’t not do anything. With every laboured breath, with every pulse of Satoshi’s veins, Daisuke heard the frantic sound of time running out.

“‘Something’. I think ‘something’ has already happened. I...could have died after a lifetime of hating my ancestor and the Niwa. But...because you’re who you are Daisuke...I stopped being full of hate.”

Satoshi had truly believed it then. That Daisuke had already saved him. That simply treating him like another person was enough. But when Daisuke recalled the look on Satoshi’s face as he said that...the small smile and look of relief....

...Daisuke wanted to Satoshi’s smile again. He wanted to truly save him.

However, as Freedert had shown him, would it do any good to give his time to Satoshi? Daisuke’s mom, Riku, Risa, Saehara, Dark- even Satoshi himself would probably be devastated if something happened to Daisuke. They always worried when he got hurt, and this would be so much worse. Also, Satoshi always seemed to have a low opinion of himself and was resigned to his fate- what would happen if he did what Elliot, Freedert’s lover, had done and tried to give back his restored time? Daisuke would like to think that was an impossibility-Satoshi was the smartest person he knew, after all, but that very tragic possibility had been thrown in his face when Freedert told her story of Ice and Dark.

And yet....what about Daisuke’s own feelings? No matter what Satoshi believed, Daisuke found him worthy. Worthy of being saved, worthy of family, worthy of friends...of love, and of life. He deserved to have a life full of smiles. The loss of Satoshi, the only person who eclipsed even Dark’s understanding of what Daisuke had been through, the only person who ever seemed to completely understand Daisuke was something that was utterly, catastrophically, wrong.

It was wrong and it wasn’t fair. Satoshi’s life had been stolen from him by Krad-who shared his soul-and the one person who was supposed to always protect Satoshi-Satoshi’s own adoptive Father. An adoptive father who’d been stealing the lives of the Hikari family and their artworks for hundreds of years.

It wasn’t fair. Bitter tears filled up Daisuke’s eyes. It wasn’t fair. He’d promised both of them. But he couldn’t keep the two promises. To save Satoshi he’d have to choose death. To keep his promise to Freedert he’d have to let Satoshi die of the ritual.

The Black Wings continued to struggle with itself, switching between Dark and Krad’s personalities, trying desperately to find a balance as it cried out, louder, from somewhere behind Daisuke, who couldn’t find it in himself to leave Satoshi struggling on the floor that had already seen the death of Hiwatari Kei. Satoshi would know what to do to fix the Black Wings- he’d always known how to fix everything. And if Dark were himself he’d save everyone. It was always Daisuke who’d been-who was still- powerless.

Daisuke-angry, sad, and still very, very, careful-stiffly steadied Satoshi’s head and lifted him from off of his lap and up into his chest as he bent himself forward around Satoshi. The feel of Satoshi’s slowing heartbeat and the quieting of his struggling breaths brought the tears Daisuke had been holding back flooding out. The droplets burned over his cheeks, and dripped from his chin onto Satoshi’s fluttering eyelids. The Black Wings cried out again behind him, and soon Daisuke couldn’t see even the icy blue of Satoshi’s hair through his own burning and swollen eyes.

He’d known Satoshi’s death would hit him hard- Satoshi had informed him of the Hikari family’s shortened lifespan months (felt like decades) ago, and even then Daisuke had been crushed. But then he’d had hope-he’d believed they had time to figure it out. Nothing could have prepared him for how truly devastated and unprepared he felt now. Dark gone-perhaps forever-merged with Krad back into the Black Wings. And Satoshi, whom Daisuke had truly and sincerely thought he and Dark would be able to save, was dying in his arms as Daisuke did nothing.

Knowing there was some way to transfer his life to Satoshi’s, knowing there was some way to save Satoshi....but also knowing that he couldn’t. It felt as though the fire and the ice that had been fighting in his veins had split them-split him- in half, and the edges were crumbling into a great abyss.

Freederts words-one of her last gifts to him-felt like a curse at that moment.

The screams of the Black Wings-of Dark, grew even louder behind him, and Daisuke wished Dark would take over, and save them like he always had. He’d saved Riku, and Risa, Towa.....

Towa!!!!!! Daisuke’s heart pounded in his chest as he remembered.She’d been almost completely drained of her energy when Dark saved her, and to the Hikari artworks, their energy was their time. Dark had managed take some of-but not all of-his and Daisuke’s energy and transfer it to Towa. Slowly at first, the pieces of the puzzle came together faster and faster as it revealed the solution in his mind.

It wasn’t quite the same, but maybe that was the solution. Freedert had given all of her remaining life to Elliot. The Second Hand of Time had fused with her to extend Freedert’s life until she could meet Elliot again. Daisuke had connected with them through his paintings, and further prolonged their life. Dark had given energy directly to Towa.

Daisuke’s dulled ruby eyes reignited with new determination, and the tears stopped. Hope chased the ice and the flames from his veins, and sticked his broken halves together. Daisuke could do it!!!!

Daisuke closed his eyes and one by one, moment by fearful moment, blocked out everything distracting him. He blocked out the cries of the Black Wings, the pulse of Satoshi’s veins, the faint sound of his wheezing breath, the feel of Daisuke’s own bruises and aching bones, and focused on recalling what it’d felt like when Dark had given his energy to Towa, and when Daisuke had prolonged Freedert’s life. He recalled the vague feeling of that connection with them-and he pulled on his connection with Dark, who Daisuke had been connected to in a similar way Freedert and her protector, the Second Hand of Time, had been connected.

As the world faded away he searched for those feelings-trying to find the common ground between the feeling of his energy and the life sharing connection with Dark. After what felt like hours but could have been only seconds, he found it. The commonality.

Daisuke gently cradled Satoshi’s face, and pulled on that feeling. As Dark had done with Towa, and as Satoshi himself had in a way attempted to do to save Daisuke multiple times before, Daisuke leaned his face over Satoshi’s, and then desperately, but still oh so gently, placed his lips on Satoshi’s. Daisuke felt Satoshi’s breath caress the inside of his mouth as he breathed into Satoshi, threading his energy and his very life through the desperate kiss of life. Daisuke let his life flow through their shared lips until he felt as though it was enough, and then exhaustedly parted their chapped lips.

Daisuke’s breath was laboured-la lack of breath from the length of the kiss or from anticipation he had no idea- as he searched Satoshi’s face for any signs of recovery. After a few more unbearable moments, Satoshi’s breathing eased and his eyes began to flutter as consciousness returned. Daisuke marveled at their icy brilliance as Satoshi's eyes eventually came to focus on him, and a different kind of tear filled Daisuke’s eyes. Absently, he noticed that the cries of the Dark Wings had ceased.

“Niwa...? Wha...” exhausted, it seemed to take all Satoshi had to get even just those two words out of his mouth.

Daisuke didn’t feel like he was any better off. He found himself unconcerned when his happy tears began to leave tracks on Satoshi’s now relatively rosy cheeks, likely freaking out the other boy. He pulled Satoshi into a hug. Daisuke’s gentle tears began to flow down his cheeks in streams as he transitioned into a full sob as what had happened - what he’d sacrificed and the relief of Satoshi’s unlaboured breath- hit him fully.

“Satoshi.....you’re okay.” The words came out of his mouth raspy and ragged. He felt hesitant hands close around his back as Satoshi shifted and gave himself fully into the hug. Daisuke didn’t know if Satoshi was trying to reassure Daisuke, or himself in doing so, but he appreciated the gesture all the same. After a brief period in which Satoshi kept his head up and faced fully behind Daisuke, Satoshi buried himself into Daisuke’s shoulder, which began to feel wet as Satoshi likely let loose a few quiet and uncharacteristic tears of his own.

The sound of teary but easy breaths and the sound of Satoshi’s strong and steady heartbeat was like music to Daisuke’s ears as the warmth of their huddled bodies began to calm them down and added strength to their veins, eventually bringing both their tears to a stop.

“Daisuke.” * Satoshi, much stronger now, broke the hug apart and grabbed Daisuke by the shoulders, forcing Daisuke to look him directly in the eye.

“What happened?” He questioned.

Daisuke raised up a nervous hand to scratch behind his head. He didn’t really know how to explain to his friend that Daisuke had given up some of his own life to him. Or that his father was dead.

“Umm...” Daisuke dropped his head down to gaze at the ground, unwilling to answer.

“Daisuke.” Satoshi’s voice was firm and demanding. He gave Daisuke’s shoulders a gentle shake. “I - I’m not supposed to still be ali-here. What did you do?” Despite the harshness of his tone, Daisuke heard a whiff of concern laced in his words.

Ah. Satoshi was worried Daisuke had done something stupid. Again.

Daisuke raised his eyes to meet Satoshi’s.

“I didn’t do anything either of us will regret.” It was the only answer Daisuke was willing to give at the moment. He didn’t think Satoshi would take the whole “gave half my life for yours” bit very well. Satoshi had always thought lowly of himself, and valued the lives of others over himself.

Daisuke had time to work on that now. To show Satoshi that his life wasn’t worth any less than anyone else's, now that he had a life to live.

Daisuke blinked.

“Wait a second...did you just call me Daisuke?” And no honorific? At their still close proximity, Daisuke noticed a faint pink twinge to Satoshi’s cheeks. Satoshi seemed to have trouble meeting Daisuke’s gaze as he answered.

“Sorry, Niwa. Earlier, I thought....nevermind.”

Daisuke thought about it for a second, then shook his head. “I don’t mind....if you want to call me Daisuke...Satoshi.” Daisuke felt himself turn bright red. This was the first time in a long time he’d given someone permission to call him by his first name-and without honorifics! His girlfriend didn’t even call him by his first name! And not to mention his mom would be absolutely horrified.

Somehow, that thought was comforting.

Daisuke noticed a small smile slip onto Satoshi’s face, before it was hidden behind Satoshi’s emotionless mask. Satoshi studied him for a few seconds, then let out a frustrated sigh, brining a hand up to his temple as if he had a headache.

“I trust you, Daisuke. So long as whatever you did worked without harming you, I’ll let it drop. For now.”

Daisuke’s cheeks stretched into a smile so wide he felt as though his face might split.

“Thank you, Satoshi. I’ll tell you one day.” When you’re ready to hear it. He got a nod in response.

“Oh! Right!” Daisuke jumped up, surprising Satoshi, who fell backwards.

“The Black Wings!!” Daisuke looked around wildly, trying to find them. Currently hyper aware of everything Satoshi did, Daisuke noticed out of the corner of his eye Satoshi stand up and follow suit. Satoshi hesitated as his eyes spotted something behind Daisuke, before he continued searching. Finished with searching in front, Daisuke turned, and he spotted Hiwatari’s lifeless body on the floor. He quickly tore his eyes away, trying to ignore the sight. There was no sign of the Black Wings.

Daisuke frowned, trying to remember what happened to them. He’d watched them stop Hiwatari and then...he’d heard screaming. The screaming had stopped, at some point, but when...?

“Daisuke.” Satoshi’s voice from behind broke his thoughts. Footsteps echoed from where Satoshi’s voice had come from as Daisuke turned back around. Satoshi was approaching the painting the Black Wings had once been a part of. He quickly caught up to Satoshi, and they both stopped mere feet in front of the paining to stare.

It looked different than the quick glimpse Daisuke had gotten of it earlier- it had looked empty and broken. Now though...it was the most stunning painting Daisuke had ever seen. It looked...complete. Complete and happy.

“Is that...?”

“I think so. It looks like whatever happened...they found their balance.”

It was years before Daisuke felt confident enough in Satoshi’s confidence to tell him what he had shared with Satoshi that day. He was sure Satoshi had figured it out some time along the way, but it was only right he share the tale with him

As he told the story Satoshi sat there, quietly. Daisuke spotted no anger, no sadness on Satoshi’s, just a resigned acceptance. Once he’d finished, instead of yelling, sighing, or closing off like he would have years ago, Satoshi simply smiled and said:

“Thank you, Daisuke. You were the first person to truly make me happy, and you showed me how to live. You gave me half your life, so it’s only right that I share half of mine.”

Many years later, a tale was told in the town of Azumano. A tale of the two who worked together to break a curse, a tale of giving instead of sacrifice, a tale that spoke of such closeness that the two it spoke of died at the exact same time. It is said that the graves of the two exemplify the balance they found between death and life, and left between them a sign for anyone else seeking to save someone.

“Half of my life...and half of yours.”

おわり

The End.

NOTES

*It’s implied in Stage 4 volume 15 that Hiwatari had been around since the time of the Hikari ancestor as we see a cloaked figure who looks like him whispering things to the Hikari. Then we get a shot of his hand, which is all wrinkled. For me, someone who seems immortal + family of people who die early + previous examples were time has been shared between people = immortal has been stealing the time from the family, which grants them an early death.

*So i’d just like to point out that though I generally used the official translation, in the original Japanese and many unofficial translations, Daisuke always calls Satoshi “Hiwatari-kun” and Satoshi calls him “Niwa”(no honorific). The switching from Niwa to Daisuke after Daisuke actually calls Satoshi Satoshi isn’t a mistake. It’s meant to indicate that he noticed Daisuke’s slip up and feels comfortable enough to reciprocate. Though FYI Daisuke totally didn’t actually notice that either of them had switched to first names right then. He’s oblivious like that XD.

Also I’d apologize for making Satoshi cry, as it seems a bit out of character,but, hormones and stuff are powerful things and honestly he was expecting to be dead or wake up in a hospital. Instead he wakes up confused to Daisuke crying all over him and to the sight of the completed Black Wings + his dead father in the background. He’s smart enough to realize that given the relieved but teary look on Daisuke’s face that something saved him (though he’s probably not getting his hopes up on being cured for life), which, honestly, is a huge relief. He’s gonna be a little off...

And you can read into the last bit however you want. Yeah, they didn’t live till like 80 or anything, but it seems like Daisuke’s family is pretty long lived so he would have lived till around 90 or maybe even higher. So they both lived to at least 45. A bit young, but long enough to live a full life and something neither of them regretted because the years were spent together. They died at the same second :)

Honestly this started out as a little joke theory of mine- that the reason Satoshi was never able to give Daisuke the “kiss of life” because Daisuke was meant to give him it, and then I remembered the promise with Freedert and the stuff with Towa and thus, this was born. Do I think it could happen? Yes. Do I want it to happen? Also yes. Do I think it’s for sure going to happen? Honestly....probably not. Likely the promise with Freedert will end up referring to how Daisuke sharing his life with Dark, and it will be one of the things that spark him from giving Dark up.

But, it’s still fun to imagine this possibility! XD. Also I do think they will share a “kiss” between them. But it’ll either be an accident or a drowning incident. I mean it’s happened twice now so third time’s the charm, right? XD

And you know what....1001 Knights did end up with a gay pairing so even if Daisuke never returns Satoshi’s feelings, I’m pretty certain that Satoshi does have romantic feelings for Daisuke. And Satoshi is such a sad but so kind soul that if Daisuke makes him happy then gosh darn it he better get together with Daisuke.

#dnangel #daisuke niwa #satoshi hiwatari #dn angel #d.n.angel

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tickleraptorss · 5 years

Text

Two Sides of the Same Coin

does the title make sense? not really. i was just thinkin of that one quote from dark pit. anyways. a kiu fic!!!! a!!! i need more lee pittoo in my life tbh so. here u go. pit has a Game Theory and tickles the life out of his twin.

word count: 1484 (kinda short compared to some of my other fics but hey! what can u do)

"Since you're, like, a mirror version of me..." Pit began, staring inquisitively at his dark twin. "Does that mean that we have different tastes in... like, food 'n stuff?" Pittoo shrugged dismissively, refusing to acknowledge that Pit's question was directed towards him. "I mean, you'll eat anything," Dark Pit mumbled. "That's true... and you don't really care about that sorta thing, huh?" Standing up from the ground the two were sitting on, Pit gazed into the clouds, pondering. He placed his hand on his chin, mimicking those detectives in that TV show he'd seen once or twice. He tapped his foot on the ground, and then looked at his twin as an imaginary lightbulb seemed to flick on in his head. "You might not know the answer to this question, but I'll ask anyway," Pit said. Dark Pit rolled his eyes as his counterpart sat back down on the ground. "If I'm ticklish, does that mean you are too?" Pittoo raised an eyebrow. "Well, if I'm a mirror version of you, that should mean I wouldn't be," He explained. "We're opposites in more ways than we're similar." "I know, I know! I'm just curious! Here, give me your hand-" "No." "Aw, come on! It'll only take two seconds!" Pit pouted as Dark Pit crossed his arms, huffing at his twin's reaction. "I just wanna know! I promise I won't tickle you afterwards." That's such a lie. Dark Pit grumbled, muttering something under his breath, before he hesitantly extended his hand to his counterpart. Pit snickered. "You've never been tickled before, right?" Pit asked, before gently grabbing Pittoo's wrist. He shook his head. "Okay, this might feel a bit weird, then. Don't punch me by accident." With that, Pit began tracing circles around the palm of Dark Pit's hand, watching his twin for any sign of a reaction. At first, there was nothing, but after a few seconds Pit noticed that Dark Pit's fingers were twitching. "Okay, you can stop now," the dark angel said, before noticing the playful glint in Pit's eyes. "H-Hey! I said you can stop now!" "Just a little bit longer..." Pit smirked at his peered over at his twin, who was biting his lip in order to keep his composure. Without warning, Pit used the rest of his free hand to gently spider over Dark Pit's palm, and that earned him the first round of snickers. "P-Pit! Stohohop that!" Trying to free his arm, Dark Pit covered his mouth with his free hand in order to try and hold back his laughs, but it was a bit late for that. His snickers only grew heavier when he felt Pit's fingers climbing up his arm. "Pit! I'm- eheh- gonna k-kill yohohou!!" "So you are ticklish after all," Pit chuckled. "I wonder if you've got the same spots, too..." Tackling his dark twin to the ground, Pit pinned one arm above Dark Pit's head and used his other hand to tickle under Pittoo's arm. The reaction was priceless. "EEEP-! PIHIHIT!! KNOHOHOCK IT OFF!" The sound Dark Pit let out was something stuck between a yelp and a squeak, before he became a giggling mess. He tried to squirm out of Pit's hold, but to no avail. His laughter sounded like a more restrained version of Pit's; high-pitched, squeaky, and undeniably adorable. "Yup, that's one of 'em!" Pit laughed, as if he was checking off some sort of list. "It's funny how this is a bad spot, I mean, considering my name... I guess it makes for a pretty good joke, though!" The angel dug his fingers into his twin's hollows, resulting in a squeal. "IT'S NOT FUNNY- AHAHAHA!!" "It's not? You're laughing pretty hard, though." Pit chuckled before giving his twin a brief break. He delighted in his twin's deep breaths, as if it was going to prepare him for what's to come next. "I hate you," Pittoo grumbled after gaining his composure. However, with how flushed his face was, and how shaky his pout was, he looked more like an angry puppy dog than anything. "That's not very nice! You're hardly in a position to be insulting me, Pittoo." Pit teased, wiggling his fingers in front of his counterpart's face. "Especially now that I've discovered your greatest weakness!~" "Cut it out! Seriously, I'm-" "Just imagine if this little secret were to come out," Dark Pit's eyes widened. No. "Don't. You. Dare!" "I bet Phosphora would be ecstatic... or what about Viridi? I think she'd have just as much fun with it!" Pit snickered, softly skittering his fingers over Dark Pit's belly, causing the other angel to fall into another giggle fit. "I think you'd probably die. Phosphora has, like, deadly nails. Seriously, there were times where I thought I was gonna die laughing!" Dark Pit just kept protesting, now adding explicative language into the mix. He squirmed to try and get away from the fingers gently scribbling at his belly, but found no relief. He couldn't believe he was giggling like a child, and at the hands of his light counterpart? This was not ideal, to say the least. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone!" Pit said, pausing his ministrations for a few seconds. "I'm not sure if Lady Palutena's gonna keep this a secret though-" "WHAT?!" "Oh well, no time to dwell on that now, we've still got some experimenting to do!" With that, Pit continued tickling Pittoo's stomach, making sure to keep his touch just light enough to be the most effective. Overwhelmed with the tickly feelings, Dark Pit's laughter raised another octave and became squeakier than before. For some odd reason, being tickled here made the dark angel flustered. "You're blushing? You really do have all the same reactions as I do," Pit said as if he was reading his twin's mind. Wait... then that probably means... Pit decided to kick it up a notch. "Tickle, tickle!~" It turns out that Dark Pit was just as weak to teasing as he was. "I'M GONNAHAHAHA FUCKING KIHIHILL YOU- AHAHAHA!" "I dunno, I think it'd be kinda hard to beat me if you can't even get past the tickle monster~" Pit decided to have some mercy on his counterpart, lightening his ministrations to light tracing along the angel's belly and sides. "W-Whahat are we, two year olds?" Dark Pit giggled, trying to sound angry. "I wanted to see if teasing worked on you like it does with me," Pit admitted. "Turns out, it does!" "Great, b-but can you stohohop?" "Mmm, for now!" Pit lifted his hands away from Pittoo's belly, allowing the other angel some respite. "There's still one more thing I gotta test." Taking advantage of the way Dark Pit was curled up, Pit rolled his twin onto his stomach and pinned him down. His counterpart complained. "Okay! I'm done! We're done! No more!" Dark Pit's tone sounded like he was begging. "What's that, Pittoo? Are you begging?" Pit teased, chuckling when his twin went silent. "Alright, well, guess I'll just have to keep tickling you!" Before Dark Pit could protest again, he felt ten fingers skittering around the bases of his wings. He let out a squeal - nearly a shriek - before he was consumed by hysterical cackling. He arched his back in an attempt to get away, and his wings flapped frantically, but nothing helped. All he could do was take in the ticklish touches until Pit decided he'd had enough. "Aww, is Pittoo too ticklish for his own good? Huh?~" Pit's sing-song tone only added to Dark Pit embarrassment. He couldn't stand baby talk in general, but in a situation like this? It was too much. "OKAY! OKAHAHAY!! I GIHIHIHIVE!" Pittoo hated that it had come to begging, but he couldn't stand the sensations anymore, given his lack of endurance (it was the first time he'd ever been tickled) and how ticklish he was. "YOU WIHIHIHIN! EEHEHEHE STAHAHAP- NOHOHO MOHORE!!" As soon as those words left his mouth, the tickling stopped. Pit climbed off of his counterpart, patiently watching as Pittoo composed himself. Although, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stifle the tiny after-giggles from the lingering sensations. "I... I'm gonna kill you," Dark Pit growled. "I dunno, that might be a bit hard now, since I know your weakness!" Pit smiled. "Didn't you mention something about me being just as ticklish as you?" When Pit's eyes widened, Dark Pit smirked. "I-I... uh..." Before Pit could get anywhere, his twin had grabbed his ankles and hoisted the angel towards him. "Please d-don't?" "Let's see how much you like it!" ---------------- "What happened to them?" Viridi asked, looking at the two exhausted angels in the distance. "I've never seen them so worn out. Did you make them exercise or something?" When the goddess turned to look at Palutena, all she saw was a slight smirk. "Let's just say that they got into a bit of a tussle."

#raptor writes #tickle fic #tickling

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spacetimewraithwrites-archive · 5 years

Note

quiet

(content warning: suicide)

Quiet

The silhouette at the window had his chin tilted upward slightly, just enough to expose the clean line of his jaw. His face turned to the glass, a patch of condensation growing and shrinking as he exhaled, silent. His chest rose and fell steadily, no one would know he was breathing if it couldn’t be seen firsthand. Eyes sharp and focused, pinned to something in the distance, pinned to nothing but the trees that went on for miles into the mountains.

Fat flakes of snow curtained the dismal sky, peppering the porch and accumulating on yesterday’s layer of white ice. And on the offering from the day before that, and the day before that. No wind, not a single branch waving in an uninvited breeze or the flap of a bird’s wings to rebel against the outside stillness.

Warren watched this as he gave up his posture to the cushions of the couch and kept a tight grip on his own hair. He bored through Thrive’s darkened outline with his gaze, his mind a blank slate, dropped to the curve of his throat, stuck there for quite a while. What a cruel god it was that gave him that throat with a body that wasn’t even authentic. And who was Warren to claim it? What manner of fate gave him that right?

The false doors in the cabin promised freedom they hadn’t seen in days. At that point, probably weeks. Thrive told him to stop counting and he heeded him immediately. Shadows lurked in the corners of the house and they couldn’t be shaken away. Bulbs couldn’t scatter them and they swallowed the light, rippling into fine mist if agitated.

The times they couldn’t bring themselves to speak reeked of failure, of bone-chilling misery no amount of quality time could dissolve. Warren watched Thrive stand in silence by the window. Obhelian spine straight and rigid, bathrobe over the form suit in such a way that hinted at how much he was afraid that getting truly comfortable would cost them their native reality. Lumping the responsibility onto his own shoulders again, dragging himself through a swamp of guilt.

“What is it that we’ve supposedly failed?”

At the sound of Warren’s hoarse voice cutting through the hours-old ringing quiet, Thrive let his eyes fall shut. The condensation shrank and his chest rose.

Hours of quiet. A search of the doors and windows for cracks, daily and always futile. Blasts of force from Thrive’s hands unable to make any sort of crack or a dent, daily and always futile. Sheets wrapped around fists, human and otherwise, jabbing into the glass in an attempt to create a shred of respite from captivity, daily and always futile. Thrive’s knuckles reddened from trying without the sheet. Daily. Taking knives to the wood of the walls. Always futile.

Stop counting the days, Thrive had advised, but it had been months.

Warren did note with a heavy heart as he combed his fingers through his beard in the bathroom and fought through the post-traumatic bog of being locked up again that he wasn’t even sure taking Thrive to bed while in the cabin wasn’t a desperate necessity in order to cling to sanity anymore. He ripped himself to shreds for that notion, stuffed a hand towel in his mouth to muffle the anguished sobs he tried very hard to suppress, wouldn’t allow the tears to actually leave his face. It didn’t matter; Thrive’s superior hearing paired with the close quarters of the cabin practically guaranteed his cover being blown.

Thrive took up stroking his hair to lull him to sleep every night. Unspeaking, eyes glued to one another until Warren couldn’t stay awake. It stopped the nightmares, anyway.

The next time Thrive stood at the window in his form suit and bathrobe, Warren got up from the couch, removed the terry cloth garment and peeled the skin-tight black suit from his shoulders. Draped the articles over the desk chair and watched him stand, naked as all, still unmoving from his spot.

A few times Warren had to bathe Thrive himself. Then Thrive would get embarrassed, snap out of whatever made him borderline comatose and refuse to let him care for him further. He stomped out of the bathroom and pretended to brainstorm ways to outsmart the Emmuli, to get them out of that cabin once and for all. But they both knew he gave up a while ago.

Warren wished he was back in Alaska. The real Alaska, the genuine cabin, with bitterly cold air he longed to breathe again. He had glimpses of it in his dreams, walking through the tranquil forest, Thrive close behind, guarding, ever vigilant. Unintelligible whispers passing their ears. He wondered at times if those weren’t dreams. He couldn’t bring himself to ask.

This was supposed to be a dream, too. A nightmare. Anything but reality. But what did reality even mean?

“I have a theory.”

Warren would’ve jumped ten feet out of his skin if he cared anymore. He addressed Thrive at the window yet again, his inhale deep and audible. “Yeah.”

A long enough stretch of even more of the quiet passed before Thrive opened his mouth to speak again. He still wouldn’t meet his stare.

“…You’re not going to like this.”

“Get me the fuck out of here, Thrive,” Warren blurted. “Please. Please. Just…anything. Fucking save me. Get us out of here.”

Thrive swallowed, jaw clenched. He smoothed his robe over his form suit, bracing himself.

The tension was immense.

“I think we’re going to have to die.”

Warren smiled. Not a trace of humor within it, not an ounce of happiness or pleasure. Irony, of course, but no mirth. He shook his head as if it would do anything against his utter disbelief. “What?”

“It…may be our only choice.”

“A suicide pact? That is so dark. Even for me. Even for the fucking survivor of an actual suicide attempt, that is fucking dark.”

“I think….” Thrive’s eyes flashed with a poor attempt at disconnect. “…The Emmuli will remove us of this hellscape if we beat them at their own game. They know the worst thing for either of us is watching each other suffer as much as we already have. They’ve been doing it this whole time, Warren. Everything from here to all of the constructs they’d built for us before, all of their illusions and their trickery. It was all to mentally manipulate us. If we show them we’d rather die than live like this….”

“What if that’s exactly what they want?” Warren snapped. “Huh? What if throwing in the towel is exactly what they want us to do? Don’t they want us dead, anyway?”

“They want us to hurt,” Thrive said, more loudly than he possibly intended. “They need us to feel what they’re doing, that’s what keeps them in power. They’ll try to keep us alive for as long as they can. They’re not going to let us die. And it may weaken them.”

Warren rubbed his hands on his knees. “And then what? They just bring us right back here to start this bullshit all over again?”

Thrive didn’t reply. He did meet Warren’s worried stare eventually, and the seriousness was staggering.

It began to dawn on Warren that this lethargic behavior, Thrive’s despondency, could not have been incited by their imprisonment. It started before this. Before they even woke up in the cabin again. After the last constructs, after they were last separated.

“…What did you see?” Warren asked tentatively. He didn’t want to know but his mouth asked before his brain could catch up. “What was the last thing they showed you?”

Thrive sighed.

Warren leaned forward, voice hardening. “…Thrive, how did you come up with this theory?”

“I’m not telling you now,” Thrive muttered, facing the window again. “…It wouldn’t do you any good. I’ll tell you…another time. When we leave this place.”

The quiet outside bled into the inside yet again. Warren began to doubt his mind for the five hundredth time. Wondered if it was really Thrive standing in front of him, if it was really his hands on his head every night, cupping his face or smoothing his hair down. If this version of him existed, the one that couldn’t contain what happened on Zliyagi within his body and poured it out of himself in torrents. If his walls were really breaking down, crashing around him, dropping massive chunks of material into oceans of grim thought.

“I can’t do it for you.”

Thrive nodded carefully. “I know.” He gritted his teeth. “…I’ll do it for both of us.”

Warren swore, dialing back his visceral reaction just in time to avoid upending the coffee table completely. He did manage however to scrape it across the floor, overwhelming the room with the grating sound of metal on wood. He disappeared into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him as he searched and pleaded for ways to stave off the manifesting panic attack. He resorted to an old favorite—cloth in the mouth. No tears, just gasping.

Thrive caught him that time. The door swung open and he stared at him from the threshold, eyes wide as Warren sat on the edge of the bed with a pillowcase dangling from between his jaws, in the midst of hyperventilation.

In the quiet, Thrive marched over to him, gathered him tight against his chest, squeezed him. Fingers digging into his shoulder, the back of his neck. They clutched painfully at each other, both shaking, one more violently than the other. Wordlessly agreeing to spend one final night together before they did anything else.

But when Warren’s eyes opened in the dark room in the middle of the night to the sight of Thrive fast asleep for the first time in months, he smiled.

Maybe this would work. And maybe it wouldn’t. But he got to spend the sunrise watching the peace on Thrive’s face. A serenity he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen. It possibly predated him.

And when he opened his eyes for the second time several hours later, half-collapsed on the floor of the Ganymede bridge once again as Thrive blasted the door off its hinges from the corridor, he caught his breath and regarded his frantic obhelian in stunned silence. His neck was fine. Thrive used the doorframe to keep himself upright at the sight of Warren unharmed by the window until he couldn’t anymore and sank down onto the plush maroon carpet. They were both alive and intact. Breathing, pulses racing, alive.

The ship sailed on in quiet space, oblivious.

#WLC birthday asks #profile: Warren #WIP #original writing #this one is actually a piece from the 4th book that I haven't gotten to yet #some of it might change in the end but the premise is the same #cw: suicide #it's pretty broad for what's going on but I'd rather be safe about it #funny enough this is my favorite out of the five #ringedplanetshirt

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gwiiyeoweo · 5 years

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For @fangirlig-intensifies and for the @ignoctgiftexchange This, uh, actually has nothing to do with White Day, but I hope it’ll be cute and sweet enough :’)

Ignis gets hit with a hilarious case of Confusion, and Noctis helps set his boyfriend back on track.

Pairing: Ignis/Noctis Rating: G

“Alright, gentlemen, it's our last night outside of Insomnia. Any requests for a last supper?”

“Gee, Iggy. You make it sound like we're getting executed in the morning.” Prompto deadpans, his voice oozing dry sarcasm.

Ignis locks the supports into place and tests his strength on the collapsible kitchen table, while Prompto squats behind him and coaxes the embers of their campfire. The sun sets just beyond the horizon, painting the darkening skies with its last fiery hues, and Gladio and Noctis are scramming to get the tent set up before all light fades. Two of three of their lanterns are broken, due to a certain blonde's clumsiness, and they would prefer to not struggle by the light of their shoddy campfire.

“Prompto, a little hand here?” Noctis grunts out, pulling the tent this way and that as he tries to unfold the whole thing. By the way it keeps collapsing on him, he thinks Gladio might actually be sabotaging him, except he knows the man wants this tent set up just as much as he does.

“Noct, just. Six, can you stop pulling it like that? Like, just — okay, you're doing the exact opposite now.” Gladio grunts out and rolls his eyes. After all this time, he'd think Noctis would get the hang of this already, with how much he's trained the Prince in wilderness survival.

“Eh, I think you guys got it handled. I'll just be over here taking care of our little fire,” Prompto hums, snapping a twig in half and feeding it into the flames.

“Prompto.” They both snap at him.

“Yikes! Okay, okay, I'm coming.”

Ignis quietly smiles to himself, enjoying the friendly banter among the three. Today will mark the end of their mini vacation, Noct's momentary getaway from all his royal duties before he's plunged back into the politics of Niflheim's proposed ceasefire. Though, this was a well-deserved break for everyone else; Prompto from his rigorous Crownsguard training, Gladio from his burden of expectations as Shield, Ignis from paperwork and duties as future advisor.

“How about a casserole? Any objections?”

“Nope.”

“Nada.”

“Go easy on the peas.”

Of course, leave it to his picky Prince to carve out the specifics. “Duly noted.”

As the rest get the tent set up, Ignis takes stock of what they have, double checking the ingredients, only to see they're running low on sweet peppers. He clicks his tongue, lightly berating himself for the oversight. But he remembers then, some peppers growing only a few paces away from the haven. It would take less than a minute, and no daemon would think to approach so close.

Noctis pokes his head out from under the tent flap and catches Ignis stepping over the outer runes. “Iggy?”

“It seems we're low on the peppers, but coincidentally there's some growing just around that patch we passed by earlier. I’m just going to fetch some.”

“Need me to come with?”

Ignis smiles, always touched by that hint of concern. As much as Noctis tries to keep up with his lazy farce, he always stands at the ready should anyone be in need of him, though he tends to downplay it as part of his whims. He still hasn’t realized Ignis knows his heart’s kindness extends far past that, and most likely Prompto and Gladio have caught on as well. They all still humor him, at least, and lightly berate him here and there whenever he makes a show of being a bratty prince.

“I'll be fine, I assure you,” Ignis says, already stepping down the stones, “But if you'd like to stand by as lookout, then by all means.”

Noctis does just that and steps over to the haven’s edge, eyes trained on Ignis’ snapped-on flashlight and remaining ever so vigilant.

Ignis takes just a few paces when he sees something pink and oddly peculiar sticking out beneath a pile of stones, and his curiosity gets the better of him. He steps over and angles his light at the rubble, and he quickly recognizes the mystery as a cactus fruit, pink and ripe for the taking. He thinks it odd for a lone cactus to be sprouting out here, and stranger still that it's fruiting; but the culinary student in him is delighted at the find. He's read of recipes and desserts all centered around prickly pears, though he never found the opportunity to try his hand at them. And as their last night out, he figures they’d make for a wonderful dessert to end on a high note.

Except, everything spirals downward when he tugs at his leather gloves, making sure they're on securely lest he pricks himself on the needles, and reaches over to gingerly pluck a fruit off. When his innocent act apparently startles the cactus so much that it jumps. When he realizes, too late and too gravely, that this isn't a cactus.

It's a godsdamned cactuar.

The prickly green foe spirals into the air and stares him down, its pitch black eyes boring an ice-cold pit in Ignis’ stomach. He stands there, frozen in his hunched position with one hand still extended from tearing off the fruit, and he keeps still as possible as if any movement will incur the cactuar's wrath. Ignis knows of their notorious speed and reflexes; he'll get a face full of needles the moment he even twitches for his daggers.

But despite his best efforts of playing marble statue, the cactuar shifts its empty black eyes from Ignis to the stolen fruit in his hand, and he can almost see the absolute indignation that rattles the prickly creature's body. Ignis gets a face full of needles anyway.

He's vaguely aware he's falling — backwards, once he feels his head hit the hard stone. He doesn't have time to register the pain or admonish himself for his folly, because really, it's his fault entirely for not picking up the cues and realizing that hey, a single cactus in the middle of nowhere with a bright pink fruit on its head is not suspicious at all.

He hears Noctis shout from behind and above, registers the blue flash of a warp strike, and feels his heart rend at the look of absolute terror marring his beautiful Prince's face. Ignis wants to murmur an apology, for bringing their final night to such an end, but his lips turn numb and his eyelids close to the heavy darkness that swallows him.

Noctis sits by the hospital bed, thrumming his fingers on his thigh as he tries to wait it out. The physicians told him Ignis would be perfectly fine, that the swelling would be gone with the perfect ratio of antihistamines and potion — and it did, his red chubby cheeks back to those sculpted cheekbones and defined jaw. All that's left is the wait, for Ignis to crawl back into consciousness and see if a Remedy was in due order, if he had ended up getting hit by Confusion after all.

Noctis had ridden through the adrenaline that burned through his veins, when he first caught sight of the stare-off between the cactuar and Ignis to when he rushed everyone to the car and took advantage of his crown and pushed through the driving laws and legal speed limits. They even left all their camping gear back at the haven, but they were all too scared for Ignis to really care. Now that they’re back in Insomnia, after Noctis rushed past the guards and ran straight into the medical wing with Gladio towing an unconscious Ignis right behind him, the energy rush slowly seeped out of him — until now, when he’s just an anxious pile of weary bones.

Because despite the physicians’ reassurances, Noctis still couldn't help but worry, and he's certain he's justified in his anxiety despite Prompto telling him to calm down for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. Okay, sure, the cactuar scampered off right after raining its needles on Ignis, and he even dumped a Hi-Potion on Ignis just in case. But. This was his boyfriend. And he panicked.

Noctis wishes he paid more attention in Lucis Ecology: From Fauna to Flora back in high school, at least when they studied about cactuars, because he feels absolutely useless just sitting at Ignis’ bedside. He's still jittery too, despite the tiredness that's settling into him, so he pulls out his phone and pulls up Moogle, typing in ‘what to do if hit by cactuar needles.’

Prompto, who took the seat by the door to wait things out with Noctis when Gladio left to give a status report, sees Noctis frantically tapping and scrolling through his phone. The motions are definitely not for King's Knight, so he knows it must be Noctis freaking out again. He sighs and walks up behind Noctis and peers over his shoulder to see him looking at WebMD. Oh great, nothing like some website telling him cactuar needles induce cancer to really get Noctis going. So before his gullible-but-lovable friend starts getting the wrong ideas, Prompto reaches over and plucks the phone right out of his hands.

“Hey!”

“C'mon, buddy. You heard what the doctors said, Iggy will be just fine. Just chill out for a minute and wait, or I'll go get them to strap you down in a bed too.” Prompto tuts at him, waving the phone in a gesture of disapproval.

“I am chill, okay? Totally chill. Ice-cold Shiva chill.”

Prompto only shoots a look, and Noctis knows those were the words of a man who was, in all actuality, not chill. He mentally curses himself, for the not-chill idiot that he is, and makes to hopefully rectify his poor wording and assure that he really is calm, okay, he's really fine and not at all freaking out over Ignis, when he catches a low groan and a rustle of clothes and blankets.

Noctis snaps his neck around so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. Prompto takes the cue to fetch the nurse, figuring his friend could use the time to reassure himself that Ignis is perfectly fine. “See? Told you Iggy would be okay. I'll be back in a sec,” he says, patting Noctis on the shoulder before heading out.

Noctis gives a noncommittal hum, too focused on Ignis who's slowly returning to the waking world. He takes one of Ignis’ hands into his, watching and waiting for the moment he sees those sweet green eyes.

Ignis takes a moment, but when he finally opens his eyelids, he does so with monumentous effort. He wears the expression of a man who looks so personally offended that the lights are on, despite the half-conscious gaze staring blankly at the ceiling. Noctis has never seen that sort of look on Ignis face, but the way he looks so… Grouchy and out of touch is actually kinda cute and funny. He looks like a petulant brat about to throw a tantrum for not having his Ebony fix of the day.

Noctis lets Ignis gather his bearings, having his own anxieties finally cowed by the man's awakening, and only holds his hand in silence until he slowly turns his head to look at Noctis. Ignis furrows his brows, and he works his lips and jaw as he tries to remember how to speak again.

Noctis already knows the question on his mind, so he answers without needing to hear it. “We're back at the Citadel, in the med wing. You got hit by some cactuar needles.” He makes sure to leave out the part where they had to cut their trip short and the fact he broke some driving laws on the way back to Insomnia. He didn't need to stack on guilt on Ignis’ sore shoulders, and neither did he want a lecture on road safety.

Prompto returns, a pack of crackers in one hand with the other holding a water bottle to his lips, when Ignis’ face splits into the most ridiculously goofy smile any of them has ever seen him wear, and he drops the carpet bomb on them with his seemingly innocent question.

“Did the doctor send you?” Ignis slurs, “Because you, my dear, are a Remedy for sore eyes.”

Behind him, Noctis hears Prompto spit out his water as he desperately tries to cough air back into his lungs. He can only share the same sentiment because —

“Holy shit, is he hitting on you? While he's Confused?” Prompto rasps, thumping a fist into his chest. “And a pun?!”

Noctis barely nods, his mind not quite believing what he's seeing and hearing. Because Ignis looks absolutely hammered, and not even two bottles of wine was able to get him looking this drunk, and damn it, Iggy's love for puns apparently outweighed his love for his boyfriend since he'll remember his way around words but not the Prince of Lucis. Noctis doesn't feel bitter about it but only because despite his scrambled up memory, Ignis has the gall to still flirt with him.

Ignis, perhaps impatient by the lack of reply, presses on, his voice coated thick with sleep but eyes filled with lovesick adoration. “You are the most fetching man I've seen in all my life.”

Noctis feels a warmth in both his heart and in his cheeks, and he lifts a hand to hide his embarrassed smile. Okay, sure they'd flirt with each other, pass comments of silly affection in between, but this was… This was different, and his heart was not prepared for this sort of cutesy-cheesy outcome.

Prompto, however, leaps at the opportunity. He dumps the pack of crackers in Noctis’ lap and immediately pulls out the phone he confiscated from Noctis. “Okay, so, the nurse said they're getting the Remedy” — he easily picks the pattern on Noctis’ lockscreen and swipes to the camera function — “But they want him to eat something first or it's gonna upset his stomach but ohmygod I need all this on video.”

Noctis doesn't ask him how or why he knows the correct pattern to unlock his phone, so instead he picks at the crackers and tears it open.

Meanwhile, Ignis is adorably stubborn and suddenly very sad Noctis had to take his hand away to open the plastic wrapping. His hand twitches, and he tries to chase after the prince's hold, but all he manages to do is to let his wrist fall limply against the bed railing. His charming smile is replaced by something smaller, and his eyes seem to be a bit brighter with wakefulness, but the Confusion still has his him a touch away from reality. Apparently accepting the loss, he returns to his wooing. “Are you perhaps a model? Who are you?”

Noctis actually answers this time, trying to keep his own amusement and smile under check. “I'm Noctis. How're you feeling, Ignis? Think you can eat some crackers?” He takes Ignis’ hand and presses one in between his fingers.

Except, this one skilled and dexterous assassin who could twirl and catch his daggers midair all while blindfolded, has an insanely difficult time trying to navigate the cracker to his lips. After failing his second attempt, Ignis squints at the snack, peering at it suspiciously as though it may bite him, and his unsteady hand probably isn't it making his inspection any easier, swaying it back and forth before he can get a real good look at it. He glances back to Noctis, as if seeking approval and reassurance — Noctis nods and gently guides the hand toward Ignis’ lips — before finally taking a nibble at the cracker.

“Ow.”

Ignis chews impossibly slow, then another, “Ow.” He stares at the cracker rather begrudgingly. “I don't believe this agrees with me,” he groans.

Noctis isn't sure how eating the cracker really hurts, and he's more positive it's only because Ignis is really out of it. He tries not to laugh at the absurdity of all this, but each passing second only makes it harder. “Sorry, Ignis, but the nurse said you need to eat it,” he says, surprisingly composed. He hears Prompto snicker from behind him.

“Nurse… You're not the nurse then?”

At this, Noctis smiles. “No, Ignis, I'm your boyfriend.”

Ignis looks absolutely floored. His jaw drops, and he loses whatever that was left of his fine motor skills as the half-eaten cracker slips from his fingers. He turns his head to stare up at the ceiling, no longer bothered by the lights that so offended him only minutes ago, while he draws his hands together in prayer and brings his fingertips to his chin.

“Boyfriend,” he whispers, absolutely enthralled by the word, in a tone full of reverence and wonder. “You're my boyfriend? Good Shiva.”

Ignis stares at the ceiling for a while longer, as if the stucco ceiling held all the answers to the universe. Noctis takes the opportunity to gently pry Ignis hands apart and give him a new cracker. He munches on it successfully — and without any apparent pain, probably too euphoric from his newfound knowledge.

“My boyfriend…” he whispers in awe, between his small bites. Ignis looks away from the ceiling to gaze upon Noctis like a fool drunk on love and asks, “For how long?”

To be exact, Noctis would say two years of “official” boyfriend status, though the feelings had been mutual for far longer. It had only been the King's gentle assurances and his friends’ prodding and meddling to get them finally tied together. He wants to tell him the whole story, how they were childhood friends who practically grew up together, but he thinks Ignis’ mind would explode, given how well he’s reacted thus far. Noctis skirts the question and directs the cracker back to Ignis’ mouth.

“Just eat the cracker, Iggy.”

“Iggy? My name is… Oh. Do we perhaps have pet names for each other? How lovely. I'm quite fond of Iggy. What do I call you?” he says, completely ignoring the cracker now.

“Noct.”

“Ah, Noct. Hello, Noct.”

“Hi, Iggy. Now c'mon and eat your cracker.”

Ignis sighs and looks pathetically forlorn at the saltine, but he brings it back to his lips and takes a small nibble. It looks as if it takes all his concentration to remember how to chew — concentration that he'd rather spend on looking at his boyfriend. It might be why he seems so sad to eat, and the only reason he does so is because Noctis asked him to.

“It's… It's difficult, darling. Can I call you darling?”

“Sure you can, Specs.” Noctis hands him another cracker.

“Specs?”

“Another pet name.”

“Another!” His hand flies to his heart, the same hand that held the cracker, which flings across the room when he forgot to keep his fingers on it. “Another pet name. What a lucky man I must be. I quite love it. I quite love you. May I say that? That I love you?”

“Yeah, you can.” Noctis can barely keep the smile that splits across his own face. “I love you too, Specs.”

Their friend circle of four were all struck with Confusion before — at least once. At Cor's instruction, they had been called to meet in the training room, to be hit with the status ailment in a controlled environment; so they each would know how it felt, and how to act and prepare should their comrade fall to it. But Ignis never acted like this, nor did Noctis hear or read of a Confusion that had such an effect. But it’d be great, he thinks, if all Confusion cases went like this.

“Oh, Noct.” Ignis coos, and he looks upon Noctis like an utter dream.

“C’mon, cracker.”

“I can’t quite…” Ignis huffs and looks away from the cracker — yet again — and squints his eyes at Noctis, dropping the snack to curl his fingers and beckon the other. “Come closer, darling, let me see your face.” When Noctis obliges, he sucks in a sharp breath and softly brushes his crumb-y fingers along Noctis’ cheeks. “Six, your eyes are absolutely gorgeous.”

Ignis makes to cup both his hands on Noctis’ cheeks, but his other hand doesn't agree with him and instead flounders on his stomach. He doesn't seem to care, however, and continues to stare into Noctis’ eyes. Noctis remembers, during a cozy date at his apartment with some wine shared between them, when Ignis had started spouting cheesy romantic lines at him. How his deep blue eyes were akin to the Lucian nights, with its shining stars and wall of magic, that Ignis could simply gaze into the prince’s eyes for hours if he ever wanted to stargaze. He knows now, with the absolute reverence and wonder Ignis looks upon him with, that he wasn’t kidding.

Noctis, however, almost wants to choke, given how thick the love that's plastered in Ignis’ gaze, so heavy that he might just suffocate from the weight of it.

“And we’re dating?” Ignis whispers to himself, questioning the reality that his addled mind can’t quite grasp. “Marvelous.”

“Yep, you even got me a ring.” Noctis takes a deep breath, trying to keep his head on straight, and holds up his left hand, flaunting the promise ring wrapped around his finger — a simple black band with a thinner line of silver cutting around the middle. Ignis — the Not Confused Ignis — had known anything remotely close to the Lucii Ring would only bring terrible reminders, had known to steer away from fine jewels and precious stones.

Current Ignis, understandably, forgot all about it.

“A ring! A ring,” Ignis gasps, immediately reaching for Noctis’ hand, “Let me — oh. My, I must be very fond of you.” He runs his thumb over the smooth onyx, the physical touch doing nothing to jostle his memory. He did, however, look somewhat smug, perhaps satisfied in knowing he had good tastes.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I’m pretty fond of you too, y’know.” Noctis nods his head toward Ignis’ hand, glancing at the similar green tungsten ring sitting on his finger.

The gesture went entirely unnoticed, with Ignis too occupied with the return of affectionate words. “Oh, Noct. I —”

“So! I’ve got one extra special Remedy ready for Scientia here. Did he eat his crackers?”

Noctis doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed when he turns his head around to see the nurse walk in, carrying a small bottle and a bright smile on his lips. On one hand, thank the gods because he didn’t know how much longer he could suffer through the embarrassing love flutters in his chest before his face turned red. On the other hand, it was, in all honesty, a bit endearing to see Ignis so… disjointed and stupid in love.

“Um. Sorta,” Noctis says, lifting the half empty packet of crackers. At best, Ignis probably only ate three, considering the half-eaten and crumbled up crackers scattered across the bed — and the one flung across the room, no doubt in a sad and shattered shape.

“Well, that’s good enough, but we might want to try getting him to eat a few more after this Remedy.”

Noctis nods, gaze following the nurse until he crossed in front of Prompto. Who still held the phone in his hand. Who probably —

“Were you recording this whole time?”

From behind the phone, Prompto only smiles and offers a thumbs up.

Noctis, for all the time he’s spent with his best friend, realizes he should have expected as much. It’s no wonder Prompto was oddly quiet the entire time, aside from the few quiet snickers Noctis managed to catch, instead of his backseat commentary and stomach-busting laughter.

“Wait a minute.” Noctis rises from his seat, barely managing to ignore Ignis’ disheartening whines at being left behind by his boyfriend. He turns his eyes to Ignis and bribes him with a “Drink the Remedy — all of it — and I’ll give you a kiss, okay?” which does wonders to settle him down, even has him grabbing for the bottle the nurse hands him.

Noctis circles around Prompto and looks just behind his shoulder, peering at the screen of his phone, and yep, that’s a video still recording.

“Instagram?”

“Nah, man, straight to YouTube.”

Noctis levels a look at Prompto.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Geez, I’m not that evil. Just saving it for later, show it to Gladio when he gets back. And,” Prompto looks over to Ignis, who’s trying his hardest to chug the Remedy down, “to Iggy when he gets all his marbles back in his bag.”

“How embarrassed do you think he’ll be?”

“Five bucks he’s gonna turn red like a Lucian tomato.”

“Deal.”

Ignis hides his face behind his hands, after having pausing the video halfway through and dropping the phone in his lap. Gladio has no qualms with picking it right back up, tapping play, and continuing on with his obnoxious roars of laughter.

“There, there.” Noctis sympathetically pats Ignis’ back with one hand, while he uses his other to fish the promised money in his back pocket and hand it over to Prompto's greedy fingers.

He presses a chaste kiss to Ignis’ temple, and offers a comforting smile when the other peers through the slits in between his fingers to glance up at Noct.

“I promised you a kiss for drinking that Remedy,” Noctis says, answering the silent question in Ignis’ eyes.

The dear man only buries his head deeper into his hands, groaning at the reminder of his earlier delirium. “Please, if you truly love me, you won't remind me.” But a beat later, he picks his head up. “Also,” he says, reaching over and pulling their foreheads close, “I think I deserve an extra for drinking that horrid thing.” Ignis slots their lips together, tilting his head to the side and claiming his proper reward. And when he pulls back just in time to see Noctis run his tongue over his own lips and scrunch his face up at the bitter remnants of the Remedy, it at least lessens the blows on his pride.

#ignoctgiftexchange #noctis lucis caelum #ignis scientia #ff15 #final fantasy xv #i can type #fangirlig-intensifies

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rhetoricandlogic · 5 years

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THE BIRDING: A FAIRY TALE BY: NATALIA THEODORIDOU

ISSUE:

18 DECEMBER 2017

8640 WORDS

LISTEN TO THE PODCAST

CONTENT WARNING: show warnings

Okay, here we go, baby. Listen:

Once upon a time, there was a story about the end of the world.

No, let’s try this again.

This is a fairy tale about how the world ended.

No, that’s not it either. I’m sorry, my baby girl. I’m no good at this.

And anyway, the world didn’t end. It just changed.

The highway leading into the city from the west is jammed full of abandoned cars. Manoeuvring the cumbersome Hyundai around them has been difficult for some time, but now Maria has to leave the car to shut doors and move other cars out of the way every twenty meters. She’s finally forced to stop. The lines of cars stretch as far as she can see, baking under the unforgiving northern Greek sun, hazard lights flashing. Some of the engines are still on, purring softly or gasping on fumes.

There are no humans in sight. She wonders where all these people were trying to go, why they needed to get to the city. Were they looking for their families, trying to get back to their homes, like herself? Did they think they would be safer there?

A flock of birds passes overhead, casting their brief shadows on the highway. She doesn’t look up fast enough to see what kind they were. An unkindness of ravens, perhaps. A dissimulation of birds. Don’t think of him among them, she tells herself, don’t, don’t.

She switches off the engine, puts a hand on her swollen belly and rests her forehead on the steering wheel for a moment. She breathes in, then out, listening to the bird sounds outside, the flapping, the chirping, the song, ever-present, invasive.

“Snap out of it,” she says loudly. She regrets it immediately and caresses her small bump. “Sorry, baby,” she says. “It’s okay. We’re okay.” Then, she adds: “We’ll find him, baby. We will.”

She turns to her dad. He’s sitting in the back, staring vacantly ahead, looking at nothing. His skin is flaking. His lungs whistle every time he draws a breath.

“I’m going out, daddy,” she says. “I need to find us a place to stay, something to eat and drink. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

The old man turns his head—a slow, tired movement. For a moment, she thinks he’ll actually look at her, but he doesn’t. He stares at something past her, beyond her. He lifts an arm and scratches absently at the soft white down growing on his neck.

She takes one last look at him and then faces the windshield again. Still no people out there, just the birds and the heat trembling on the asphalt. She opens the glove compartment and pulls out a fresh surgical mask to replace the one she’s wearing before heading out. Just in case.

Outside, the world is loud with the chatter of birds perched on trees and on the electrical wires overhead. She looks around, trying to orientate herself. She checks her phone for signal, even though that gave out a while ago, early on the way back from the capital—the government killed telecommunications when the riots got out of hand, just before the power grid failed. And when the riots finally died down, there was no one left to bring it all back up. She glances at the picture of Simos on the screen before putting the phone away. How quickly it all falls apart, she thinks as she gazes at the glistening highways in the distance. How quickly our phones and computers and cars go silent the moment we look away.

Maria spots the half-finished National Highway Bridge they’ve been constructing for years. The city has been expanding rapidly, and the bridge was supposed to help with the terrible traffic jam that always threatened those trying to enter. She’s still a long way from the city centre—from home—but one of the sprawling westernmost districts is visible in the distance, beyond the bridge. An hour’s walk, maybe, if her body cooperates.

She hoists her rucksack onto her shoulder and gives her belly a brief rub.

“Here we go, baby,” she says, pushing down the white-hot panic alarm rising in her chest, going this-is-not-safe, this-is-not-safe. As she’s done every minute since it all started. “Here we go.”

This neighbourhood is as deserted as any she’s come across in the smaller towns between Athens and Thessaloniki. People here must have tried to leave their homes and flee the city earlier, must have come to terms with what was happening faster than people down in the capital. Perhaps it was easier for them. There are more folk tales here. More superstitions.

It still wasn’t enough.

She walks down the main street, keeping an eye on the birds that fly in circles above her. Much of the desolation here predates the plague. Shuttered shops, bankrupt and closed. Peeling walls, crumbling buildings. Cars without plates, abandoned because of earlier disasters of a different kind. She passes a gaggle of geese rummaging for food in a massive rubbish bin. They stop and regard her for a moment, their beady eyes appraising her, shiny and unknowable.

A familiar thud accompanied by the flutter of wings breaks their mutual concentration. The geese go back to their scavenging. Two more thuds and she spots a couple of pigeons through the front window of a second-floor apartment. They bang against the glass, then flutter away, then throw themselves against the glass again, frantic, desperate. She runs towards the building, hoping the door’s unlocked.

The apartment is dusty and dark—all the curtains drawn shut. She uses her phone’s flashlight to make her way down the corridor and starts at a mirror covered with a white sheet. Either someone in the family died recently, or the people who lived here could no longer stand to look at their new selves.

The living room is crammed with old-fashioned furniture and the relics of a long life: a green velvet sofa, both its seats sagged; hand-crocheted doilies on every surface; vases with plastic flowers; little porcelain figurines. It could have been her grandparents’ home were it not for the swaths of skin here and there, the discarded tissue and bone. The sofa’s velvet is strewn with feathers and down, the coffee table covered with bird droppings.

On top of the bulky TV set, there is a photo of an elderly couple hugging, smiling at the camera. Are these the people who are now throwing themselves against the balcony windows? They probably are, but she pushes the thought out of her head. The birds settle on the wooden curtain rail as soon as they spot her. She wonders if they know why she’s there.

Maria puts her hand on her surgical mask and presses it against her nose and mouth before approaching the birds. This-is-not-safe, the alarm goes, this-is-not-safe. She opens the balcony window and steps back. The birds fly off the curtain rail and circle around the living room, one, two, three times, side by side, before darting out. Was that a goodbye? She follows them onto the balcony. Watches them fly away.

The sun is coming down. Soon it will be time for her to go back, even if she finds nothing of use. She leans against the railing and scans the neighbourhood for supermarkets or convenience stores. Most of them have been broken into and ransacked, but she can usually find what she needs. There wasn’t enough time for people to take everything. Clean, bottled water is the thing she needs most. Everyone went for that first, because a lot of people feared that fresh water was to blame for the infection, for how quickly it spread. Others thought it was a curse, or the final punishment for some sin passed down from one generation to the next, to the next. Who knows.

A movement catches her eye. A hooded figure is watching her from the street, two blocks away. Is that a gas mask? Her heart skips a beat, and the baby gives her a strong kick, making her gasp.

“Hey!” she shouts as soon as she catches her breath, but the figure has already turned the corner and disappeared without a word.

She did spot a supermarket though, a few blocks away.

She takes care approaching. Supermarkets are always dangerous, even the ones that are mostly ransacked. People flock to them the way animals are drawn to fresh water.

Hidden behind a truck in the parking lot, she watches the building for a few minutes. She has that prickly feeling at the back of her neck, like she’s being watched. But there is no sign of humans, either healthy or infected, coming in or out of the building. The inside is dark. There could be someone hiding inside, but there is no way of knowing for sure. She will have to take her chances.

She grabs a trolley and heads in.

There are signs of struggle by the entrance. Blood on the floor. A woman’s handbag, its strap cut and the contents spilled out. No sign of the woman.

Did the plague do this to us, she wonders, or have we always been like this? She pushes her trolley past the blood, looking for anything of use left on the shelves. Water first of all. Canned food. Candles. Batteries. Anything at all.

Her trolley half-filled, she stashes what she found in the old couple’s apartment and goes back to the car. She takes the trolley with her.

Her dad is right where she left him, still staring blankly into the dimming light.

She opens the door to the back seat and slips in.

“Hey, daddy,” she says. She takes a cereal bar out of her pocket and offers it to him. “Want something to eat?” The old man blinks slowly, but he doesn’t turn to look at her. Something in his eyes catches Maria’s attention, and she switches on the roof light to take a closer look.

She slides next to her father, her face so close to his that she can smell him, the musty, familiar scent of him mixed with something new, something dusty and animal.

She focuses on his left eye. The thing that looked off to her before is clear now: his irises are larger. A new, inky hue is overtaking the old green like an oil slick spreading through a lake. She’s seen it before, of course, the dark eyes on faces barely human anymore, but she hasn’t watched the transformation happen so closely, so painstakingly, never witnessed each stage in all its absurd detail.

“Are you in there, dad?” she asks. “Do you remember me? Do you remember anything?” She waits, despite her certainty that he’s not going to answer. “Do you remember mom?” She pauses. “Or just your birds?” Another pause. “Are you happy now, daddy?” she asks softly. “Happier than before?”

Her father draws in a breath and then lets out a long, whistling sigh.

Maria moves back and gets out of the car slowly. The snack bar is still in her hand. She unwraps it and eats it, choosing to trust the promise of nutrients on the pack. Then, she moves the supermarket trolley to the other side of the car and opens the door.

“Can you come out, dad, please?” she tries, even though she knows it’s no good.

When he doesn’t respond, she wraps her arms around his torso and pulls him out. She gasps at his lightness; it’s as if his body has lost all its density, his bones hollowing out. Lifting him takes so little effort it numbs her. This shouldn’t be so easy, she thinks. It shouldn’t be this easy. She stands there for a moment, with her father in her arms, light as a bird, foreign as a bird. Then, she puts him in the trolley and heads back to the apartment.

By the time they get there, his skin is coming off in long strips, revealing gooseflesh underneath, covered in the softest down.

The sky is dark. She parks the trolley by the main entrance and carries her dad up the stairs. She clears the sofa and places him on the soft cushion gently, afraid she might break his bones with even the slightest pressure.

For herself, she chooses a smaller room in the back. It has a single bed covered with a handmade quilt. There is a photo of a young boy smiling at the camera against a bucolic, painted backdrop—a school photo, probably, of a child long grown. She remembers those photos; both her parents had the same from when they were growing up. She uses the flashlight to study the boy’s face: a wide forehead, a long, thin nose. Are you a bird now, she wants to ask. What kind of bird might you be? How kind a bird?

So this is how the story goes, baby:

Once upon a time, there was a young Queen. She was a kind Queen, who had gone away to visit a magician on the other side of her queendom, because she was with child, and she wanted the magician’s help to make sure her child would be born healthy, unburdened by parental sins. In the end, it didn’t matter. Because while she was away, a plague fell upon her land, a magical plague that turned almost all of her subjects into birds. And the Queen didn’t know what to do. She travelled back to her castle looking for her husband, who had stayed behind. They hadn’t spoken since the plague started.

The Queen also had her father, the Old King, with her, because they had travelled to visit the magician together. And she kept him in a supermarket trolley because he was sick and she didn’t know where else to put him.

I’m sorry, baby. I’m shit at making up fairy tales. We’ll try again some other night, okay?

In the morning, there is no white left in her father’s eyes and his nose has grown long and hard, like the top part of a beak. She approaches him carefully, because she’s seen people become aggressive at this stage. Getting yourself scratched or bitten is a sure way to get infected, but her father shows no intention of doing her harm. He lets himself be lifted off the sofa and carried down the stairs, his thin, feathery arms wrapped loosely around his daughter’s neck.

She loads him into the trolley, together with their provisions of water, batteries, flashlights, and dry food, and heads towards the city centre.

The streets are more crowded with cars in both directions the closer she gets to the centre. Marks of destruction are more prominent too; burnt buildings, some still creaking with low-burning fires, leave the distinct scent of smoke in the air. It stings her nostrils, makes it hard to breathe. There are more birds here too—walking on the streets, flying overhead, or simply sitting on the wires, inert, staring down at her, letting out a stream of birdsong now and then. Maria looks at her father, crumpled inside the trolley, silent, breathing heavily. Should she be afraid of them? Should she fear him? She stares back at the crows perched on a balcony above her. She recounts the names she knows to describe a group of crows. A parcel of crows, a mob, a parliament. A murder, a horde. And her favourite, a storytelling of crows.

“What are you looking at?” she yells. “What the fuck do you want?”

They croak at her and fly away, indignant.

That’s when she sees the woman in the window. She’s looking at something across the street, both her palms pressed against the glass, her skin covered with black feathers. At first, Maria thinks she’s staring at nothing, like her father, but then she follows the trajectory of the woman’s stare. There is a school down the street.

She pushes the trolley further, until she’s by the school’s side wall. She can hear it now, the frantic fluttering, the sound of small bodies throwing themselves at the windows.

“Stay here,” she tells her dad, as if he could suddenly decide to up and leave. Fly away, just like he did in her dreams when she was little. Perhaps soon. But not yet. “I’ll try to let them out.”

She circles to the front of the school yard but finds the entrance chained shut from the outside. Someone locked these children in. She stays still, contemplating that fact. Someone locked all these children in. What did they think they were doing? Keeping them safe, maybe. Hopefully.

She makes her way around the block, looking for something she can use to break the windows. There is a pile of bricks by a building site that will do just fine. She fills her rucksack and circles back to the side of the school, weighing one of the bricks in her hand. She turns the corner, and then she freezes.

The hooded figure she saw earlier is standing next to her trolley holding a plastic bag filled with something lumpy. Looking at Maria’s father.

“Don’t hurt him!” Maria yells. Her fingers clench around the brick in her hand.

The hooded figure looks at her and then turns towards the school windows, swings the bag in circles high up in the air and then lets it fly towards the windows, breaking them.

A flight of swallows storms out of the school, a black-and-white, winged classroom taking to the sky.

When Maria looks back down, the hooded figure is gone.

She walks until her feet swell and she cannot push the trolley any further. An empty garage is just fine for the night since the weather is still mild. She thinks of all the newly turned birds—especially the small ones, the robins and the wrens. How many of them will survive the coming winter.

She pushes her father’s trolley next to the back wall and makes a nest out of cardboard boxes for herself. While drifting into sleep, she listens to her father’s breath growing less and less familiar.

She dreams of Simos. He’s standing at the edge of a vast lake, its waters calm and green. He has his back turned to her, his arms open as if he’s about to take flight.

“Simo?” she asks, her heart aching in her chest.

He doesn’t turn around. Instead, he looks up, and so does she.

A lamentation of swans soars above them, heading west towards the setting sun.

“Are you joining them?” she asks him, her tall, white swan of a husband.

Instead of answering her, he lets out a long, bleating cry and bends his knees, curls his arms.

She wakes up before he takes off.

The sound of someone rummaging through her rucksack draws her out of sleep.

Maria springs out of her nest as quickly as her belly allows and turns on her phone’s flashlight. The hooded figure is crouched over her rucksack. She’s a girl. She turns to look at Maria, holding her sonogram in one gloved hand, the other raised to shield her eyes from the light.

“Is this yours?” the girl asks. Her voice is muffled behind her gas mask, but she sounds young. Her frame is slender. She can’t be more than eighteen.

Maria lowers her phone so she doesn’t blind the girl. “Yes,” she says.

“How far along are you?”

Maria’s hand flies to her belly, meant to protect. She could scream at this girl, chase her off, punish her for trying to steal from her. She doesn’t. “Twenty-three weeks,” she says, then corrects herself. “Twenty-four now.”

The girl nods. She puts the sonogram carefully back in the rucksack and stands up. She lets her hood drop back and reaches out her hand.

“I’m Elena,” she says. “El.”

Maria takes a step closer, hesitates for a moment, but then she squeezes El’s hand. “Maria,” she says. “The most common name there is.”

El lets out a short, anxious laugh.

“Are you hungry?” Maria asks, motioning towards the cardboard boxes. “I can spare some drink and food, if that’s what you were looking for.”

El nods again but says nothing. She walks over to Maria’s nest and sits cross-legged on the cardboard. Maria takes two candy bars and two energy drinks out of the trolley and sets them in front of El.

Neither of them speaks for a while. El lifts her gas mask just enough to sip her drink or smuggle small pieces of food into her mouth. She is studying Maria’s father.

He looks smaller and smaller with every hour that passes—bits of his old self discarded, making way for the new.

“What happened to him?” El asks.

“He got scratched a few days ago. We were in Athens together, visiting a specialist for the baby, when the worst of the riots happened.”

“Why do you keep him around?”

“He’s my dad.”

The bird man turns his head slowly, as if to look at them. His neck is now covered with white feathers, his nose and chin merged into a long, dark orange beak. “I think he’s turning into a white stork. It was his favourite bird.” He will need to migrate for the winter, she wants to say, cross the Strait of Gibraltar in the west, or else the Levant in the east, on his way to warmer climates. She doesn’t say anything.

“Do you think he understands what we’re saying?”

Maria takes a moment sipping her drink. “I don’t know,” she says after a while. “He stopped making sense the day after he was infected. The fever didn’t last long. When it was gone, he stopped speaking altogether. I expect it won’t be long now.”

“Shouldn’t he have turned completely by now?”

Maria shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s fighting it.”

“Maybe it just takes longer for old people,” El says.

“Maybe.”

“Some people change very fast. Like that TV presenter who turned into a seagull live, in front of everyone. Did you see it?”

“Everyone saw that. It was what started the riots in Athens.” Maria looks at her father. She wonders whether it would be better if he changed fast. She wonders if it hurts.

“I’m sorry for going through your stuff,” El says. “I wasn’t trying to steal your supplies. I was looking for weapons.”

Maria looks at her sharply. “To take?”

“No. To decide whether I should stay away from you.”

Maria lets a moment pass before she speaks again. “Are you from around here?” she asks. “Do you have anyone?”

El stares at a dark patch on the floor but doesn’t reply.

Maria’s father makes a faint hissing sound and clatters his beak.

“Why does he do that?” El asks. “Can’t he sing?” She pauses. There’s an edge in her voice. “I’ve seen others that sounded like fucking songbirds,” she adds.

“Storks are voiceless, or almost voiceless, because they lack a fully developed syrinx,” Maria says. “That’s what the vocal organ of birds is called. It’s like a human larynx, but positioned in the chest, and it’s double-barrelled.” El gives her a look. She can hardly see the girl’s eyes behind her gas mask, but she can tell it’s one of puzzlement. “Imagine a person who has two flutes connecting their lips to their lungs, and they could play one with one lung, and the other with the air from the second lung.”

“How do you know all that stuff? Are you a biologist or something?”

Maria laughs. “No,” she says. “But my dad was. An ornithologist. I just liked birds.”

The sun emerges over the buildings across the street, its light splintering into the garage.

“I should go soon,” Maria says, standing up.

El nods and stands up too. She looks across the street, silent.

“Where are you going to go?” Maria asks her.

El shrugs. “I dunno,” she says.

“Would you like to come with me?”

“Where?”

“Home. I’m trying to get to my husband. He was busy when I left. That’s why I went with my father. I don’t know where he is now.”

“Is that who you were dreaming about earlier?” El asks. “When I woke you up?”

“Why? Did I say something?”

El hesitates. “No,” she says after a moment. “You just sounded like you were dreaming of someone you care about. Someone who’s gone.”

They walk for a long time, without speaking. They run into more and more half-turned ones the closer they get to the centre. Maria makes sure they give them a wide berth, to avoid provoking any kind of aggression. But it’s the unturned ones she worries about the most. Now and then, they see corpses: people stabbed to death, or their heads cracked open, abandoned on the streets like they were nothing. No, it’s not the plague that made us this way, she thinks. This is who we’ve always been.

El breaks the silence. “So did you walk all the way from Athens? That must have been hard, in your condition.” She sounds impressed and suspicious at the same time.

“No. I had a car. Cars, actually—I had to switch several times on the way, and only covered part of the distance on foot.”

El’s face settles on impressed. “Still,” she says. “Badass.”

Maria laughs. She turns to look at the girl. Her hair is dark and tangled, but the ends curl into big ringlets, just like her own. She could have been her daughter, in another life, another world.

“I wish I could see your face,” she says. “But don’t take off the mask!” she hurries to add. “It’s good that you have it. We can’t be sure how that thing spreads, or how it might mutate.”

El doesn’t respond. She runs her fingers through her hair, untangling some of the curls. She’s looking at the buildings around them as if scanning the area for something.

“Where did you get it, anyway?” Maria asks. “The mask.”

“My dad was a survivalist,” El says. She seems distracted. “I think it’s from WWI, or so he claimed. I don’t even know if it works.”

Maria inhales sharply, trying to find something comforting to say, but El intercepts her sympathy. “Oh, no, it’s not like that. He died when I was little, years ago.”

“I see,” Maria says. “And your mom?”

El suddenly stops walking. She looks at an alley to her left and says, very quietly: “She wasn’t around. I grew up with my uncle. Left when I was fifteen.”

Maria stops pushing the trolley and looks in the same direction. “What’s wrong?” she whispers.

“We’re actually very close to where my uncle lived,” El says. She raises her arm and points at the alley. “It’s two streets down that way.” She seems to waver for a moment, trying to make a decision. “I’ll go take a look,” she says finally. She glances at Maria. “You don’t have to come.”

“I know,” Maria says. “But I’m coming.”

They hear the hawk before they see it. It screeches and hurls itself against the glass door that leads to the verandah. Its sound is hoarse and alarming—like the scream of something that shouldn’t be able to scream.

“That must be my uncle,” El says.

Maria puts her hand on the girl’s shoulder. She doesn’t shrug it off. “I’m sorry,” Maria says.

“Don’t be,” El replies. She stands still, keeping her eyes on the bird.

“Should we free him?” Maria asks.

El takes a while to tear her gaze from that screaming bird. “No,” she says. Her voice is firm. “He was not a good person. Let him be.”

Maria nods. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that before,” El snaps and starts walking away. Then, she turns to Maria, her voice softer this time: “Come on. There used to be a pharmacy around the corner here. We should check it out.”

The pharmacy is a block further away than El remembered, but it’s still there. The door is bolted shut, but someone has cut a hole through the metallic shutters and broken the shop window. The place has clearly been ransacked, like everything else.

El slips carefully through the broken window and calls for Maria to follow her. Maria stays still for a second, closes her eyes and breathes in as deeply as she can. An image from long ago flashes in her mind: her father, much younger, splashing through the shallows of a lake rimmed with tall, yellow reeds. He’s trying to get to a wounded bird. An ibis with a broken leg, most likely hit by a motorboat that wasn’t supposed to be there. Her father used to say that people bring destruction to everything they touch. The lake is teeming with all kinds of birds, larks and flamingoes and storks, and it’s loud, it’s so loud. She’s standing at the edge of the water, struck speechless by the intensity of that sound. Her father reaches the bird and picks it up, and it doesn’t even flap its wings, it shows no sign of resistance. It just hangs there, limp in his arms. Light and broken.

Maria pulls a flashlight out of her rucksack and follows El into the pharmacy.

The place is still surprisingly full, despite having been broken into. El is already rummaging through the shelves and drawers in the back when Maria lets out a scream and drops her flashlight.

El rushes back to the main space, her blouse turned into a pouch and filled with small boxes. “What is it?” she asks.

Maria slowly crouches to the floor and picks up her flashlight. “Don’t speak,” she whispers. “Walk very slowly towards me.”

Then the hissing and the clicking start. Maria shines a light on the three round faces staring at them. The owls spread their wings and sway their heads back and forth in unison. Their hissing sends a chill down Maria’s spine, and her knees almost buckle. “We have to get out of here,” she says. “They will attack.”

El’s face looks pale in the half dark of the pharmacy. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, we’re going.”

They back away towards the hole in the window. El slips out first, then Maria makes her way through the hole backwards, shining her flashlight on the hissing owls the whole time.

They put some distance between themselves and the pharmacy before speaking again.

El is panting. Maria finds herself letting out a breath she’s been holding since she saw those otherworldly faces looking at her, their black eyes burrowing into her skin.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” El says.

“Those were barn owls,” Maria says. “That’s how they react to intruders. They would have attacked any minute.”

El shakes her head, and then, out of the blue, bursts out laughing. It’s a high-pitched, shrill laugh. “It’s like the fucking zombie apocalypse,” she says, fighting to breathe, “only with birds.”

Maria laughs too, even though her skin is still crawling.

When El has calmed down a little, Maria asks her what she found.

“Oh, you’re gonna love this,” El says. She empties her pouch onto the trolley. There’s ibuprofen, antibiotics, clear alcohol, gauze. Then she pauses for effect before producing another box out of her back pocket. “Tada!” she says.

It’s prenatal vitamins. Maria repeats that to herself slowly, her brain fighting to reconcile with the absurdity of this luxury. Her eyes fill with tears.

“Here,” the girl says, extending the arm holding the vitamins.

Instead of taking them, Maria envelops the girl into a hug. The gas mask is hard against her shoulder, El’s body stiff in her arms. But soon, the stiffness melts away, and El hugs her back.

“Thank you,” Maria says.

Then, the moment passes, and they start walking again. Above them, on the wires, on the balconies, on the roofs, thousands of birds stare at them, their cries piercing, their minds unreachable.

They cover the distance towards the centre of the city steadily, stopping to rest only when necessary, freeing trapped birds on the way whenever they can. Maria’s father has almost rid himself of his human exterior and emerged, it seems to her, as that which he’s always been. He’s standing in the trolley now, clattering his beak at any humans they come across, shrieking menacingly, as if to protect them. The song of a nightingale seems to be following them, has been with them for hours, sweet and melodic but slightly off-pitch, as if it’s still learning, still getting accustomed to its new voice.

“Where did you go after you stopped living with your uncle?” Maria asks El as they pass under a highway bridge. “You were so young.”

El takes her time before answering. “I was homeless for some time,” she says then. “This …” She makes a sweeping motion with her arm, showing the desolation that surrounds them—the corpses, the half-turned wretches breathing heavily, slumped against crumbling walls, all bird heads, bird eyes, uncertain wings. “This is not so different from before, for me.” She pauses. “Then I met the girl I loved, and I was happy for a long time, so don’t feel sorry for me. I’m one of the lucky ones. Her name was Iris.”

“Like the rainbow?”

“Yeah,” El says. “Like the rainbow.”

“What happened to her?”

El shrugs. “What do you think?” She faces Maria, her eyes behind her gas mask as inscrutable as that of birds. “She turned early on, into a tiny thing. A lark, I think.”

“That’s a songbird,” Maria says softly.

“Yeah,” El replies. “I know.”

Maria stays silent. El walks ahead, quickening her pace as if trying to run away. She doesn’t, though. Eventually, she stops and turns around, facing Maria again.

“We’re entering the centre soon,” El says.

“I know.”

“Are we close to your house?”

“Yes.”

El looks away. A murmuration of starlings passes overhead. “Do you miss him, your husband?” she asks.

Maria thumbs her phone, dead in her pocket. My bones ache from how much I miss him, she wants to say. She nods.

“I miss Iris too,” El says.

Maria looks up at the birds, their flight like a living cloud blotting out the sun. “I know,” she says.

Not too long to go now. Here in the city centre, entire blocks of buildings are completely burnt down. The whole place reeks of burnt tires and smoke. Maria’s calves ache from walking, even though El has taken over pushing the trolley. She manoeuvres it around upturned bins and abandoned cars. There is an open truck loaded with supplies—gallons of water and whole stacks of cans just left there, like an unfinished thought. A dog passes in front of them, holding a limp heron in its mouth. Maria shivers. Her head feels light, her face hot, as if tiny stingers are threading themselves through her skin. She stops, leans against the husk of a car. Her breathing is shallow and quick, her vision blurred.

“Hey,” El says, coming to stand next to her. “Hey, what is it?”

Maria pushes her hand against her chest, trying to keep something from spilling out of her, once and for all. Her throat feels tight, and yet she manages to speak. “What if he’s not there,” she says. “What if the house has burnt down, what if he’s …” Her voice breaks.

The girl pulls her into a hug with one quick, sure movement. “It’s okay,” she says. “You’re okay. I’m here with you.”

Maria lets herself be held until her breathing slows again, her vision clears.

The nightingale sings.

The building is still standing, the front door intact. El tries to open it.

“It’s locked,” she says. “Someone defended this place.” She smiles, making Maria’s heart flutter with something hot and terrifying like hope.

Maria fishes her keys out of her rucksack and unlocks the door. They push the trolley past the entrance and make their way up to Maria’s apartment on the third floor.

Everything is as she left it. The curtains are open, the place clean and tidy. It smells the same as always, feels the same as always. But Simos is not there.

He’s left a note on the fridge, like they used to, as if this were like any other time, as if this were just another sweet little note to brighten the other’s day, saying “Good morning, my bird” (yes, they used to call each other that, of all things, they did), or “Remember to take out the trash” followed by a scribbled, lopsided heart. But this note says:

Maria, my darling, my life,

I’m catching the first train to Athens. I’m coming to find you.

If you come home before I do, know this: I love you, forever and always.

Simos

It’s dated ten days ago, back when the news and the plague burnt through the country like wildfire. When things fell apart far more quickly than anyone could imagine.

A lot may have happened in ten days. A lot has.

Maria rests her head against the fridge door. She had thought about the possibility of not finding Simos, of never finding him. She had thought it would make her wail and cry, but now all she can feel is empty, drained of all that has carried her all the way from Athens back home.

El finds her like that and puts an arm around her shoulders.

“He’s not here,” Maria says. She hands her the note.

El nods. “Come on,” she says. “You need to rest.”

Maria refuses to lie in their bed. Instead, she collapses on the sofa and falls into a deep sleep that feels like nothing.

When she wakes, it’s dark. El is nowhere in sight.

“El?” she cries out, something frantic rising in her chest.

“Next door!” the girl calls back.

She finds her at her neighbours’ apartment, petting their cat—it used to be a majestic, fluffy thing, its pelvic bones now sticking out. The cat purrs, rubbing against El’s calf.

“I think she ate her owners,” El says, pointing at a small pile of feathers and bones a few meters away.

“That was Mr. and Mrs. Anastasiou,” Maria says, crouching to pet the cat herself.

“Should we let her out?”

Maria nods. She finds the cat food in the kitchen, fills a small tub with fresh water. “Let’s go back,” she says. “We’ll come back to look for things we can use in the morning, let her out then.”

Back in Maria’s apartment, they light the fireplace and boil water to bathe. They find clean clothes for both of them to change into. Then, Maria makes them tea and a simple meal of boiled potatoes. It’s the first warm food either of them has had in days.

They eat in silence, watching the flames.

“Were you close with your dad?” El asks when the fire has almost died down.

Maria rubs her eyes. “We were working on it,” she says. “We were not close when I was growing up. He spent way more time with his birds than he did with us. Sometimes he was violent. He had a few affairs. My mother was a deeply unhappy woman. She passed away without ever saying a word.” She pauses. “We have both been trying to make things better since then; it was too late, though. I love him, but there was not enough time to forgive him. I don’t know if I ever will.”

“I’m sorry,” El says. She has removed her gas mask for the first time since they met. Her eyes are dark brown, gleaming in the fire’s dying light.

“Sometimes I think it’s all our fault, this whole bird plague,” Maria says. “My family’s. As if it was our unspoken darkness that infected everyone.”

El looks at her, her gaze a mystery.

“I know it’s silly,” Maria says. “Self-centred.”

“I don’t think it’s silly,” El says. “I used to think Iris was the source of every rainbow on Earth.”

Maria smiles. “This is one of the sweetest things I’ve ever heard,” she says.

“I’ve been looking for a rainbow ever since she turned. I’ve never wished so hard for rain before.”

Maria scoots over close to El and wraps her arms around her. They stay like that, looking at the embers for a long time.

So, baby, let’s see if I’m getting any better at this.

Listen. I’ll start again. Are you listening?

Once upon a time, there was a King who loved birds so much he wanted to take one as his bride. And so he went to the Queen of the Birds in the sky and begged her to give him one of her daughters to marry. The Bird Queen accepted, but said that there would be a price to pay. And the price was that the King would have to give his firstborn daughter to the Bird Queen in exchange for the one she had given up.

Years passed, and the King was happy with his bird bride, but then she laid an egg, and sat on it for a long time, and didn’t let him near her egg until it hatched. And when it hatched, out came a beautiful baby girl with perfect human eyes and the softest of wings. And the King knew that he had to give that baby up to the Bird Queen as he’d promised, but his bride begged him not to take her daughter away. And so the King, soft-willed as he was when it came to his wife and daughter, let them be. They named their daughter Maria, the most common name there is, to make it harder for the Bird Queen to find her. And the Bird Queen did not find out that the King had broken his promise to her, until the girl had grown up and become a Queen herself, and the King was now an Old King, unable to take care of himself. Then the Bird Queen grew so furious that she cursed the whole Kingdom, for she had been cheated out of a daughter. And if she couldn’t have her promised daughter back, she would have them all.

And this, baby, is why there are so many birds in this world.

In the morning, they drink instant coffee and have breakfast and vitamins and change into fresh clothes simply because they can.

“Now what?” El asks, looking out the window.

Maria keeps silent, packing a bag full of essentials.

“I know you want to find him …” El starts, but Maria gives her a sharp look and she stops, her phrase hanging in the air, unfinished but clear. “We could stay here,” El says.

“You can stay here for as long as you like,” Maria says. She looks out the window too. “I have to look for him. But first I want to go somewhere high up. Somewhere I can see the city from above.”

El takes a few moments before she speaks again. “All right,” she says. “Let’s go.”

They make their way up to the old castles, the Byzantine walls that used to mark the outer edge of the city, long ago. Maria’s father is now entirely a white stork. She can’t take her eyes off him, studying him with an intensity that makes the rest of the world around her nothing but a blur. She observes his dark orange beak on his white head, the white-feathered body ending in silky-black plumage, his long, thin legs. His eyes have taken on a new shine, and he spends more and more time staring up at the sky.

What are you looking at, daddy? Maria asks silently. What passes through your mind? My father is a stork, she thinks, and there’s nothing about him that would make someone say: that is not a bird like any other bird in the world, that is a man who turned into a stork.

El didn’t put her gas mask back on when they left the house this morning. When Maria asked her about it, she shrugged her shoulders in a way that frightened her, but she didn’t press it further.

Maria runs her palm down the curve of her belly as they settle on a gently sloping terrace in front of the old wall, overlooking the city. She can see everything from up here, all the way to the sea: the countless churches, their bells now mute, the cemetery next to the St. Dimitrios Hospital, the jumble of multistorey buildings and the old train station, the cranes at the city port—the machines, not the birds, their beaks dipped low near the surface of the water. And further out, beyond the sea, she can even make out Mt. Olympus, its peak perpetually covered in snow.

A phalanx of storks rises from the city centre and flies towards them, their mighty wings flapping.

“Do you think they were humans, once, these groups of birds, all of them?” El asks. “Like whole villages or neighbourhoods or something? Or are they just birds?”

Maria shields her eyes from the rising sun, the storks’ V shape etched on her vision in reverse. A city emptied out. A country that flew away. “Is there a difference anymore?”

Then, when the birds have almost reached the walls, her father lets out a high-pitched croak and takes off. He glides for a minute, uncertain, but then he gains height, rising up higher and higher, until he reaches the rest of the birds and joins their phalanx. They fly away towards the west, all of them, Maria’s father now completely indistinguishable from any other stork.

A knot rises in her throat. She covers her face with her palms and breathes.

“Are you okay?” El asks.

Maria is about to answer that no, she’s not, when someone lunges at her from behind, knocking her down. She catches a glimpse of the man’s black eyes before her chin hits the ground. He turns her around and presses her against the dirt, trying to rip her rucksack off her back. She can hear El trying to tear him from her, and she wants to shout, but all the air has escaped her lungs.

Then there’s a thud, and the man rolls away from her body. He staggers for a moment, holding the side of his head with a feathered arm.

El is holding a large, bloodied rock. She lets it drop to the ground when the man turns around and runs away.

El rushes to Maria’s side and helps her up.

“I’m okay,” Maria says, rubbing her shoulder.

“No,” El says. Her face is pale, her eyes rimmed with red. “No,” she says again. She grabs Maria’s arm and twists it gently so she can see her elbow. “He scratched you,” she says. “He scratched you.”

The fever comes to her like a wave, warming and soft, almost comforting. It envelops her body, every inch of it, burning away her fear, silencing her alarm. And so, she welcomes it. It shows her visions that remind her of herself when she was young, on her few trips with her father when he took her with him to work: the singing reeds, the mother ducks, the overcast skies, the lovely mud teeming with tadpoles and tiny, shiny life. It speaks to her too; it speaks the language of rustling leaves, of raining clouds and of waves crested with foam.

El is by her side the whole time.

“Leave,” Maria begs her. “Leave, leave.” But she doesn’t.

Then, the skin on her belly feels like it is being stung from the inside, and there is the terrible certainty of something leaving her body that can never come back. There is warmth between her legs. She sits up, leans against the castle wall and looks down, reaching with her hand at her crotch. She finds tiny feathers and blood.

Behind her eyelids, Simos is taking flight.

When the fever starts to wane, Maria holds up her hands in front of her, expects to find them covered in feathers, but her fingers are still as she knows them, her skin, her wrist, her wedding ring.

“My hands are trembling,” she says.

El takes them in hers, holds them, steadies them.

“It’s okay,” she says.

“What are you going to do?” Maria asks.

El’s dark eyes are moist, overcast. You smell like a cloud, Maria wants to say.

“I don’t know,” El says. “I might go back to your place, if that’s okay. Stay for a while. See if the cat comes back.”

Maria smiles. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.” Her skin feels soft. Her bones light. She’s sinking into something old and without a name.

El snaps her fingers, trying to get her attention. “Hey,” she says. “That fairy tale you’ve been telling every night since we met. How does it end?”

“I don’t know.” The air. The air.

“Come on,” El says. “Make it up.”

Her head is swimming in air, her gaze long, the horizon close, so close. “I can’t,” she says.

“Please,” El begs. “I want to hear it.”

“I can’t,” Maria whispers.

“Try? For me?”

“Okay,” Maria says.

“Make it a happy one,” El says. Her eyes are full of rain.

“Okay. I’ll try.”

Once upon a time, after the Old King was long gone, and the Bird Queen had flown away, and the young Queen had withered and died, there was a kingdom without a king, and a queendom without a queen, and it was known around the world as the land with the most beautiful birds.

A sharp pain in her lung, a long whistle.

There were very few people living in this land. But there was a girl, a strong girl, who lived by a lake and liked to watch the larks fly off every morning and come back every night. And she was happy, because she got to watch this exaltation of larks every day. And when they weren’t flying, the larks sang the wisest of songs. And so one day the girl fell in love with a lark.

The lark loved her back. And then one day the lark gave her.

The lark gave her a kiss.

And the girl said, “I didn’t know larks could kiss.” But they could, they could.

And the lark said, “Are you ready to fly?”

Long lost lips. A flutter of inner wings.

And then she. And then I.

Her thoughts trail into song.

ABOUT NATALIA THEODORIDOU

Natalia Theodoridou is a Media & Cultural Studies scholar, an editor at sub-Q interactive fiction magazine, and a writer of strange stories. Her work has appeared in Clarkesworld, Apex, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Shimmer, and elsewhere. For more, visit her

#Natalia Theodoridu #The Birding #short story #long post #also: word fantasy award winning story

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