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lostfracturess · 2 months

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【 ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ 】 9

x PAIRING gojo satoru x fem!reader (main); megumi fushiguro x fem!reader x WORD COUNT 7.8 k x SUMMARY you never wanted to become part of the world of jujutsu sorcerers, yet fate had other plans when the one and only satoru gojo took you under his wing at jujutsu high. as the lines between student and teacher begin to blur, hidden powers surge to life, and a deadly target is set on your head. x WARNINGS + NOTES this story contains partly abusive and possessive behavior, explicit content, graphic depictions of violence, injury, combat and angst. you can also read it on wattpad or ao3. pls like or repost if you enjoyed ♡

➸ ch 1; ch 2; ch 3; ch 4; ch 5; ch 6; ch 7; ch 8

tw: character death; suicidal thoughts

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐨.

When was it really that it all fell down?

Was it when Yuji lost control?

Was that the first downfall?

Yuji was not one to lose control.

He never really did. But after what happened on that mission, he lost it all. And somehow, you felt like you lost a part of yourself that day as well. The horrors you witnessed etched into your very soul, leaving scars that may never heal.

You never wanted to see him like that again.

Maybe that was the day everything changed.

As you came to your senses, a scene of nightmarish destruction unfolded before your eyes. Smoke and dust filled the air, obscuring the sun and plunging the world into a cruel twilight. The ground was marred by deep craters, festering wounds in the earth's flesh.

It was a battlefield that bore the marks of Satoru's destructive fury rather than Yuji's.

No.

Not Yuji's.

He's not cruel.

He's not violent.

But Sukuna is.

You couldn't really remember what happened. You were on this mission. Curses swarmed from all sides. One moment, you stood beside Yuji, and the next, you passed out and found yourself thrown to the unforgiving ground.

A ringing in your ears drowned out the world around you. It rang through your skull, piercing your mind like a thousand needles. Pain shot into your temple. You raised your hand to your face. It came away slick with blood.

Your vision was blurred and distorted, turning the world into a series of bright, disjointed images. Perhaps that was an attempt by your brain to protect you. Protecting you from the gruesome truth, refusing to accept the horrors that had unfolded before your eyes.

But the stench of ash and blood was so strong, you could almost taste it on your tongue.

This was no dream. It was a nightmare.

You wanted to cry out for Satoru. But he wasn't there. You were alone on a mission with him.

Satoru was not there to help you.

You hastily examined your body. Somehow all parts of your body were still there and seemed to be functioning. You gathered your strength to pull yourself to your feet. The throbbing pain from the gash on your head strangely absent, drowned out by the chaos around you.

Where was Yuji?

When the dust settled, you saw him.

Sukuna's marks disappeared from his body.

He lay sprawled beneath a heap of debris. His lifeless form pressed into the unforgiving earth. His face was buried in the dirt. He didn't move. Your heart clenched.

You staggered toward him. Your bloody hands desperately clawed away the rubble that imprisoned him. Your hands slipped a few times, unable to get a grip. Finally, you freed him, rolled him onto his front, and hovered over him. Your trembling fingers cupped his pale face.

"Yuji!" you screamed, your voice tearing through the eerie stillness. "Yuji, wake up!"

And then, a gasp.

Life returned to him, his chest rising and falling as air once again filled his lungs.

You brushed away the dust from his face. Relief washed over you as warmth seeped back into his pale features.

"Yuji, wake up. It's over."

Yuji's eyelids quivered open. His eyes welled up with tears, cascading down his cheeks like a torrent.

What?

Why did he cry?

You wanted him to stop.

Why didn't he stop?

You didn't want to see him cry.

That wasn't Yuji. That wasn't the kindhearted man you knew.

Before you lay a broken young man-a young man grappling with a burden too heavy-a curse too dark. His body convulsed with sobs as he lay there. His gaze avoided yours, as if unable to meet your eyes.

"I'm sorry," he choked out between sobs. His lips quivered uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry."

His once-vibrant eyes were bloodshot. Tear tracks streaked his cheeks, carving pathways through the grime and gore that marred his face.

Words failed you. You didn't know what to say. What you could ever say. Nothing you could say would be enough. All you could do was stare, absorbing the sheer horror and pain etched into every line of his face as he cried.

"I'm so sorry, I lost control." His sobs grew more violent. "I should just die," he screamed before shielding his face with his hands from your relentless gaze.

He tore at his eyes, as if attempting to gouge out the pain within. You grabbed his wrist. "Stop it, Yuji! it's not your fault!" you screamed, your voice a desperate plea that seemed to echo in the blood-soaked battlefield.

But it didn't reach him.

"I'm no good. All I do is evil!" His voice choked with despair, tears streaming down his face like a relentless cascade.

"Yuji, listen to me," you tried to pierce through the chaos of his mind. "You are not your curse! You are not a monster!"

But his fingers continued their merciless assault on his eyes. You were afraid that if you couldn't stop him, he might actually rip his own eyes out in his madness.

You felt like you were about to cry. You wanted to cry. But no tears came out. There was only the feeling of your heart being torn to shreds.

He was not a monster. He couldn't be.

Because if he was, then you surely were one too.

His fingers dug deeper into his skin, leaving cruel, bloody streaks etched against his pale complexion.

In a desperate attempt to reach him, you let go of his wrists and instead cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. His eyes were glassy, tears spilling over, but they did nothing to wash away the terror within them. You felt so utterly, entirely useless.

"Yuji, this is not what you are. You are not him!"

"I am. I am responsible for all of this," he whispered, his voice barely more than a fragile thread. "I don't know if I can keep doing this."

His words struck you like a dagger through the heart.

How could he say something like that?

"Shut up, Yuji! If I can keep doing it, you can too!" you yelled at him, your own frustration and desperation coming to the surface. You couldn't let him surrender to the darkness, for if he did, it would mean accepting that you were just as much a monster as he feared himself to be.

"Weren't you the one who always told me, it's not me? It's not me who violently killed? It's my cursed technique? It's the evil of cursed energy itself? So listen to me, Yuji, when I say it's not you, it's Sukuna! You're not him! And I'm not my cursed technique!"

He was silenced. Your grip on his face tightened as his terrified eyes locked onto yours.

"If I can live with this burden, you can too. You're stronger than me," you whispered, your voice softening with a plea. "So please, Yuji, keep fighting. Because if you don't, I'm not sure if I can."

Yuji's tears ceased as you continued to speak.

"What role do we have in this world if we admit that we are monsters? Tell me, Yuji. What reason do we have to keep on living then? We can never undo the damage we've done, but we can try to make it right. It's either that or surrender to the darkness that threatens to consume us."

Your hands trembled.

Your hands trembled so violently, you had to withdraw them from his face. You clenched them together, your knuckles white with tension.

Satoru never let you go on a mission alone with Yuji again.

So tell me, when was it really that it all fell down?

Was it back then? When you saw the terror in Yuji's eyes?

Was it then when you decided to protect what was left of Yuji's humanity?

Or was it when you met Satoru, the sorcerer who has altered the course of your life forever?

Who stole your heart?

Was it then that you wanted to do everything possible to protect them?

To protect him?

But the truth is, it didn't really matter anymore, did it?

None of these questions could change the brutal reality of the present.

****

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭.

Your hands trembled again.

Your hands trembled so violently, you had to dig your fingers into the palm of your hand to silence them. Blood dripped down.

Was this the final downfall?

Rising to your feet, the world around you blurred into chaos. You watched as Satoru collapsed to the ground. His breathing ragged and heavy. Blood poured from his wounds, staining the earth beneath him, as if the very ground wept for the tragedy that had befallen.

Each heartbeat felt like a crushing weight. Perhaps your heart could no longer bear the pain of beating. You hastily wiped away the tears that blurred your vision.

You had to be fast. Satoru would soon recover.

You moved quickly, weaving through the ruins of the battlefield. The pain coursing through your body was almost unbearable, and you longed for nothing more than to surrender to the agony that threatened to overwhelm you.

Then you saw them. Megumi and Yuji. Megumi rushed towards you, his brow furrowed. "What's happening? Where's Gojo?" he demanded, blocking your path.

"Megumi, just trust me," you pleaded, your voice strained.

"It's hard to trust you when you're acting like this."

As you tried to walk past him, he reached out and grabbed your wrist, halting you. His intense gaze piercing through you, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

"Swear to me you're not doing anything reckless," he said.

Time was running out.

Tears streaked down your cheeks. "Don't make me hurt you, Megumi."

Megumi gritted his teeth. "What are you saying?"

You held his gaze, hoping he would trust you enough-trust you enough to let you go.

"Let's just go home," he begged. "Please."

The weight of it all pressed down upon your battered form. You knew that you couldn't bear it much longer. Yet, you pushed forward, no matter the cost, no matter the pain.

"I can't."

He was torn. He was torn between stopping you and letting you go.

He knew that if he let you go, you would not back down, not now, not when you were so close. He knew he would have to kill you to stop you. So he let go. Knowing that whatever was to come was partly his fault. He would never forgive himself. But neither would he be able to hurt you.

Not you.

So he let go of your wrist.

He felt like he was signing your death sentence.

You turned away from him and sprinted towards Yuji.

Your heart raced. You wanted to rip it out.

Yuji looked up at you, his eyes filled with fear and terror. It was the same haunting expression he had worn when he lost control. You swore yourself you never wanted to see him ever again like this. But now you were the one he feared. The one he was so scared of.

It hurt. It hurt you to see him like that. When will there be an end to the pain.

Time seemed to slow down as you approached Yuji. He opened his mouth to speak, to reach out to you, but you stretched your trembling hand over his face, cutting off his words-sealing his fate.

"Domain Expansion."

****

"Who are you?"

Sukuna cracked open an eye to peer down at you from his shrine. His crimson eyes drilling into your very soul. Your blood run cold.

You briefly glanced down at your feet. You stood ankle-deep in blood. The surroundings had twisted into a nightmarish version of reality. Crimson shadows danced and twisted around the space like tortured souls.

This was no longer your domain, was it? Had Sukuna taken control of it somehow? But how was that even possible?

No.

Drown out your thoughts.

Calm Down.

It will work.

"Don't even remember me?" you asked.

He pondered for a moment, his lips forming a cruel, mocking smile. "Aren't you the Fujiwara woman, who crumbled so easily when the brat lost control? Why are you here? Do you want to die?"

"I'm here to end you," you declared, your grip on your weapon tightening.

Sukuna burst into raucous laughter. Slowly, he sat up, his curiosity piqued. "My ending, huh? Bold statement. Let's see if you can justify it, wife of Satoru Gojo."

You flinched. Of course, Sukuna knew everything, just as Yuji did. Get a fucking grip on yourself. It was all part of the plan. The one slim chance you had to reach Sukuna and end this nightmare once and for all.

It's ok.

It will work.

You didn't need to beat him-just reach him. That's all. Then it would all be over.

****

𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨.

"How can you be sure it will work?"

Snowflakes landed softly on your shoulders. Yet, the cold air was sharp, biting at any exposed skin. Each breath you took sent a small cloud of vapor into the frigid air.

Jack turned to you. "I can't guarantee it."

"So, it's a suicide mission?" you asked, a wry half-smile touching your lips.

"Not if you can control your cursed technique," he countered, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Sukuna's strength lies in his cursed energy, flowing through his fingers. Disrupt that, and you'll render him powerless."

"Forever?"

"I guess so."

You raised an eyebrow. "You 'guess' so?"

Jack met your gaze, his eyes serious. "Like I said, I can't guarantee it. But based on what we know, yes, it should be permanent. If you can connect with him, even for a moment, you can use your cursed technique to break the flow of his cursed energy. But you need the fingers-they're the key."

"-and so easy to obtain," you added with a hint of irony.

"Mahito has them. All of Sukuna's fingers. You'll need to defeat him to get them. But there's a problem-he's with Kenjaku."

"Kenjaku?" You paused mid-step, the snow crunching under your boots. "This plan is becoming more insane by the second."

"You just have to separate them somehow, then go after Mahito to get the fingers."

"You say it all like it's nothing."

Jack's expression was grave. "I know it sounds insane, but it's the only way. And you are the only one who can do it."

You resumed walking. Each step felt heavy.

"And once I have the fingers, what's next? I have to fight Sukuna?"

"No," Jack shook his head. "This isn't about fighting him. It's about timing. When he makes contact, use that moment. With your cursed technique you can stop the flow of his cursed energy. You just have to be connected to his fingers at the same time as his body and stop it all."

He was surely insane.

Why did you want to meet him in the first place?

Ah. Right. How could you forget.

"I can stop the flow of cursed energy, but I've never done it permanently. And we're talking about the King of Curses here," you said.

"But you managed it with Gojo, didn't you?"

"Yes, but not permanently, as you might have guessed."

"If it worked on Gojo, it's likely to work on Sukuna too."

"And about making it permanent?" you pressed.

"That's the part where you'll have to improvise," Jack admitted. "There are no guarantees, but it's the best shot we have."

"What happens afterwards, if I can actually do it?"

The question hung in the cold air.

"He'll be rendered powerless," Jack said. "Stripped of his cursed abilities."

"And Yuji will return to being a normal guy," you mused, coming to a halt and locking eyes with Jack. "Free of Sukuna's influence."

Jack nodded.

With a heavy exhale, you tilted your head back, gazing up at the sky. Soft snowflakes landed gently on your face, melting instantly against your heated skin.

"Pick a side, Fujiwara. You can end this curse forever," Jack continued. "It's your chance for atonement. Your clan has already caused enough damage."

****

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭.

His eyes bored into you, a predator closing in on its prey.

The air shifted as Sukuna moved.

Sukuna lunged, his movements a blur. His hand sliced through the air towards you. Every instinct screamed to dodge, to evade, but you stood still. This was the moment you had prepared for, the moment that everything depended on.

The sharp, searing pain was immediate as Sukuna's hand made contact, slicing through your flesh. Agonizing waves of pain coursed through your being, threatening to rip your consciousness apart.

"Wow, you're just as easily crushed as all your other pathetic family members. How lame," Sukuna sneered, spitting on the ground. "But you, you were by far the weakest."

You grinned. "You think so?"

You seized his arm where it had gouged into the side of your abdomen with one hand and clenched his fingers tightly with the other.

You activated your cursed technique, tapping into the link that had just been formed. A burst of your own energy surged through the link, colliding head-on into the onslaught of Sukuna's cursed energy.

It was overwhelming. It was a malevolence beyond anything you had ever felt-a manifestation of pure evil that seemed to transcend the boundaries of human comprehension. It swept over you like a tidal wave. But you held firm.

You envisioned the flow of his cursed energy, visualized it coming to a halt, and poured every ounce of your will into making it a reality.

Sukuna's laughter died. His eyes widened. The realization of what was happening dawned on him too late. You could feel his cursed energy faltering, its flow stuttering under your influence.

Your grin widened.

But in the blink of an eye, strong arms seized you.

The walls of your domain shattered like fragile glass in a storm. You were hurled backwards with staggering force. Your connection to Sukuna's cursed energy snapped, leaving you disoriented and robbed of the taste of victory that had been so tantalizingly close.

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

No!

So close.

You were so close to stop it forever.

You crashed to the ground, wrapped in Satoru's arms. He held you close to him. He held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world, as if by sheer will, he could protect you from the cruel twist of fate-or form yourself.

"Let me go, Satoru!"

Your legs kicked wildly in his grasp. Your fingers gripped his arms violently, nails digging into his flesh. You screamed and fought against Satoru's unyielding hold.

Your fingernails dug deeper into his flesh, leaving furious red welts and rivulets of blood in their wake. You could feel the shudder that ran through his body as he endured your assault. But in that moment, you didn't care.

For what were those minor scratches compared to the pain Satoru had endured during those agonizing minutes when he believed he had lost you?

It was nothing.

A small sacrifice.

Nothing you could do would be nearly as painful to him as the suffering he had experienced while unconscious, not knowing where you were.

So when he saw your domain, he had no choice but to destroy it-free you-bring you back to him.

"Let go, damn it!" you hissed through gritted teeth.

"Stop it, love. It's enough!" His grip around you tightened, each painful squeeze of your wounded flesh adding to your agony. "What can I do to make you stop? Tell me. I'd do anything for you," Satoru's voice was soft, almost breaking, as he pleaded with you, his breath warm against your neck.

As you strained against his grip, you became painfully aware of his heartbeat. You could feel the warmth of his body, inhale the familiar scent of him that was unmistakably Satoru. It was all so awfully familiar. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you stopped fighting against his embrace.

"It's too late, Satoru. We have to do this now, or it's over forever," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper. Resignation flowed through you, leaving you limp in his arms. The fight had drained out of you. All that remained was the harsh reality of the situation.

This was it.

The last downfall.

Sukuna, having partially taken control of Yuji, was closer than ever to seizing all his fingers. If you didn't stop him now, no one ever could.

"Then let Sukuna take over. It doesn't matter. You're all that matters." He paused, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "Don't you understand? I can't lose you."

He was willing to sacrifice everything.

He had seen you nearly slip away too many times, and he couldn't bear to lose you again.

It had always been a dance of love and pain, sacrifice and betrayal. The wounds from past battles still lingered, scars etched deep into your heart. But despite the hurt, the love had never wavered, an unbreakable thread that bound you together.

Yes, he was willing to sacrifice everything for you.

But so were you.

You knew that it was your turn to make the sacrifice. To put an end to the suffering that had haunted you both for far too long.

"Sorry, do I interrupt the lovely couple?"

Sukuna's voice cut through the tension like a blade. His steps were slow as he approached, his crimson eyes locked onto both of you. Your heart raced, but you couldn't let fear consume you now. There was too much at stake.

He halted a few meters away, across from you.

"Satoru-" You whispered his name, a last desperate plea.

Satoru took a deep inhale. He lifted his head from where it had been nestled in your hair. "How long do we have left?"

"His cursed energy is suppressed, but only for another minute, maybe two."

"Then we need to be fast," he said, releasing you from his protective hold. "Will your plan still work?"

"I hope so." Your hand instinctively went to your belt, relieved to feel the fingers of Sukuna still securely fastened there. Your body ached. You were far beyond your limits, but the familiar rush of adrenaline dulled the pain. "It would have worked if you hadn't destroyed my domain," you added as you turned to face him.

He met your gaze squarely. "Consider it payback for stabbing me with that damn dagger of yours," he retorted, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

"Ha? You started it by throwing a fucking car at me!"

Sukuna watched silently, almost bemused. Then, with a heavy sigh, as if tired of the delay, he lunged towards you both. In a flash, Megumi positioned himself in front of you and Satoru, blocking Sukuna's attack.

"Can you save this discussion for couples therapy and focus on the fight?" Megumi shouted.

"What do you need?" Satoru quickly asked you.

"An opening."

"Nothing easier than that," Satoru replied, a hint of a cruel smile playing on his lips.

In a flash, he lunged forward into the fray. "Move, Megumi!" he shouted. Without hesitation, Megumi dodged and cleared the way for Satoru to unleash his full power.

Satoru's fist drew back. Then, with explosive force, he unleashed his punch. His fist met Sukuna's jaw, and an instant shockwave tore through the air.

Sukuna was hurled backwards. He crashed into the remains of a building with a bone-shattering thud. The already fragile structure groaned and crumbled under the immense impact. Dust and debris filled the air, obscuring the aftermath of Satoru's devastating attack.

As the dust settled and the debris slowly cleared, Satoru's eyes remained fixed on the spot where Sukuna had been thrown.

Then, from the midst of the wreckage, a chilling laughter echoed. Sukuna emerged from the rubble, his form astonishingly unharmed. He brushed aside the debris that clung to him. His crimson eyes burned with malevolent fire.

"Is that the best you've got, Gojo?" he taunted.

Satoru cracked his knuckles and assumed a fighting stance. "I was just getting warmed up."

But you knew him better. You knew what you'd done to him, you'd stopped his cursed energy, and he wasn't quite back. His injuries still lingered, his cursed energy faltered. He was far from his peak. But so was Sukuna.

In an explosive burst of speed, Sukuna closed the gap on Satoru, their clash causing a shockwave that shook the surrounding.

Megumi clenched his fists and called his divine dog to his side. "Go to the left!" Without hesitation, you darted to the left, circling around to flank Sukuna.

Sukuna's fist flew towards Satoru's face. Satoru dropped to the ground. In one fluid motion, Satoru twisted his body and unleashed a powerful kick from the ground, sending Sukuna flying over your head.

For a brief moment, Sukuna soared overhead. Your eyes locked with his.

Defying gravity and physical limitations, Sukuna regained control mid-air and hurtled towards you. But Megumi's divine dog was at your side in an instant, shielding you with its form.

In the next heartbeat, Satoru was there. "Don't touch my wife!" His kick connected with Sukuna, sending the cursed spirit flying away from you with a force that echoed through the battlefield.

What the hell was Satoru doing?

Time was running out.

"What are you doing, Satoru?!" you shouted. "I need to physically touch him, stop sending him flying miles away from me!"

"Oh right, sorry." Satoru landed back beside you, his feet barely touching the ground before he moved again.

Simultaneously, you and Satoru charged forward. Sukuna swiftly regained his footing. In a blur of movement, Satoru's fist shot forward, aiming for Sukuna. His punch smashed into the brick wall where Sukuna's head had been a split second earlier. Chunks of brick flew into the air.

Sukuna exploited the brief opening. He lunged towards you, bypassing Satoru. You tensed, preparing for the impact, but Satoru was faster.

Satoru parried the attack with a swift, powerful kick to Sukuna's midsection. Blood spurted from Sukuna's mouth. Without missing a beat, Satoru followed up with a lightning-fast jab to Sukuna's face.

"Now!" he yelled, spotting an opening.

You lunged forward. But Sukuna quickly regained his footing. He leaped back, dodging Satoru's punch with a fluidity that belied his injured state. He parried, sending Satoru reeling back.

In the blink of an eye, Sukuna's hand shot out, gripping your leg with an iron grasp. He swept your legs from under you. You crashed to the ground.

Looking up, Sukuna towered over you, his grin malicious. His crimson eyes glinted with malevolence. But before he could make a move, Megumi's divine dog intervened. Its huge form crashed into Sukuna and tore him away from you.

Megumi rushed to your side. "You good?" he asked, offering a hand.

"Never been better," you grabbed his hand, pulling yourself up swiftly.

Satoru was back on Sukuna, delivering a powerful kick. Sukuna dodged. He countered with a fast jab to Satoru's torso, breaking bone with a sickening crack.

Megumi, not missing a beat, joined the fight, his movements synchronized with Satoru's. They worked in unison-teacher and student.

Megumi feigned an attack, drawing Sukuna's attention. Satoru sought an opening. They were relentless, a blur of rapid strikes and feints as they pushed Sukuna to his limits.

Sukuna's desperate defense faltered. His movements became erratic. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, the stench of blood filling the air. Sukuna found himself cornered as Satoru and Megumi closed in for the kill.

There was no way to escape now.

They had him.

At Satoru's call, you burst into action.

Sprinting forward, you positioned yourself between Satoru and Megumi. You didn't hesitate. Your hand shot out, seizing Sukuna's chest in an iron grip, while your other hand retrieved his severed fingers from your belt.

With a deep breath, you activated your cursed technique once more, tapping into the fragile link you had established. Sukuna's cursed energy surged through the connection, dark and malevolent, but you were ready for it this time.

You had felt it before.

Now, all that mattered was stopping it-halting it forever.

You closed your eyes. The world around you faded into the background as you focused solely on the flow of cursed energy. Satoru and Megumi held Sukuna in place, their combined efforts restraining the sorcerrer.

But then, you sensed a change-a surge of power that shouldn't have been possible. Sukuna's cursed energy roared back to life.

It was too late.

Your eyes snapped open. You starred directly into Sukuna's eyes. He grinned.

"Too late," Sukuna sneered.

In an instant, Sukuna unleashed a devastating shockwave of cursed energy. It erupted like an tempest, its sheer force sending Satoru and Megumi hurtling backward. Their hold on Sukuna shattered.

But you stood still, your hand still pressed firmly against Sukuna's chest. You blocked the surge of cursed energy that rushed at you, deflecting it away from you. The chaotic energy swirled and raged around you.

The ground beneath your feet shattered and ripped open. You twisted your feet to get more grip, holding your ground against Sukuna's overwhelming power.

The world descended into sheer chaos.

What do you think, was it then when it all fell down?

Perhaps.

Satoru and Megumi shouted. But their voices were drowned out by the chaotic force. Satoru cried out desperately, pleading with you to stop, to step away from the maelstrom, to return to him.

And you wanted to do that. You really wanted to. You wanted nothing more than to heed his call, to turn back to the safety of his arms.

But it was too late, wasn't it?

It was all too late.

You drowned out Satoru's pleas, the sound of his voice breaking with each desperate scream of your name. The searing heat of Sukuna's cursed energy scorched your skin. You felt your flesh tearing apart, wounds ripping open across your battered form.

You looked eyes with Sukuna. His crimson eyes bored into you, but all you could do was smile. Your lips twisted into a wry grin as you felt his cursed energy slowing.

You could almost feel the grinding halt of Sukuna's cursed energy in your mind's eye, pouring every ounce of your will into making it a reality.

Sukuna seized your arm. His grip brutal. His fingers dug into your flesh, drawing forth a wellspring of blood. You winced at the pain, but your focus did not waver. Then Sukuna's hand shot towards your torso with lethal precision.

The pain was sharp and immediate as Sukuna's hand pierced your flesh. A wave of agony ripped through you, so intense it was almost blinding. Blood trickled from your mouth, but all you could do was grin at Sukuna.

"Too late," you echoed his earlier taunt. In that moment, as your blood spilled and your body screamed in pain, you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you had succeeded.

Sukuna's laughter died. His eyes widened. The realization of what was happening dawned on him too late. You felt the flow of his cursed energy stutter, then stop altogether.

The shockwave subsided. Everything seemed to come to a halt. Frozen in the very air as Sukuna's cursed energy ceased to exist.

Forever.

Sukuna withdrew his arm from your abdomen. Blood gushed forth from the wound as he did so.

You watched as Yuji returned to normal. Sukuna's marks disappeared from his face, leaving behind the familiar, gentle features you loved so much. Tears brimmed in Yuji's eyes before he sank to the ground.

You let out a heavy exhale.

It's over.

Your breaths grew shallow.

All strength drained.

Your legs, no longer able to support your weight, buckled beneath you. The world spun, its edges darkening, as you teetered on the brink of consciousness.

Just as you began to fall, strong arms encircled you, catching you before you could hit the ground. It was Satoru. His eyes full of horror.

He held you in his arms, feeling the warmth of your blood as it spilled down his hands. He wanted to staunch the flow, to press against the open wound. Stop the bleeding. But a hole couldn't be stopped from bleeding. Some wounds couldn't be stopped.

"Stay with me, love," he whispered hoarsely. He brushed away the bloodstained strands of hair from your face. His fingers trembled. They trembled so violently. "Don't go. I can't live without you."

Over Satoru's shoulder, you caught a glimpse of Megumi. In all the years you had known him, you had never seen him shed a tear. He sank to the ground, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Satoru," you managed to breathe out. "Let's go back to the beach and live there. I'm tired of fighting," you said with a strained chuckle. Blood pooled around you, seeping into the ground, staining it crimson.

Tears fell on your face, warm and salty-his tears.

Satoru's eyes were like the ocean as he looked at you.

How you loved the ocean.

You loved him so much.

You didn't know what was more painful, the pain of what had happened or the pain of what would never be-the future that was slipping away-the life you could have had-the dreams that would remain unfulfilled.

He looked so young in that moment-he was not the strongest-just a vulnerable young man. Stripped of all his strength. But what was strength anyway if he couldn't protect the ones he loved. How could he name himself the strongest sorcerer, yet be powerless in the moments that truly mattered.

It was all so meaningless to him in that moment, pointless, hollow.

Without you, the world lost its purpose.

Oh, how cruel fate is.

How utterly cruel some fates were meant to be.

"Yeah, I'm tired of fighting, too," he murmured, his voice a soft, pained whisper. "We'll return to the beach and stay there, forever. Anything for you, love."

Your smiled. You reached up, cupping his face gently in your hand. "I'm all yours," you whispered. As your consciousness waned, you held onto the image of Satoru, the love you felt for him, and the peace of the beach that you would never see again.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. "And I'm all yours," he echoed softly. "Forever."

And then your hand slipped away from his cheek. It fell to your side, lifeless and still. The light in your eyes dimmed, leaving Satoru adrift in a sea of despair, grappling with the cruel reality that you were slipping away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"I love you," he uttered, each word fracturing his heart a little more as he pulled your lifeless form closer to his chest. Repeating the phrase, as if each utterance could somehow bridge the chasm that death had created between you.

"I love you," he repeated over and over as you drew your last breath. The silence screamed in his ears. He couldn't move. He could hardly breathe. All he could do was hold your frail body in his arms-so limp and lifeless, so utterly different from the force of nature he knew-he loved.

The world around him had crumbled, leaving behind a void that seemed impossible to fill-leaving behind an unbearable weight of a future denied.

But all he could do was cry.

His heart shattered and broke in ways he never thought it could.

And all he could do was cry.

"I love you," he whispered until his tears drowned everything out.

Because all he could do was cry.

I love you.

Three simple words.

Three simple words Satoru Gojo could never bring himself to utter again.

To anyone.

Ever.

****

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫.

53,245.

That was the count. 53,245 curses eradicated since you left. Each one a silent, ruthless kill—each one a cruel reminder of his relentless agony.

53,245 emotionless annihilations.

53,245 final gasps of cursed beings.

53,245... and yet, Satoru Gojo felt nothing.

No satisfaction, no relief.

Nothing.

Only emptiness.

How could this world just go on.

Why didn't it stop.

Because it had stopped for him—frozen in the moment he lost you.

Satoru Gojo was soaked in cold vengeance and unyielding fury. Nothing more then a shell of his former self—a vessel fueled by rage and an insatiable thirst for retribution, his eyes long devoid of any spark.

Every curse he annihilated was a futile attempt to fill an ever-deepening chasm within. But with each battle, with each kill, the chasm only grew wider, deeper, consuming what little of him remained.

Blood dripped from his fingers as he stood amidst the remains of yet another curse he had violently torn apart. His form was barely recognizable beneath the layers of blood splatter, the gore clinging to his body as if it had become one with his very being.

The wind whispered through the desolation, carrying away the echoes of his silent screams.

53,246.

Still this feeling.

Emptiness.

An ever consuming, overwhelming emptiness.

Why?

Why didn't it go away?

Why did it haunt him?

Why did it have to haunt him so relentlessly?

Why was there no end?

To the emptiness?

To him?

53,246.

But who was counting anymore?

The number was just a hollow count.

Pointless.

Meaningless.

Satoru Gojo had lost himself. He became a shadow, haunted by the memory of what could have been and the brutal reality of what was.

The only constant was the blood that stained his hands.

He didn't care.

He had stopped caring a long time ago.

Because the world had moved on—that traitorous thing of a world had moved on, but Satoru Gojo remained trapped in a never-ending nightmare. Unable to find an escape. Unable to let go.

He had tried to fill the void, god believe me, he had tried so desperately—tried to fill it with his duties as a sorcerer, throwing himself into battle after battle, seeking solace in the slaughter of curses.

But nothing changed.

The emptiness remained.

There was no end to his journey, no final destination.

There was only the hunt, the endless pursuit of a peace he knew he would never again find.

The laughter, the love, the light—all extinguished in the wake of your death. The loss of you had stripped away the last vestiges of warmth from his heart. What remained was a man driven by a singular, unyielding purpose: to eradicate every curse that dared to taint the world you had once walked upon.

And so, he continued, a lone figure against the backdrop of a world struggling to maintain its balance, a sorcerer whose heart had been irrevocably shattered, leaving behind nothing but the cold, ruthless determination of a man with nothing left to lose.

Because nothing really mattered any more.

All that mattered was the void in his heart, the ache of your absence. He had lost the love of his life, and nothing else could ever compare.

Some days he couldn't help but think back to the days when it wasn't too late, remember the sound of your voice, the color of your eyes, the feeling of your skin—they were distant memories now, fading with each passing day. He had tried to hold on to them, but they slipped through his fingers like sand.

And then the darkness consumed him again.

So this was his life now—a never-ending cycle of violence and death.

He was the strongest sorcerer in the world, but it meant nothing to him. All that mattered was the one thing he could never have again. All that mattered was the one person he could not protect.

Why couldn't he protect you?

Why was he so pathetically powerless?

Why?

When did it all go wrong?

Why didn't he see it sooner?

Why didn't he keep you closer?

The question echoed relentlessly, infiltrating his every waking moment and plaguing his restless nights. He searched for answers that seemed forever beyond his grasp, aching to comprehend the agonizing twists of fate that had torn you from his embrace.

His mind relentlessly retraced the steps that led to this loss. He replayed those moments, desperately seeking the point of divergence where he might have altered the course of fate, prevented the tragedy that had destroyed his world.

But he couldn't.

It was all meaningless.

Amidst the bloodshed of his massacre, he stood, his head tilted back as he gazed at the sky above. He wiped across his eyes with the back of his hand.

It's been two years.

Still every day was painful.

Still every day he thinks about you.

Some days he thinks he's healed. Other days the wounds are fresh, cutting deeper than ever. But the unchanging, unbearable reality was that he missed you every single day.

****

"It's hot," Yuji remarked.

He's right.

The summer heat was unbearable, the air heavy and still. This summer was violent, each day bringing a scorching heat that seemed to drain the energy from everything it touched. Yuji and Megumi sat in the shade, seeking a fleeting escape from the heat.

"I wonder if Nobara's happy overseas," Yuji mused, his hands mechanically working through the motions of slicing watermelon.

"It doesn't matter where she is. Here or overseas. She won't be happy," Megumi said as he watched the aimless swirl of a leaf caught in the still air.

"Probably not," Yuji agreed.

A heavy silence fell upon them, pressing down like the summer heat.

After a moment, Yuji spoke up again. "Aren't you leaving soon as well?"

"Yeah, tomorrow."

"You think it'll change anything?" Yuji asked, his eyes searching Megumi's face for an answer they both knew but didn't want to admit.

Megumi paused, his gaze drifting away. "I have to try."

Yuji exhaled heavily. "So, it's just me now here."

"You'll be fine, Yuji. Gojo's still around," Megumi tried to reassure, though his words lacked conviction.

Yuji propped himself up on one elbow. "Didn't Gojo-sensei say he wants to quit teaching?"

Megumi's eyes widened slightly.

At that moment, a familiar voice cut through the heat. "Did I just hear my name?"

As they turned, the sight of Satoru halted their breaths. Of course, they were shocked. But they were not surprised. They long stopped to be surprised to see him like that. In this state.

His silver hair hung in disheveled strands, plastered to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and dried blood. His form was drenched in scarlet, the blood indistinguishable as to whether it was his own or someone else's. His eyes were shadowed with the familiar emptiness.

His exposed skin bore the marks of numerous injuries, bruises and scratches marring his pale complexion. He no longer healed himself with his reversed cursed technique unless his injuries were lethal.

He wanted to feel the pain.

He wanted to feel the pain of each and every scratch and wound.

He wanted to see the blood run down his skin—wanted to see it run out—wanted to see it end his pain.

Yet amidst the chaos of his broken appearance, a small patch on his left hand had always remained meticulously shielded by his infinity, untouched, unblemished. The wedding ring still adorned his finger, a singular spot free from the onslaught of his self-imposed penance.

Satoru drew closer until his shadow fell on Yuji. Yuji tilted his head back. "Oh, Gojo-sensei. What brings you here?"

Satoru strolled closer, picked up a slice of watermelon and sat down next to them. He seemed unfazed by the blood that transferred from his hands to the watermelon as he took a bite. The air around him carried the pungent scent of battle.

"You reek of burned flesh and ashes," Megumi commented.

"Do I?" Satoru responded, seemingly unbothered by the observation.

Silence.

"Is it true?" Megumi spoke up. "You're done with teaching?"

Satoru turned his gaze to them. "Yeah, I'm stepping back. It's time for you all to take over." He paused, his jaw clenched. "I'm tired," he added, almost in a whisper.

His gaze then shifted to Yuji. "Yuji, you're in for the teacher training program."

Yuji's eyes widened in surprise. "What? Really?"

"Yes, you've done well," Satoru said with a fleeting smile that hardly touched the weariness in his eyes. "You too, Megumi, if you want to stay," Satoru added, but he already knew the answer to that.

"Who would've thought? Me as a teacher. Times really are changing," Yuji mused aloud.

Just then, Maki arrived, her directness cutting like a blade. "Gojo, you're reeking up the place. Ever heard of a shower?"

Satoru shot a quick, irritable glance her way. "Shut it, Zenin."

She raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his response. "Seriously, Gojo? When are you going to end your self-destruction? It's been two years!"

Satoru's fist clenched, his patience clearly fraying. "Watch your words," he retorted sharply.

But Maki wasn't done. She had had enough. She had grieved, too, like everyone else, but to watch Satoru drown in self-pity made her blood boil; knowing that it was far from what you would have wanted for him.

She crossed her arms, her gaze drilling into him. "Look at yourself, Gojo! You're a mess! When do you think you will finally be redeemed? Huh? When you have wiped out every curse on earth?"

At her words, something in Satoru snapped. He stood up abruptly, his presence suddenly more threatening. "Enough," he warned, his voice icy, barely containing his simmering rage. "Shut your tongue, or I'll rip it out myself."

Maki held his gaze, unflinching. "And then what, Gojo? You think that will bring you peace?"

Satoru's eyes narrowed. "I advise you to stay out of matters that do not concern you." With that, he turned and left, leaving Megumi, Yuji, and Maki behind.

Maki let out an exasperated sigh, running her hand through her hair. "When will Gojo get a grip on himself?"

"Drop it, Maki," Megumi snapped back with an uncharacteristic sharpness.

Maki's eyes narrowed, her own patience wearing thin. "Oh, come on! You're just as bad, Fushiguro. Both of you need to move forward. It's painful to watch."

Megumi's expression darkened. Without another word, he stood up, turned on his heel and walked away. Maki and Yuji were left in silence, the tension still hanging in the air.

"Was I too harsh?" Maki sat down besides Yuji.

"Maybe, Maki. I don't know. I really don't know." Yuji let out a weary exhale. "Just don't be so hard on them. They torture themselves enough already," he said while his fingers traced the faint lines under his eyes where painful marks had once been. "We all do."

That's it, isn't it?

That's fate.

That's life.

Unforgiving.

Cruel.

Somehow, some fates are meant to be cruel—cursed even.

And all they could do was hope—hope that one day the pain would ease, that it would become more bearable. Or that life would, at lat, offer them the sweet release they lacked the courage to seize for themselves—the release from the pain that held them captive.

Sometimes, Satoru thought about it.

In the quiet nights.

When he missed you the most.

He wanted to forget, to let go of the memories that haunted him. Maybe then the pain would be easier to bear. Maybe then it would be easier to breathe. Yet, he couldn't. He couldn't allow himself to forget, even though he wished he could.

But the curses that plagued the world were a constant reminder of what had been cruelly taken from him, and he couldn't rest until he had annihilated every last one of them.

Until that day came, he would continue his relentless hunt, each cursed spirit he extinguished bringing him a faint step closer to redemption.

Or so he desperately hoped.

a/n: I can't believe I've finally completed this fic. It's been an incredible journey, and I want to express my deepest gratitude to all of you who stuck with me through it. This was my first-ever long fanfiction, and I've learned so much while writing it.

I hope you enjoyed the ride, even if it was a bit wobbly from time to time; I just wrote it as it flowed into my brain, chapter by chapter.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. I hope you have a wonderful day or night, and maybe we'll cross paths again in another story! ♥

#gojo saturo #jujutsu kaisen #saturo gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x female reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #satoru gojo #satoru x reader #jjk x you #jjk fanfic #satoru gojo angst

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turbulentscrawl · 5 months

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Identity(V) Headcanons: Frederick Kreiburg

Frederick's headcanons got a little more...medical than some of the others I've done so far. I'm no expert in this stuff, but I do my best to be comprehensible and respectful where certain disorders have to be mentioned. As always, hope you guys like it!

-Ashes of Memory states that Frederick was diagnosed with ‘psychasthenia’ at some point in his childhood, but this isn’t used as a diagnosis in modern medicine. Instead, it’s a term used to describe a collection of symptoms commonly associated with disorders like OCD. It includes anxiety, obsession, compulsions, depersonalization, nervous ticks, and can even affect one’s memory.

-Personally, I also think he has synesthesia. Frederick mentions colors in relation to music a lot (especially gold), and while this could just be something relating to his other condition, I prefer to take it as literal. It’s part of the reason he was enamored after hearing his father play, why he obsessed with music. Frederick grew up in an onslaught of overwhelming chaos, colors bursting and fading wildly across his senses incomprehensible in his day to day, enhancing his anxiety…but when the recital started there was only the song. One symphony of sound and color, appearing before him in a long, unbroken stream. It was peaceful. And he became obsessed with that peace.

-This also explains his “un-Kreiburg-like skills.” His music is not like what the rest of his family composes because he’s writing it to suit both sound and color. He can perfectly identify pitch and can play most songs entirely “by ear” after hearing them only once or twice, but he’s obsessed with the stream of colors keeping a certain rhythm to them, which doesn’t always lend itself to “traditional” Kreiburg music.

-Frederick’s personality is very affected by the above struggles/disorders. He’s a very kind person at his core, as well as very earnest, but he is plagued by fear, anxiety, and extreme self-criticism. He becomes overwhelmed easily. He is entirely aware of all his struggles, his failures, and wrestles every day with the knowledge that he’s a disappointment to his family. Sometimes his situation brings him to tears, sometimes to destructive wrath.

-Frederick has come to accept his need for appearances, that people mostly like him because of his looks and his familial relations. But on his worst days he can’t even rely on that much because his communication begins to break down. His speech becomes disjointed and frantic, he’s tense and twitchy, a look of horror sinks deep into his face. To protect what remains of his reputation, he hides away during these times.

-When he is with people, he behaves as a gentleman should, albeit a reclusive one. He’s terrified of being judged further, but craves understanding and praise, so he maintains personal distance while remaining remarkably enthusiastic about musical discussion. He’s never told anyone but his family about his diagnosis or his synesthesia. They are both sources of shame for him.

-When at his most anxious, he has a tendency to pull at his hair. Whole clumps of his long hair have been lost to the worst of his fits. He’s not particularly sensitive about any resulting bald spots on his scalp, but he does try to cover them with his normal ponytail style because he knows they would affect people’s attraction to him.

-He despises the sound of dogs barking. Which is a shame, because he does like dogs. Their barking is just burry, red fireworks right in the middle of his vision. It always startles him and makes it impossible to do or focus on anything.

-His love language is Gift Giving, and the “gifts” he gives are, predictably, usually songs. It’s his primary skill, of course, so as far as Frederick is concerned, he has nothing else worth offering besides music made in the name of his loved one. He’d be devastated if these musical gifts weren’t appreciated; Frederick can’t take much more rejection. His favorites Love Languages to receive are Word of Affirmation and Acts of Service. He’s secretly a bit desperate for praise, and any actions you take to support his work or help improve his reputation as a musician are better than gold.

-He likes to match his clothes to the primary colors he sees in the songs he’s performing. During his recitals, he changes coats often.

-He’s a picky eater with a powerful sweet tooth. If he could have it his way, he’d subsist mostly on desserts.

#idv x reader #identity v x reader #frederick kreiburg x reader #idv composer #turbulentscrawl

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pin-k-ink · 9 days

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Dazai Osamu

CW: mention of death and violence, one night stand, a small teeny weeny age gap

a/n: this was more of a self-insert than an x reader fic

Dazai was a man who scoffed at the notion of fate, rejecting the idea that some invisible force could be guiding his life's trajectory. He preferred to attribute his successes and failures to his own decisions and actions, a belief system forged in the harsh realities and tough choices of his upbringing. Raised in a world where relying on fate was a luxury he couldn't afford, Dazai learned early on that he had to carve out his own path in life.

His disbelief in fate stemmed from a childhood marked by instability and uncertainty. Growing up in the Port Mafia, he witnessed firsthand the randomness of life's outcomes. There were no predetermined paths for him, only the constant struggle to survive and shape his own destiny. It was a world where the strong thrived, and the weak perished, and Dazai had no intention of being the latter. He had clawed his way to the top, relying on his wits, cunning, and sheer determination to overcome every obstacle in his path.

Amidst the chaos of his surroundings, a familiar face caught his eye, pulling him from his thoughts. It was her, his little pupil whom he had taken in along with Akutagawa years ago. However, the woman standing before him was a far cry from the timid, scared girl he had once tried to train. Back then, she was a scaredy-cat, a fragile little mouse in a den of lions, who would pass out at the mere sight of blood. Dazai had practically given up on her, considering either passing her along to someone who would take care of her or putting her out of her misery himself. He doubted she could survive in the mafia or even make it on her own outside of it.

He remembered the countless hours he had spent trying to toughen her up, to mold her into someone who could withstand the brutal realities of their world. But no matter how hard he pushed, she seemed to retreat further into herself, her wide eyes filled with a terror that never quite seemed to fade. It was as if she was too pure, too innocent for the life they led, and Dazai had resigned himself to the fact that she would never be cut out for it.

Ultimately, Dazai had left the mafia shortly after, without having to make that decision. He had never given her much thought after that, assuming that she had either found her way to a safer, more peaceful existence or had met a grim fate at the hands of the unforgiving underworld. But now, seeing her here, he realized just how wrong he had been.

The scene before him was a bloodbath, with dozens of dead and mutilated bodies scattered at his feet. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the acrid smell of gunpowder, a symphony of death and destruction that would have made even the most hardened criminals recoil in horror. And yet, there she stood, in the middle of it all, idly wiping her gun clean before holstering it with a nonchalant air, as if this was just another day at the office.

As she lifted her head, her face was indifferent and devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the carnage that surrounded her. She raised her hand in a small, casual wave, as if greeting an old acquaintance. "Oh. Hey, Dazai-san." Her voice was flat, almost bored, and it sent a chill down Dazai's spine. There was no mistaking it; this was definitely her, but not the her he had once known.

Dazai found himself gaping as she coldly stepped over the bodies, making her way past him with a pat on his shoulder, as if he hadn't been sent there to detain her. For a moment, he was too stunned to react, his mind struggling to reconcile the girl from his memories with the ruthless killer that now stood before him. But then, on an impulse, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her forward, finally regaining his composure. "My, how you've grown, my little flower. I didn't think you'd even make it into your twenties."

"I'm... eighteen, Dazai-san," she replied, her voice flat and matter-of-fact. There was no trace of the timid, stammering girl he had once known, no hint of the fear that had once consumed her. Instead, there was a coldness in her eyes, a hardness that spoke of a life filled with pain and suffering.

"Right, right." He paused for a moment, his mind racing. Why had he stopped her? What did he want to say? A thousand questions burned on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't seem to find the words. Finally, he settled on the one thing that felt safe, the one thing that might give him a chance to unravel the mystery of the woman standing before him. "Wanna grab a drink with me?"

The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, hanging in the air between them like a lifeline. Maybe it was second nature for him to ask any beautiful woman out on a date, or perhaps he hoped to unravel the mystery of his once-hopeless pupil's transformation. Either way, he found himself holding his breath, waiting for her response.

He watched as she stared at him blankly for a couple of minutes, her expression unreadable. It was as if she was weighing her options, trying to decide whether he was worth her time. Finally, she nodded. "Sure."

And with that, the two set off, leaving the carnage behind them. As they walked, Dazai couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the girl he once knew, and what had shaped her into the woman she was today. He had a feeling that this drink would be the start of a very interesting conversation, one that might just challenge his long-held beliefs about fate and the paths we choose.

But more than that, he found himself curious about her, about the life she had led since he had last seen her. What had driven her to become so ruthless, so cold? What had she seen, what had she experienced that had hardened her heart and turned her into a killer? And why, despite everything, did he find himself drawn to her, to the mystery and the danger that seemed to surround her like a cloak?

As they made their way to the nearest bar, Dazai couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a chance encounter. Maybe, just maybe, there was something more at play here, some invisible force that had brought them together after all these years. And while he still didn't believe in fate, he couldn't deny the sense of anticipation that thrummed through his veins, the feeling that something big was about to happen.

For now, though, he would focus on the present, on the woman walking beside him and the secrets she held. He would buy her that drink and see where the night took them, and maybe, just maybe, he would find the answers he was looking for. Or perhaps he would simply find himself drawn deeper into the web of mystery and intrigue that seemed to surround her, a willing participant in a game he didn't yet understand.

They settled into a booth, ordering drinks and making small talk. But as the alcohol flowed and inhibitions lowered, the conversation took a deeper, more personal turn. She began to open up, sharing glimpses of the life she'd led since he left the mafia - the struggles, the triumphs, the choices that had shaped her into the person she was today.

Dazai found himself drawn in, captivated by her every word. There was a magnetism about her, a sense of danger and mystery that called to something deep within him. As the night wore on and the drinks kept coming, the air between them grew charged with a palpable electricity.

Perhaps it was the alcohol coursing through their veins, or the weight of the secrets they'd shared, but at some point they found themselves stumbling out of the bar, hailing a taxi to Dazai's apartment. The ride passed in a blur of heated glances and barely restrained touches, the anticipation building with every passing block.

As they stumbled into Dazai's apartment, the tension that had been building between them all night finally reached its breaking point. Dazai's eyes roamed hungrily over her figure, drinking in every curve and contour that had been hidden beneath her clothes.

She had grown into a stunning woman, a far cry from the scrawny girl he'd once known. Her body was lean and toned, honed by years of training and combat. But there was a softness to her too, a feminine grace that made his fingers itch to explore every inch of her smooth, supple skin.

She seemed oblivious to his heated gaze, too focused on removing her jacket and shoes. Dazai took the opportunity to admire the way her shirt clung to her breasts, the swell of her hips in her tight jeans. He could practically feel the warmth radiating off her, beckoning him closer.

Unable to resist any longer, Dazai closed the distance between them in two quick strides. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him as his lips sought hers in a searing kiss. She let out a small gasp of surprise before melting into him, her arms coming up to wind around his neck.

The kiss quickly turned heated, Dazai's tongue delving into her mouth to tangle with hers. His hands slid lower, cupping her rear and pressing her closer still. He could feel every inch of her body against his, supple curves and firm muscle setting his blood on fire.

Breaking away from her lips, Dazai trailed kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat. She let out a breathy moan, her head falling back to grant him better access. The sound shot straight to his groin, his already painfully hard cock throbbing in the confines of his pants.

Impatient to feel her skin on his, Dazai tugged at the hem of her shirt, yanking it over her head and tossing it aside. His eyes immediately fell to her breasts, encased in a lacy bra that made his mouth water. Reverently, he traced a finger along the edge of the delicate fabric, marveling at the contrast against her skin.

She shivered under his touch, her nipples pebbling against the thin material. Dazai couldn't resist dipping his head, placing an open-mouthed kiss to the swell of her breast. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as he laved attention on the sensitive flesh.

Growling low in his throat, Dazai reached behind her to unhook her bra, letting it fall away. Her breasts spilled free, perfect handfuls topped with rosy peaks that just begged for his touch. He obliged immediately, palming the soft mounds and rolling her nipples between his fingers until she was arching into his touch, little mewls of pleasure escaping her kiss-swollen lips.

Lost in a haze of lust, Dazai walked them backwards towards the bedroom, unwilling to stop his exploration of her incredible body. They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, hands roaming and mouths fused as they frantically removed the rest of their clothing.

And then she was laid out before him like a feast, miles of creamy skin and toned limbs, a flush of arousal painting her from head to toe. Dazai took a moment to just look at her, to marvel at the absolute perfection of her form. She was a goddess, a siren, and he wanted nothing more than to worship at her altar for the rest of his days.

Starting at her ankle, Dazai began to map her body with his hands and mouth, determined to learn every dip and curve, to catalogue every spot that made her gasp and moan. He kissed his way up her legs, nipping at her inner thighs until she was writhing beneath him, begging for more. He laved attention on her breasts, sucking and biting until she was a keening mess.

By the time he finally settled between her thighs, she was dripping with need, her hips canting up in search of friction. And as he finally placed his mouth on her pussy and tasted her, as he felt her shatter apart under his skilled touch, Dazai knew that he would never be the same. She had ruined him for all other women, had branded herself on his very soul.

And as he slid into her tight, welcoming cunt, as he lost himself in the slick slide of their bodies moving as one, Dazai couldn't find it in himself to care. Let the world burn, let fate do as it willed. In this moment, in her arms, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

#bsd x reader smut #bsd smut #bsd x reader #bsd dazai #dazai smut #dazai osamu #dazai x reader #dazai x reader smut #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x reader smut #dazai osamu smut #bungou stray dogs smut #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs

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the-nysh · 9 months

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Oh Meryl.....:') This will be a longpost commentary on the events of Trimax vol5 & 6 primarily from her perspective, so let's get into it!

Alright, so remember the foreshadowing in Meryl's line about seeing Vash's 'entire enigmatic past' from Trimax vol3?!

Well in Trimax vol5 all that becomes true! When getting 'touched by an angel' directly connects her to Vash's memories through contact with his feathers, she gets a front row seat to personally SEE, feel, and experience ALL the worst pain and trauma Vash has endured over his functionally immortal lifetime of horrors!!! Bearing witness to just how heavy a burden of sorrow and torment he's suffered carried with him that she's always wondered about; now she knows the full context of everything.

From witnessing his lone struggles as a younger child first learning how to use a gun, grinding through all his bloody mistakes, losses, and failures, to the worst calamity that he, as a transformed nonhuman 'gun' himself, became capable of unleashing on the planet: the terrifying destruction of July itself.

As Vash regains his lost memories of July through a meltdown of grief, regrets and revelations of his own (how firing his power inadvertently killed everyone he knew and loved), all at once, his pain while reliving those horrors of the past resonates to become her pain. (Remember this for vol6!)

And just to grab a mic to reiterate, Meryl is only a normal human woman here, with no special powers or superhuman training to prepare her how to handle any of this! (This disaster exceeds her realm of expertise!) She’s also the only one who gets to see, understand, and resonate with the entirety of Vash’s pain and feelings on such a direct, private, and literally mind-melding intimate level of connection. (Linking the human with the inhuman/monstrous.) So of course she’s terrified! Being thrust into such an unprecedented dangerous situation, witnessing inescapable horrors beyond human comprehension, AND by getting a very real demonstration of Vash’s power (on the verge of exploding out of control) and his transformed inhumanity RIGHT UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL!

So it’s truly a testament to her mental fortitude and resilience that she didn’t just break from the information overload or succumb to the level of despair and terror right there--no, she bravely keeps her wits about her, and despite everything she remains on Vash’s side, shooting first to defend him (aiming right for Legato using the gun she picked up from Zazie's corpse) as the one who breaks the multiple-way stalemate between all their enemies instead! GO MERYL!!!!

(It's why this moment's probably one of my top favorites in the whole manga!!! ;o;) Cause the entire time, even while under severe mental distress, crawling through the rubble with his powers and feathers surging everywhere, Vash had kept her safe and physically unharmed within his wings, and then her first action upon surfacing was to take charge to protect him in turn!! I love it; cause even during such a dire emergency and all the mental stress she's put under while in the heat of the moment, her faith and dedication (to fight without hesitation at his side) still aim true~

And even after Legato critically pushes the crisis from bad to worse, to the point Vash is provoked into almost firing his Angel Arm in feral-retaliation to stop him (holy foreshadowing of their future duel!) with Meryl literally stuck in the middle of all this chaos (while shocked, powerless, and terrified--bless her heart) as Vash struggles to regain control of himself...

(Note: even Wolfwood was blown back by the surging energy, but with Meryl literally RIGHT THERE under Vash, it's amazing she didn't get hit being that close to him.) ...she STILL doesn't run away from him once the dust settles, and is in fact the first one to approach him in concern to ask if he's ok after...

(So whew, a relieved round of applause for Meryl remaining strong in the active face of so much strife!!) The immediate aftermath of this whole experience gives her the tangible proof and perspective from Vash to understand and fear that Knives--as his twin in power but having the actual intent to destroy the world behind it, is fully capable of ending humanity's future.

Of course, the experience doesn't also leave her unscathed without any lasting mental scars to cope with...as Trimax vol6 so graciously shows us how things will always Get Worse before they can get better...

Where sure enough, she's already having difficultly sleeping with night terrors and loss of appetite--it's honestly no surprise the terrible experience has given her symptoms of ptsd she'd be made of something unbelievably superhuman if she weren't affected, and consulting with Wolfwood unfortunately doesn't offer her anything (helpful) she doesn't already know...(cause at this point, she's literally seen more of Vash, especially the amount suddenly exposed to all at once, than Wolfwood could possibly know how to advise her on. He's still struggling with plenty of his own fears vs loyalties towards Vash himself.)

Only that he stresses the importance she weighs her options now to make the decision to quit her job while she still can (a choice and the freedom to 'get out' that Wolfwood comparatively doesn't have under direct orders from Knives) to remove herself and Milly from getting further involved with Vash--specifically the life-threatening danger he poses as a living weapon (despite his best intentions and character as a person!) set to explode with the firepower to raze the world--if Meryl values her life.

But truly, how does Meryl feel about that? What does she value and care for more, that'd be most important to her--her life or her job? Is following Vash (surveilling him for 'risk management') more than just a job to her at this point? What about her feelings towards him as a person--the man she already knows, vs her need to reconcile with the truth (that he's not even human!) that she didn't know until just recently. Is the level of imminent danger and risk she's putting herself into, now that she fully understands how dire, truly worth it (for him) this time? And if she still truly cares for him, does it even matter what he is? Despite any pros or cons and conflicting feelings about it, which will ultimately remain the stronger reason compelling her choice to stay?

Whew! She has many things to evaluate and consider going forward, especially if she wants to continue at his side. (And as Wolfwood stresses, continuing puts Milly at risk too, so that's even more weight/responsibility to balance on Meryl's shoulders.) Including processing the very nature of her fears--to identify what it is that truly terrifies her (is it truly Vash or something else?) before she can hope to face or overcome them. Before this biggest hurdle tips the scales to debilitate her resolve or outright prevents her from continuing her job at all. For now, she thinks and relates back to the firepower she gained when she first fired a gun...

And ah, HERE IT IS, she recalls what's scared her the most from her own past memories: "I gained the power of death at my fingertips. It was terrifying." Cause the first time she ever shot a person and realized the weight of the power she holds, she hated it. Shocked, collapsed, paralyzed, coming undone in the streets, closing herself off from others, regretting her action terribly... It was all too much. (Sound...familiar to the guilt and regrets of someone else we know? Meryl's shooting style is also notably non-lethal...because she too doesn't like to kill! When her first time wielding 'death' with her Derringers upset her this badly that she needed to adjust to be able to continue her job that required arming herself with this type of power...)

So remember when she resonated with the pain of Vash's memories? Seeing when he first struggled learning how to use a gun too, and all the blood and loss that accompanied it? However...his experiences didn't just end there, with only his first time shooting a person.....cause the first time he shot his real power (without him knowing what would happen) he caused the destruction of an entire city, killing everyone he loved in it! He didn't just 'gain the power of death at his fingertips,' he literally BECAME it, armed with the power to end the world. Hating and regretting his action so terribly, the catastrophe traumatized him with amnesia and led to a full-blown meltdown in grief and despair once he finally remembered. With Meryl there, witnessing and feeling all of it along with him. (His pain became her pain; his trauma became hers...)

That the sheer magnitude of wielding that kind of terror, as an intrinsic, inseparable part of himself (unlike a handheld gun you can choose to put down; he can't), let alone carrying the fear of it going out of control again if he's not careful, is indescribable. And if Meryl can now understand the gravity of that in relation to her own gun experiences (when the memory of firing her Derringers was already enough crushing weight for her to fear) then as the peace-loving person she knows him to be, who's always tried his hardest not to kill anyone, the crushing multitudes she knows he must feel now upon recovering his memories filled with so much death unleashed by his own hands must be unbearable. Feeling precisely just how much MORE terrifying and overwhelming the burden must be for him. It makes her wonder HOW can he still even bring himself to pull the trigger?!

Just look at Meryl's collapsed posture, it's the same she felt in her own past experiences...only this time it's directed in relation towards him--almost expressed in his place for the crushing weight he must feel. She's outright screaming/crying/bawling for him in empathy for the pain he must feel every time he's forced to fight and shoot someone with so much baggage behind it. Oh Meryl....:') (This is probably the strongest we've seen her cry for him...and it certainly won't be the last she cries in concern to relieve the pain of his burden.)

And Meryl, watching him fight on regardless, becomes struck and speechless for another reason, as she realizes how much his incredible strength and fortitude allow him to push past his unbearable pain to continue his job: "I felt...his determination is even stronger than the regret he carries."

Which is true, for the same stronger feeling that compelled him to stop at nothing, despite being on the verge of total collapse bearing his regrets of July, when he grit and forced himself to continue on his mission to save her from the Dragon's Nest. :') This is how he does it; how he continues to fight for what's important. (And yes she was that important, as the thought of losing her like his loved ones at July, is what fueled his determination back then to keep going.)

However, the struggle is never easy, as Vash, for his own part, masked behind his new goggle-edged glasses and kind Rem-like smiles 'as usual,' has not been coping well behind closed doors at all. (That Meryl could even sense an air of unusually 'off' distant/detached/avoidant behavior from him that she asks Milly about it.) We see him immersing himself in thousands of rounds of (non-lethal) target practice til his hand bleeds, and when drilling that level of focus + exposure isn't enough to take the edge off, he visits a church during service to hear a sermon on forgiveness...only for him to deem it hopeless there's no possible release from his sins when he can't even forgive himself, and there's even evidence he'd been drinking in not-quite-so savory (healthy or responsible) ways--unsettling even Wolfwood that something's uncannily off with him. (All being different attempted coping methods to drown out and escape the pain of his past regrets, but even Vash knows it's impossible now to forget...)

So all it takes is one slip-up when he's depressed off his game for everything to tumble into a trainwreck... Where Meryl seeing him block a bullet with his powers (instead of his usual self-aware dodging?) triggers all that terror to come flooding back into a panic attack.

Where it's truly unfortunate (and oh it hurts...) as an accident, something involuntary--a messy, instinctual reaction completely beyond either of their control. Cause Meryl didn't anticipate her ptsd to manifest and incapacitate her like this! that a single flash of his feathers would remind her of Everything--of all the worst horrors those powers are capable of when unleashed, the weaponized death and terror it represents, and the very moment she felt and experienced all of it while trapped powerless and panicked to do anything... No no no, returning to that headspace is horrible; it's all still too fresh to relive and TOO MUCH trauma for a human like her to bear; she couldn't help coming undone in the streets in a far worse way than she's ever had before (and I don't blame her.)

And Vash didn't mean to publically out himself as a nonhuman 'monster' to everyone either, when tensions were already high following Knives' mass murders for them to link the same culpability towards him, while he's still struggling to get a handle on his newly awakened powers too--ohshit indeed when they suddenly manifest and the truth breaches containment freaking everybody out in a witch-hunting mob of scorn, fear, misunderstandings, and hatred. (Ouch...)

What's more, Vash probably didn't even know Meryl had seen his memories, or had been affected by his trauma to such an overwhelming degree--since the transfer happened more as an autonomous side effect of his powers activating rather than anything he purposely intended....(once again, unintended consequences beyond his control; he never meant to cause any of this harm!!) So from his perspective he probably doesn't fully understand how to interpret her distress (apart from the crowd's?!) or know what to do to help. Cause reactions from strangers are one thing to bear, but if he sees her reaction to him--and his nonhuman display, as anything like theirs...then it's so much worse cause it's Meryl, who's known and been with him since the beginning. She's someone important he cares for...and now she's hurt and visibly scared from yet again another mistake he can't undo. ohno ohno he knows he messed up...

(Plus poor Milly has no context to understand what's wrong, or why Meryl's so upset either, since she'd been knocked out during the later parts of the Dragon's Nest to know what happened. So now she's alarmed and concerned trying to process why everything's suddenly gone to shit, anchoring Meryl the best she can, while shaken by the pain and cruelty Vash endures in such a situation masked with a smile...)

Despite the stones thrown by the crowd (nooo~) Vash's first priority concern is to run straight over to check on Meryl...

*And here's where I scream bloody murder* Cause that single flinch--from reaching towards her with that arm too, probably hurts him more than any of those stones thrown at him in hatred and revulsion that he's a monster. Cause to him it probably reads as a perceived rejection from Meryl (noooo~), and the amount he's hurt from realizing he's the one who hurt her this way....ohhhhh his crushing guilt must be heart-shattering...;A;

But there's no time, as before Meryl's even ready to speak or clarify how she feels, the choice she previously had on whether she wants to leave or stay is taken from her as Vash is the one who's forced to leave her instead. :')) The only thing Vash can do is repeatedly apologize as he runs away he can't even say goodbye--Wolfwood has to say that for him...and admit to Wolfwood how much he 'really feels like crying.'

(And once again poor Milly, left with no other explanations, can only read how much his pained empty mask of a smile has broken...)

What sucks even more, is knowing how much Meryl had already empathized with his pain (she could already feel that strongly for him!) and being in no condition to explain herself or her fears to him, once her panic subsides, she's bound to feel that much more terrible with guilt from realizing how her reaction (especially her flinch) had unintentionally hurt and pushed him away....leading towards a bad result she simply couldn't help and had no power to change...what a disaster.

But is someone as usually brave and tenacious like Meryl going to let that be the end of it? Broken on a disastrous parting and painful misunderstanding (she never meant to 'reject' him!!!) she literally had no say over? What of her brand of determination--especially towards what she feels (and decides) is most important, becoming stronger than the pain and regrets she carries? (Just like Vash! Can she find it within her to continue, or start over, inspired just as he does?)

Her struggle now becomes finding that strength (even a driving belief) to tentatively (re)build that trust and acceptance between them towards recovery. To endure, fight, and conquer those horrors to bridge (reconnect) the gap between the human and monstrous that separates them. (Especially if she truly cares and wants to do it--for the sake of what Matters, for what'll make the effort Worth it.) It'll be huge and seemingly insurmountable for any other person bearing the same strife she carries, but you can do it Meryl, I believe in you~~

#trigun #trigunbookclub #commentary #vashmeryl #long text post #aaaaaaAAAAAA well I Tried :'D #wanted to do this in vol5's week but didn't feel it'd be complete without covering the aftermath in vol6 #and WHEW the repeated 9999 critical hits of emotional damage made this Difficult

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months

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The Lost 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of loss, grieving, death, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: nomad!Steve Rogers

Summary: You move into a shared flat and encounter a mysterious man.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stand in the doorway as S pulls taut a new fitted sheet over the corner of the mattress. You’re paralysed not only by your homecoming but from the echoes of your past. Your stomach is bound up with dread and horror as he calmly goes about the menial task.

He throws a top sheet over the bed, then the plaid quilt, folding it at the top in a military manner. The way he moves reminds you of a soldier; straight shoulders and rigid spine. He crosses to you, stopping just a foot away, “pillow?”

You hand over the flat pillow mindlessly. He puts it on the top of the bed and pats it, facing you once more.

“It’s all yours,” he declares.

You hug your dented cans and look down at the ripped labels. You can’t bring yourself to break the threshold. Your own room was only a shell, only a place to hide, but it was familiar and it was yours.

“Hey, you okay?” He approaches and you shrink in his shadow. You nod. No, you’re not. “Look, if you need anything, let me know,” he hooks a thumb in his pocket, “I’m Steve, by the way.”

You press your dry lips together and shudder. You eke out your own name in exchange. He looms as you feel him watching you.

“Hungry?” He wonders as you cradle the cans.

You shake your head. He steps back and gestures with his arm. You take the wordless invitation, more a command, and move past the invisible border of his territory. He backs up and goes to the tall dresser, pulling out a drawer as he pulls out a few pieces of clothing.

“You can put your things on top,” he says, “keep it safe for the night.”

“Sure,” you near and place the cans one at a time on the barren surface. He shoves a draw in and hugs the thin stack of clothing under his arm.

“Not much protein,” he comments.

You shy away and wring your hands, pacing, unsettled by the strange surroundings. You don’t respond. Food is food. You remember the aftermath in Sokovia and the people fighting in dust and shrapnel for a bag of oats. The chaos that brought on even more destruction.

“There’s a fan, I use it for white noise,” he shifts his tone, “if you get cold, there’s an extra blanket in the bottom drawer.”

“Thank you, sir,” you accept, keeping your back to him.

“Right, I’ll leave you alone,” he sniffs, “you know where to find me.”

You hum flatly and wait for him to leave. His footfalls trail to the door and stop. The hinges whisper halfway, “lock this.” The door closes with a snap and you flinch.

You turn and rush without thinking to obey. Your hand shakes as you twist the deadbolt into place. You keep your hand on the brass knob and shiver. You’re tired and weak and you lied, you’re hungry as hell.

You drag yourself away from the door and near the bed, staring at the plaid quilt as you cross your arms. The room smells like him. It’s not an unpleasant smell, it’s the same scent that lingers in the bathroom after him.

You reach to touch the bed and lean on it. The cottony smell of detergent rises from the clean blankets. Your own room always had a tinge of mildew in the air. You cautiously turn and sit on the foot of the bed to unlace your shoes.

It’s a shattering feeling. The world before you is dull as the past blazes vividly in your head. How did it come to this? How did you get lost in this faraway land? Everything you had is gone and you’re left with nothing. You barely even have yourself. You’re not who you were. You’re as much a stranger as the man on the other side of the wall.

You roll out your shoulders and stretch your arms as you stand again. You’re exhausted but restless, walking in circles as you try to convince yourself to lay down. You near the lamp by the bed and click it off. You have to work again tomorrow, you can’t be up all night driving yourself crazy.

You peel back the blanket and slip beneath, still in the same clothes you wore all day. You close your eyes but just as quickly, they flick open. You lay flat on your back and huff. You languish in the silence of the house, the creaks and cracks of the old structure tweaking your nerves. The traffic whooshes past on the street and the hollers of the nocturnal crowds carry in the wind.

You roll over and hide under the blanket as your eyes tinge. You sniffle as the day washes over you again. S, or Steve’s deep growl ripples through you. He sounded so dangerous when he spoke to that man. And he’s so big and strong and you’re just as helpless against him as that creep.

You reach to turn on the fan, hoping it can drown out the noise and your own thoughts. The cool air glosses over our face as you wrap yourself in the quilt and top sheet. You squeeze your eyelids tight, giving into the fire burning behind them. Sleep, that’s the only solace left to you in this world.

Then the dreams rise and crash upon you. Blue skies turning black with smoke, the air thick with acrid dust and the iron taste of blood. Screams tear through your ear drums as deafening bangs shake the earth beneath your feet. You run and run and run, the world raining down on you.

You turn a corner only for the buildings to shake and begin to fall. You stumble back and spin, racing in the other direction. Another street collapses as you barely keep your heels ahead of the destruction.

One of those things, metallic and deadly, swoops down at you, its eyes glowing red and its sonorous voice promising your doom. You throw up your arm and another stronger shield gets in the way. The slice of the object through the air ends with the violent impact of metal on metal, a man in blue kicking away the corpse of the robotic villain.

He turns to face you, the hero in his cowl. So they call him but how can he be a saviour? It is his own friend who brought about this attack, who created the very creatures ripping up the earth and razing the air. His blue eyes gleam behind his mask but as he opens his mouth to speak, the world flashes red.

You wake with a start, out of breath as tears stream down your cheeks. You push yourself up on your elbows as the darkness shifts and a shadow passes over you. You babble as you struggle to sit up. The door is wide open as a figure stands at the foot of the bed.

“Sorry…” Steve rasps as he seems to jolt out of a trance, “I forgot something…”

He goes to the dresser and slides out the drawer. You hold your breath, frozen in terror as you watch him. He doesn’t look at you as he fishes out some unseen item and just as quickly marches back to the door. The light from the hallway illuminates him but you see nothing in his hand.

He eases the door shut and the deadlock twists from the other side as the key grinds in the slot. You fall flat and whine as you’re struck by a new way of helplessness. You know better than to believe that heroes exist. Especially here.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #drabble #series #the lost #mcu #marvel #captain america #avengers

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heesdreamer · 1 year

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SILENCED (1)

MASTERLIST

GENRE ➩ enhypen zombie apocalypse au!

SUMMARY ➩ navigating life 1 year post end of the world was already difficult as you avoided rotting corpses with hefty appetites and groups with various bad intentions. things get harder when you run into a group of survivors, 7 boys who make it impossible to run away.

WC ➩ 10.7k

WARNINGS ➩ all things that zombies bring like gore and death lol, sexual content, main character death etc

AUTHORS NOTE ➩ this was originally a one shot story but under request from people that read my stories before i post it’s going to be a multiple part series! hope you enjoy the first installment as it builds up the world and characters plz let me know your thoughts and guesses (NOT PROOFREAD)

Whenever you pictured the apocalypse, the end of the world that people often talked about over drunken hypotheticals or PG-13 level horror, you pictured it loud.

Thunderous even, a deafening mixture of screams and cries behind the roar of fire and destruction.

You imagined utter chaos and it was never quiet in your head when you did so, a clear built scenario that you never paid too much mind to, considering the absolute fantasy of it all.

So now that you were almost a year deep into the official end of humanity, you were a bit thrown off by how different it was from your previous assumptions. Sure, there had been fire and screams and it definitely wasn’t lacking chaos, but most days you found yourself in complete ear ringing silence.

The soundtrack of your day to day life rarely extended past birds chirping, the crunch of leaves and loose sticks under your boots as you attempted your way through forest filled terrain.

It’d taken you a while to leave Seoul, first being held back by fear and panic and then not wanting to leave the comfort of your known surroundings.

It was easy to figure out how to survive there after a while, knowing when it was safe to leave your apartment and scavenge the nearby stores and when it was time to draw the blinds and let’s hoards pass by undetected.

You’d sit with bated breath as you listened to soft groans and bodies bumping against your front door as they mindlessly made their way down the hallway and eventually off to find something that had made a noise or distracted them.

When you imagined the apocalypse before you hadn’t really considered the different types that could occur. You suppose chemical outbreak or maybe even a world war could’ve been possible, far fetched but possible nonetheless. Maybe even multiple waves of natural disasters, wiping out cities and land masses in its wake.

Somehow, the dead rising hadn’t crossed your mind.

The creatures that had lingered outside your door all those months ago weren’t like anything you could’ve possibly dreamed up in your anxious mind, defying science and all rationality with their mere existence and hunger based drive.

It didn’t bother you as much now, having spent weeks frustrated over the mechanics of their mobility, the reasoning for their immortality.

Now you felt somewhat close to them, these days hunger being your main reason for existence and almost your entire train of thought from the moment you woke up to the second you fell asleep. This was the same thing that had finally driven you from the city, the stores running dry eventually and leaving you no choice but to turn to nature for nutrients.

You thought about this comparison now as you came to a slow stop, lowering yourself down into a crouch as you listened to the branches snapping off in the distance.

The knife in your hand felt heavier than normal, eyes darting around the forest as you took in your surroundings and made a quick escape plan in case it was more than one undead, in case you needed to run and run fast. You didn’t want to leave just yet, having followed a deer into the woods a few hours ago and you were in desperate need of an actual meal.

Shifting your weight onto your heels, you listened to the sounds come closer and then stop when they reached a bush a few yards ahead of you.

Your head was cocking in confusion, grip tightening around the leather of your knifes handle as you waited for it to continue its approach. The bush rattled a few times, keeping your attention tightly locked on it as you held your breath.

“Put it down.” A low voice was sounding behind you and you froze, feeling the cold metal pressed against the back of your head before you even registered the fact that somebody was speaking.

It’d been weeks since you’d heard something so real, something so human other than your own voice and you felt a sudden wave of dizziness at the fact you were clearly stuck.

For a brief moment you considered spinning in place and attempting to disarm him, relying on your own swiftness taking him off guard and beating his reactionary speed that would cause him to pull the trigger before you even saw what he looked like.

This plan was put to rest quicker than you could think it through, the bush rattling again as another figured pushed its way through the thick leaves. You watched his face pull into a wince when he saw you and you furrowed your eyebrows.

“Hyung.” He muttered and you heard a sigh from behind you, their plan clearly not entailing this interruption. “She doesn’t have anything on her.”

The one behind you didn’t say anything about this, still not taking his gun off you considering the fact you’d made absolutely no move to lower your own weapon like he had originally instructed you. You remained still despite a wave of fear washing over you at the realization you had nothing of value for them to take other than yourself, a sudden reminder that the apocalypse was scary but being a woman was scarier.

“Go.” He was speaking again, still in that low timbre and the boy from the bush winced again, shaking his head like he wanted to deny the order but also taking an instinctive step forward like he was accustomed to taking them.

You couldn’t get a grasp on their dynamic or what they exactly wanted from you, the boy stood in front of you looked nervous like he had a thin idea of what would happen and he didn’t agree with it. You considered for a second if this was a situation worth trying to talk your way out of, eventually deciding to just let things take their course with your limited options.

“You don’t need to kill her, let’s just leave her here and go back.” He was taking another step forward and he continued to look over your shoulder, eyes only darting down to yours for a second in a silent plea for your cooperation. “She doesn’t know which way we’ll go”

“She was tracking.” The boy behind you was immediately noting and you almost cursed under your breath at the fact he was right. If you wanted to follow them you could, their tracks in the dirt obvious to you now that you’d spent months learning the skill.

“Then we tie her up and leave her, but we don’t need to kill.” He was shaking his head in exasperation and you could hear the boy behind you let out a frustrated sigh.

You had no doubt in your mind that if he was alone he would’ve killed you without a second thought, swift and silent in the way he had approached you from behind and keeping his gun firmly pressed against your skull. Despite your confusion you were silently thankful for the others boys resolve, although it came off as weak to you.

“If you’re going to tie me up in the woods you might as well kill me yourselves.” You were speaking for the first time and both boys reacted immediately.

The one behind you was shifting on his feet to stand firmer, pressing his metal into you while the other in front was giving you a helpless look, clearly upset you had immediately undone any progress he was making for your release.

It was silent for a few moments after that as they looked at each other and you wondered what conclusion they were coming to with just their glances. You hadn’t done yourself any favors in your statement but it was true, leaning you defenseless this close to dark was more of a death sentence than a bullet in your brain.

“We can take her back with us.” The boy from the bush was eventually whispering in a last attempt at keeping you alive, hands coming forward in a plea. “Not as a guest just as a prisoner for now, until we figure out what to do with her.”

You almost laughed at him but decided against it although figuring there was no possible way that would be allowed considering two seconds ago they were about to kill you. However the silence, and lack of immediate rejection, from behind you made you second guess.

You were being pulled to your feet before you even could process him moving again. “You’re explaining it to him, I’m not taking the heat for this.”

His tone was harsh but tired and you were startled at the fact he was actually taking you with, even more fear sinking in as you realized the ‘him’ he was referring to meant they weren’t out here alone. For some reason you hadn’t considered them being with a larger group.

The other boy didn’t say anything but you imagined he gave some form of silent acceptance considering the fact you were suddenly being moved forward harshly with your hands held behind your back.

You hadn’t seen the second boy yet but you were unnerved considering he was able to hold both your wrist together with a single hand, still keeping his gun pressed between your shoulder blades as you moved clumsily through the woods.

From their dynamic you had assumed they were alone, your first mistake, and that he was the leader out of the two of them. Hearing his words about explanation you realized the hierarchy wasn’t that simple and there was clearly somebody they both answered to outside of each other.

“Are your hands okay?” You looked to your left to see the kinder boy following you as you walked, staying at your side with his gun tight in his hands now.

The boy behind you sighed at his question and you weren’t sure exactly how to answer. They were hurting and if you saw any way out of this you would’ve complained, made a sarcastic comment that could potentially get your ass kicked if they weren’t feeling up for jokes at the moment.

Instead you offered him a small nod and turned back to face forward so you didn’t trip.

Your options now were to die here and now, act out and become more of a hinderance than their willing to deal with. Or go along with them and most likely end up being killed eventually anyways, maybe after at least one more night of sleep. You kept your mouth shut for the time being and kept walking.

“We should’ve blindfolded her.” The boy behind you was muttering after an hour or two went by and you vaguely heard the sounds of chatter and fire crackling off in the distance now. “He’s going to lose his shit.”

“Maybe we have Jake talk to him first.” The other one was whispering from beside you as the three of you slowed to a stop, accessing the situation before approaching with a stranger in toe.

It was clear to you now that this group was far larger than you had anticipated. They continued to whisper new names and you listened to the overlapping conversations off in the distance, your heart beating so fast it hurt as you skimmed through the different scenarios this could end in.

While they were distracted you were taking your chance, throwing your shoulder backwards to hit the first boy and taking off in a sprint back the way they had taken you from. You ignored his cry of shock and the others frantic plea for you to stop and come back as you whipped through the trees.

The sun was setting now so any tracking skills you had was completely useless, relying on nothing but your feet and the surrounding terrain as you attempted to put as much distance between you and the others as possible.

You could hear the two who had brought you back with them starting to yell out for help and despite cursing under your breath in frustration, you didn’t blame them and saw it coming before you even ran. You were a stranger and now you knew exactly where they were located, going from a hostage to a threat in seconds.

It had only been 20 minutes of running before you had exhausted yourself from lack of pacing, slamming against a tree and bending over with your elbows to your knees to try and catch your breath.

You could hear shouts in the forest behind you along with groans that brought on the harsh reminder you had more than one enemy in the woods. Their yells and loud feet over leaves and sticks were going to continue to bring more of the dead down on you and you were starting to panic completely.

Before you could think about it anymore or start running again, something heavy was slamming into your side and you were hitting the ground hard.

You flew across the leaves and mud before flipping over onto your back with a shout and scrambling away from whatever had rammed you before you even registered what it was. Another boy, not the one from the bush, was bouncing back to his feet considering he’d also hit the ground after he tackled you and was approaching you swiftly.

He looked furious but you couldn’t tell what type of weapons he had in the dark, kicking you feet out as he gained on you and hitting him in the knee.

A groan fell from his lips and he bent to grab his leg as you pulled yourself off the ground and instinctively reached down towards your thigh for your knife, finding the holster empty and immediately remembering it’d been taken from you hours ago.

He chuckled at your obvious dilemma although it lacked humor, an annoyed expression on his face like you were wasting his time. He was suddenly lunging at you again and although you were fast, he was definitely bigger and you let out a scream as he pinned you back down onto the floor.

Your stomach was pressed tightly against the dirt and you felt his knee land on your back, holding your arms tightly so you couldn’t break free from his hold again.

“Stop fucking moving already.” He was grunting from above you as you continued to thrash and attempt to kick at him despite slowly coming to the realization there was no getting free.

“Hyung.” Another voice was screaming out, obviously following the sounds of your cries and screams to find you. You twisted your head against the dirt to see the boy from the bush approaching you with a few others behind him.

“Sunoo go, you’ve done enough.” Your attacker was spitting from above you and you saw a flash of hurt over the others face, immediately taking a step back towards the rest of the boys who were watching the scene with varying expression.

Sunoo, the one who had brought you here in the first place, was clearly experiencing guilt as he looked down at you but you weren’t sure if it was for you or for causing an issue for his group. One of the boys behind him was reaching a hand up to grab his arm, pulling him backwards softly so he didn’t have to watch.

“Heeseung it wasn’t his fault.” You didn’t recognize the boy who was speaking now, approaching from the side, but you immediately could tell from his low timbre that he was the one who had held you at gunpoint. “I fucked up, we didn’t know what to do.”

“You kill her.” Heeseung was forcing the words out through gritted teeth and you were squirming again underneath his knee, the pain in your back excruciating as you started to find it difficult to breathe. “Or you leave her to the rotters, but under no circumstances do you bring her back to camp.”

Sunoo was glancing at the boy who had said something with a furthering expression of guilt and upset considering the fact those ideas had both been rejected by him. You thought about saying something, about pleading for your life or negotiating a deal where they could bring you far away and leave you somewhere you couldn’t find your way back.

You quickly decided against it considering how serious the boy above you was speaking, also piecing together this was clearly who was in charge and was being discussed in the woods previously.

The others boys were watching in the distance and you were trying to count them to see how outnumbered you were, eventually giving up considering how dark it was and how dizzy you were getting from being pinned against the floor. It was definitely more than you could handle and there was clearly no use in trying to out run them again considering how silently and quickly Heeseung had caught up to you the first time.

You hadn’t even heard him before he came out of the trees and it’d only taken him a second to bounce back onto his feet despite the tackle almost completely knocking the wind out of you.

He had you beat in all aspects and you didn’t feel like poking the bear would be the best move if you wanted to survive the night. That might not be up to either of you however considering the low groans that were starting to fill the forest.

Between the darkness and the almost echoing night air you couldn’t quite tell which direction it was coming from and judging by the way the group of boys starting to look around with their weapons raised, they couldn’t either.

You were being pulled up off the floor before you could think for another second and you sucked in a big breath now that your lungs were no longer restricted, immediately faltering when you were aggressively yanked around as Heeseung started to move towards the boys.

He was flinging you around like a rag doll and you heard him give out a low whistle, the others immediately forming a semi circle defense while everyone started to move in sync through the forest back towards where their camp was. It was a practiced routine and you would’ve been impressed if you weren’t technically their opponent right now.

“Pick your damn feet up.” He was speaking lowly into your ear with irritation and you let out a grunt as he continued to drag you.

“If you gave me a fucking second maybe I could.” You were spitting back and thrashing your torso forward slightly so his grip on your arms would loosen, he didn’t say anything about this and just glared at you as he let you get your balance so you could travel back to the base faster. “Thanks.”

He scoffed but didn’t reply to your sarcastic comment, traveling swiftly in silence on guard in case more than one dead came out from the dark woods.

By the time you got back to the camp, the fires were put out and nobody else was around. You weren’t sure if that’s because it was late or because everybody who lived here was apart of the group trailing behind you.

The camp was mainly made up of tents, some smaller like they were only fit for a pair and some large with big wooden stakes to hold them up. There was a few RV’s you could see from where you were standing and some trucks that could possibly run but for the most part they were large rust buckets littered with blood and dirt residue like the rest of the worlds vehicles.

You were being pulled into the largest tent before you could finish your observation and sat down in a chair furtherest away from the opening. You almost made a comment about them thinking you’d run again but you decided it wasn’t the best idea.

Only two of the boys followed you inside after Heeseung, the one from earlier who had attempted to take the blame off Sunoo and another you didn’t recognize.

“So what’s the plan then?” He was the one who spoke first and you glanced at him from under your messy hair, shifting uncomfortably as Heeseung tied your hands behind the chair tightly.

“First this idiot needs to tell me why he brought her back in the first place.” After he was finished and confident his ties were strong he was circling back around and approaching the familiar one, you couldn’t see his face anymore but his back was tense and straight. “What were you thinking?”

He cocked his head slightly but he didn’t seem deterred or intimidated by Heeseung’s demeanor, only breaking eye contact to spare you a quick glance.

You wondered if he was worried you’d give up the fact it was Sunoo who had practically insisted they bring you back. It was interesting that despite telling him he had to be the one to take the heat originally, he had immediately stepped up for the blame once he realized Heeseung was truly angry.

“She’s a tracker.” He brought his gaze back to the other boy as he spoke calmly. “She would’ve found us if we just left her and I saw no other option.”

The boy you didn’t recognize was looking at you now with a curious expression and you turned your head to look at him for a second, not able to get a good read on what he was thinking or what side of this argument he would be on. You wondered if this was the one mentioned earlier, Jake.

“You should’ve killed her Jay.” He was holding your gaze as he said it and you were taken back by his comment, not expecting him to be so blunt and cold.

Jay, despite being the one to originally put a gun to your head, also looked thrown off by this and faltered in his calm expression for a second and he looked at him. “Are you serious?”

“Jake’s right.” Heeseung shook his head, confirming your previous suspicious and Jay let out a small laugh of disbelief, taking a step away from the two boys back towards the entrance.

“I’m just supposed to blow her brains out right in front of Sunoo, just because there’s a slight chance she’d follow us?” He was holding his hands up in frustration and you shifted uncomfortably in the seat again, causing their heads to turn towards you.

Heeseung was approaching you swiftly and you watched him as he took large steps, gasping when his hand was reaching up to grab a solid chunk of your hair in his tight grip. He pulled slightly to make you look at up him, bending slightly so he could hold eye contact with you.

“How many people are in your group?” He was speaking steadily and low but you could feel the warning in his tone.

You were shaking your head in denial and confusion but stopped when he tightened his grip and repeated himself louder and more agitated. “How many?”

“I don’t have a group, it’s just me.” You were wincing and trying to hold his gaze, failing miserably due to the pain and intensity. Your eyes went over his shoulder to look at Jay and you gave him a desperate look. “Tell him it was just me.”

He didn’t say anything and you didn’t expect him to, only asking out of pure panic and as a last ditch attempt to plead your case. You weren’t afraid to die but if you could help it, it wouldn’t be in some random groups tent just because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Heeseung was loosening his grip on your hair as he looked at you but keeping his hand on the back of your head, a silent warning in case you decided to act out in any sort of way. You watched him with your breath held as you waited for him to say something or react in any sort of way. He was just studying your expression like he was attempting to seek out some trace of a lie on your face.

“You can track.” He was stating suddenly but you took it as a question and nodded repeatedly as best as you could with how close he was to your face. “Can you hunt?”

You were nodding again but slower this time, not quite understanding where this was going. He was looking over his shoulder back at the other boys and Jake gave him an incredulous look that only confused you further before you slightly pieced together what he could he implying.

“You’re not serious.” He was laughing but it was devoid of humor, glancing at Jay who was stony faced as he looked at you. “Heeseung, you can’t be serious right now. Let her stay?”

You felt a wave of sickness pass by as he confirmed what you were thinking and you hoped you didn’t look too appalled visibly. You didn’t like this idea anymore than the thought of them killing you, never being in a group by choice. You didn’t necessarily play well with others and certainly not after they held you hostage and tackled you in the woods.

“She hunts.” He said it like it was obvious and you couldn’t deny the fact it was a valuable asset nowadays as human-made resources slowly died out. You’d noticed it yourself back at your apartment, having to venture out further and further every time you went for a run.

“Riki hunts.” Jake was quickly shutting him down and your interest piqued.

“Riki is learning to hunt but it’s not enough.” Jay was adding into the conversation now, still looking at you as he spoke like he had been since he entered the tent. “It’s almost winter and we can’t keep taking these day long trips every time we’re low…. and we’re always low.”

It was silent for a few moments while they looked at each other in frustration and you once again tried to understand the hierarchy and dynamics at play here, falling short every time. Eventually Jake was scoffing and exiting the tent, slamming the flap down as he left in anger.

Heeseung swiped a hand at Jay, dismissing him too and you didn’t miss the small nod he gave you before turning on his heel and following after the other boy.

That left you and Heeseung alone in the tent and he was taking a step away from you finally, watching you curiously as you took a breath finally and held his gaze tight in yours. You felt a dull ache in your back from his knee and your wrist were screaming for release from your constraints.

“Think of it as a trial.” He was turning away from you for a second as he started to talk and you stared daggers into the back of his head. “I don’t kill you now and in return, you don’t do something stupid.”

You watched him as he started to face you again with a stern look on his face, a hint of youth underneath the hardened exterior, and his eyes shot down to your feet and then back to hold your gaze. “Don’t give me a reason to kill you.”

——

You hadn’t spoken to him again but he didn’t seem too bothered by your silence, only muttering small commands as he dragged you out of the tent and towards one of the RV’s.

You were being left there for the night and you tried not to move much after he cut your restraints with a warning full glance, not wanting him to mistake your movements for another attempt at an escape. Despite not wanting to be there any longer than you had to, your chances were slim out in the woods by yourself.

You figured it wouldn’t hurt to stay a few nights, slipping out whenever you had gained their trust and didn’t need to sleep in a guarded metal bucket.

He’d left you with one of the boys you recognized from earlier in the woods, the one who had gently pulled Sunoo back after he started to get scolded. He looked the opposite of gentle now as he glared at you from the foldable table on the other side of the RV, gun hanging loosely on his lap and he watched you.

“Is there something on my face?” You were eventually muttering, not able to stop yourself as irritation bubbled to the surface.

You hadn’t asked to be brought back here, not even remotely putting yourself in this situation, yet everybody was acting like you were purposely causing issues or trying to harm them.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He was shaking his head and the deep tone of his voice threw you off slightly considering how young he looked.

Despite his youthful features, you could tell he was just as weathered and worn by this new world as everybody else was, you included. His eyebrows were pulled tight and his skin was darker in random sections like he had permanent dirt stains.

He was watching you as you observed him quietly, fidgeting slightly the longer you scanned his features and frame.

He was tall, a lot taller than you and even the other boys you’d encountered long enough to get a good sizing up done. You tried not to focus in on the tears in his clothing or the blood stains surrounding his knees and hands, not wanting to make him more uncomfortable than you already were.

“If you don’t want me here, why not just let me go?” You were shrugging like it was a nonchalant thing to ask, feigning ignorance that he clearly didn’t buy judging by his scoff and annoyed expression.

“And get in trouble for no good reason? Are you stupid or do you think I am?” He was letting his gun lean against the table, deciding you were more of a bother than an actual threat.

You shrugged but didn’t talk to him again for a minute of offer him a response to his question, knowing it would just further upset him. Considering the two of you were clearly stuck with each other for the night you didn’t see the point. “I’m Y/N.”

He was sighing as you spoke again, your voice softer than before as you shifted on the uncomfortable half bed Heeseung had sat you down on. You watched him watch you for a few seconds before he finally responded.

“Riki.”

——

You weren’t sure when you had managed to fall asleep, at some point just laying flat on your back and listening to the sounds of the forest off in the distance as they mixed with Riki’s soft breaths on the other side of the RV.

Apparently you had considering the fact you were being shook awake aggressively, jumping up with a start and reflexively striking the person who had woken you.

“Dude what the fuck.” Jake was standing near your bed and shielding his face from any further assault, a pained look on his face. You gave him an incredulous stare at his reaction, not quite sure how he expected you to react to being vibrated awake by a stranger who had encouraged your death last night. “Make yourself useful.”

He was turning and leaving after that quick statement and you groaned, flopping backwards onto the uncomfortable mattress for a second before kicking up and out of the bed, following him outside before he got too far away and you were lost in the camp.

“You’re going out with Heeseung today.” He was explaining as you jogged to catch up with him, trying to ignore the stares and whispers from the other boys as you passed.

“Does that mean I get my knife back?” You were asking him despite already knowing the answer and he shot you a quick glance at the sound of your voice, looking away as you furrowed your eyebrows.

“First piece of advice, don’t ask stupid questions.” He was stepping forward towards a different tent than last night, holding the flap open with a raised arm until you got the hint and ducked underneath it with a muttered word of thanks. He followed behind you and you saw Heeseung and two other boys sat around the tent, gearing up.

Sunoo was there and he faltered for a second when he saw you, another look of guilt washing over his face as his shoulders tensed. You gave him a small nod but it didn’t seem to appease him in anyway.

The other boy wasn’t looking at you, instead focusing on the disassembled gun in his lap as he meticulously cleaned it and cleared his throat. His hands were fast and swift, no hesitation or question in his expression.

“They’re going on a run too.” Heeseung was speaking and you looked up at him to see who he was talking to, surprised to see him already watching you. “We are heading off in the other direction.”

You were nodding and fidgeting in place, not quite sure how to respond to him in a way that didn’t immediately showcase your frustration. You weren’t thrilled about going out into the world with no weapons and no clue if this guy had good intentions, maybe this was his way of killing you as quietly as possible. He obviously wasn’t expecting you to hunt with your bare hands so you weren’t sure why he was bringing you along.

Still, you didn’t bother arguing with him and after a few more minutes of prep you were following him into one of the trucks off away from the main camp.

“There’s a town about an hour away.” He was muttering eventually as he drove, the heavy rumble of the old engine almost putting you to sleep if it wasn’t for the aggressive way the truck jerked every time he amateurly changed gears. “We cleared it for food but at the time we weren’t thinking about other types of supplies.”

You were watching the side of his face as he spoke and he spared you a glance at your silence. “You think there’s still stuff left now?”

“Possibly but it’s worth a shot. There’s a reason you’re out here and not in Seoul just like us, a lower populated town means maybe less survivors passed by when everything went to shit.” He was sighing as he spoke but seemed hopeful as he tried to convince you.

He wasn’t wrong for the most part, you had traveled to a more rural area in hopes for less of the dead and more towns left undiscovered. You figured if this didn’t end soon then there would be no place left that wasn’t completely cleared out.

Heeseung was large and sturdy but you didn’t miss his sunken in cheeks and darkened eyes, clearly lacking vital nutrients and a healthy lifestyle. It wasn’t that jarring considering you hadn’t met anybody who was doing particularly well but being in a group with larger numbers certainly made things a bit more uneasy.

You took a second to study him as he drove, trailing your gaze from his black long sleeve down to his matching cargo pants. His weapon holster was tightly pulled around his thigh similarly to how yours normally sat and you were suddenly reminded how defenseless you currently were.

“How do you know I’m from Seoul.” You didn’t necessarily feel like talking to him anymore than you had to but if you were going to be stuck with him in charge of your life, maybe some small talk wouldn’t hurt.

“Riki.” He spoke bluntly but it answered your question considering the fact you’d spent most of the night talking to the younger boy after the tension between you had calmed down. “Nice to hear you actually talk occasionally.”

“Maybe I’m more inclined to speak with people who haven’t tried to kill me.” You were quipping back and he let out a small chuckle at your sudden change in tone, not taking any actual offense.

You understood why he had done what he did and he knew you understood but that didn’t mean you were happy about the way things had went down and were continuing to go. You didn’t want to be with them and that much was clear but at some point he had figured if you had somewhere to go, you would’ve put up more of a fight.

The truck jerked particularly hard around another turn onto a dirt road and he swore under his breath, yanking at the shift knob until it slightly smoothed out again.

He gave you an awkward glance out of the side of his eyes and you tried not to chuckle at his terrible manual driving skills. You figured eventually everybody would adapt to things they hadn’t needed to before but it was slightly amusing to know most of the world was desperately trying to adjust to things you’d always had available to you.

You didn’t bother telling Heeseung you could drive a stick shift better than anything else, having been taught in one back in high school. He didn’t need to know how good you were at setting camouflaged rabbit traps or that you weren’t half bad with a bow. Your skill set was better kept a secret until you could get as far away from this group as possible.

By the time you were finally pulling up to a small town, if you could even call it that considering it was just a few old wooden buildings and shops in a U shape, Heeseung seemed to have relaxed a bit.

“We’ll be in and out.” He was carefully instructing as you got out of the car and you nodded although you were feeling frustrated about having no weapon. “Stay close by in case you run into an issue okay?”

Despite your upset and undeniable feeling of vulnerability, the run was going smoothly for the most part. You were quick to enter buildings behind Heeseung as he checked for undead and you had actually managed to get a bag full of supplies that could help the group through the winter.

Your guard was lowering slightly considering you’d come across little corpses, the small town seemingly sheltered from the horror the rest of the world had been subjected to.

Neither of you talked much, the mission being at the front of your minds and you were thankful for the lack of distraction.

It wasn’t until you were on your fourth building, some old auto shop with a connecting garage, that you realized how mistaken you had been. Heeseung was still outside the front door, fidgeting with something old and rusty that you couldn’t quite place.

Whatever it was, he seemed determined to unearthed it from the weeds that had grown around it and you impatiently shoved past him into the store. He offered a small scoff as you pushed through but didn’t bother chasing after you or demanding you wait, also making the mistake of being relaxed.

The second you entered the shop and the door closed behind you, a small gap left open considering the door was also subjected to the growing nature that almost converted the entire building, you smelt it.

Throughout the many months you’d been getting accustomed to the apocalypse and all it’s trials and faults, you still hadn’t adjusted to the overwhelming stench that came along with awaken corpses. It was especially murderous when they moved in masses or were left rotting since the start.

“Heeseung.” You were calling out in a hushed voice, slowing down your steps and looking around the store with confusion. You ignored the fact it was the first time you’d said the boys name and how casually it slipped out, listening in to his small hum of acknowledgment from outside. “Do you smell that?”

You could hear him setting down the metal thing he was obsessing over and pushing the door open swiftly, looking at you with a worried expression.

Before he could speak or confirm your senses, you were hitting the floor with a shriek.

It took you a second to realize why you had fallen but the moment you started to think straight again you could feel the tight bony hand wrapped around your ankle, having dragged you down onto the dust covered floor. You sucked in a sharp breath and scrambled back the best you could, kicking at the walker who had gripped your pant leg.

You could see it now, halfway stuck underneath one of the fallen shelves and desperate in the way it’s jaws snapped around nothing.

You were still kicking it when you realized the groans suddenly starting up were far too loud to be coming from the single walker in front of you, understanding with a wave of panic that your shriek had clearly awaken whatever amount of dead it was that was causing such an odor.

“Fuck.” Heeseung was entering the store swiftly and rushing over to you, immediately stomping the rotted skull of the dead that was holding you with his boot.

Ignoring the amount of blood and brain matter that sprayed out on your face at his action, you accepted his hand and let him pull you up and off the floor.

There was no time to dust yourself off as you both heard crashing and groans coming from the connected auto garage, clearly full of dead that had been starving for far too long. They were pouring out in pairs from the small doorway and you and Heeseung stood frozen as you tried to think of a way out of this.

They were coming from both sides of the aisle, filling up the only exit route back to the open door and sufficiently trapping you in the store.

Your fingers were twitching and reaching down to your empty holster, cursing once you remember you had no weapons on you and turning your head to glare at Heeseung who was already watching you with a panicked expression.

His eyes shot behind your head and you almost jumped out of the way, expecting something dead and hungry behind you, before he was reaching a hand out to grip your arm and pull you with him.

You didn’t object despite your confusion and you followed him swiftly, groaning loudly when you understood he was leading you towards the back of the shop where a small maintenance closet was hidden behind some tool carts and brooms.

“Hurry up, help me.” He was shouting back at you as he started to throw things out of the way and you unfroze, helping him clear the way to the door.

You were spinning around once finished to see the hoard closing in on you, a flustered shout pushing past your lips. “Heeseung.”

“I’m trying.” He groaned, his leg propped up against the wall as he kept trying to pry open the old rusted door with all his weight.

Finally, he was stumbling back in your direction and you grabbed his arm to stop him from falling into the awaiting arms of the dead that were now only a few feet from being able to grab onto you. He was immediately catching his footing and ushering you into the closet before closing it tightly behind the two of you.

You sat with bated breath and you waited to see if it would hold, the bodies of the corpses smacking against it as they clawed and practically shrieked with hunger.

Heeseung was holding the doorknob tightly so it wouldn’t spring back open and although it was dark, flashes of light that managed to break past the dozens of shoes outside the door, revealed to you his fearful expression that didn’t help calm your nerves.

You opened your mouth to speak and ask him about what you were supposed to do but his eyes were shooting to your in a glare, his free hand coming up to cover your mouth as he shushed you.

Your eyes widened at the fact he was suddenly touching you, looking down at the hand over your face and then back up at him as he swiftly ripped it away and shook his head, gesturing to the door like you were stupid for trying to make any noise.

He didn’t look at you again as you furrowed your eyebrows in annoyance but nodded in understanding, realizing he wanted to wait until they had settled before showing any sign of life. They could definitely smell you and had no reason to give up, only driven by hunger, but you figured eventually something would come by and distract them.

Which gave you some hope that you could get out of here safe, not wanting to die stuck in a smelly auto shop closet with Heeseung, but you also let out a small sigh knowing you’d be waiting here for a long time.

For the first time since you’d been rushed inside the small space, you took a second to look around. It was tiny, so small that if Heeseung was standing straight and not bending slightly to keep the door held shut, his shoulder would be touching the other wall.

To make matters worse the opposite width wasn’t any bigger, the toes of your boots smushed against his with no room to scoot backwards or make less contact.

Eventually he was slowly letting go of the metal door knob, moving barely an inch every ten seconds as you both waited to see if they were going to suddenly rip the door open and devour you whole. It was clear after a few minutes that it was sturdy enough to keep you hidden behind it for now, you’re not sure you could say the same about the next few hours however.

Heeseung sucked in a much needed breath and leaned backwards against his side of the closet, his knees pointing out towards you in result.

He was watching you with a curious expression and you glared at him in silence, not sure if you were allowed to talk yet or if it would result in his large hand over your mouth again.

“In and out.” He was whispering it so quietly it almost looked like he mouthed it. You could still barely see him but you could hear the smile in his voice as he joked about your failed plan, the light catching his eyes as he peered down at you. “You good?”

You were nodding but shifting uncomfortably, suddenly remembering how close of a call you’d had now that things were calmed down enough for you to think properly.

“It really had me for a second.” You whispered back to him and shook your head, avoiding his gaze as you looked at the vibrating door. “I shouldn’t have let my guard down like that, it was stupid.”

“Then we’re both stupid.” He was muttering back and you tried not to be too curious why he was being so nice to you despite his harsh leadership within the group. “At least you weren’t alone.”

You were scoffing and shaking your head, his boot scooting forward towards yours in a warning to keep your noises at a low volume. He couldn’t exactly make out your expression considering you were placed lower than him and getting less light on your face but he could practically feel the death stare you were sending his way.

“It’s easier to be alone.” You were countering in a stern tone. “If I’m stupid alone I’m just dead but if I’m stupid in a group then I’m guilty. It’s on my hands.”

“It would’ve been on mine if you’d gotten bit back there.” He was cutting you off and you stopped abruptly, looking at him with parted lips. “But the same thing goes for if I die out here, if I don’t get back to camp, back to my family then that’s on me too. Not trying just because you’re alone isn’t an excuse.”

His tone was heavy now and you felt bad for getting him so frustrated considering how carefree he’d been for most of the day, possibly enjoying not having to direct orders and commands for a few hours. You imagine that if he was able to he would’ve stormed off and left you with his heavy statement.

Instead the two of you sat in the silence of what he had said and listened to the groans only a few inches away from your heads.

You were shifting suddenly and he looked back at you in question when you accidentally bumped against his stomach, not having room to move your arms anywhere.

“Is that why you lead them then?” You tried to keep your voice soft and questioning, not wanting him to mistake you for accusatory.

You didn’t want to fight with him again especially since he had saved your life not too long ago, potentially twice with his quick thinking to get the two of you into the closet.

“It just happened.” He was whispering back and his tone was slightly guarded. “We knew each other before and when.. everything went to shit they came to me one by one.”

“I was scared shitless, I mean sure I’ve chauffeured them around for a few years and I’d handle calling in our takeout orders but now I’m supposed to keep them alive?” He sounded flustered and you listened to him quietly, letting him talk.

For some reason it hadn’t occurred to you to wonder how long they’d known each other. They seemed comfortable and they worked fast and efficiently like they had experience with it but you’d seen similar things in groups who met only at the beginning of all this, being forced to learn how each other works to survive.

You briefly remembered Riki saying something about high school and Jay but you didn’t fully make the connection, maybe you just didn’t want to.

But listening to Heeseung so earnestly talk about the responsibility he carried as the leader and the eldest you felt a wave of understanding, immediately followed by the desire to run far far away from the inevitable care that comes along with a group this tightly knit.

“We left Seoul the first week in Jungwon’s old van.” He was continuing on and when you raised an eyebrow in question he was nodding in realization. “That’s the one who was cleaning the gun, he’s out with Sunoo right now.”

“How many more of you is there?” You hoped he didn’t think you were asking him in an attempt to get information on the group that would assist you in your escape, although you halfway were.

“Just Sunghoon, I don’t think you met him.” He was mumbling and you thought for a second before shaking your head.

That made a total of seven and a wave of fear washed over you at the thought. As of now you were leaving no matter what and as of now they weren’t going to let you just go easy, meaning in some form this was your opponent. Seven men who were capable and seemingly willing to kill you if necessary with the exception of one or two.

Heeseung’s silence made you think he knew what you were thinking and he shifted so he was standing again, no longer leaning against the wall.

This put him even closer to you and you held your breath at the proximity, only letting it out in a moment of shock when his hand was coming up suddenly and touching your face like it had earlier.

You were jumping backwards, at least as far as you could in the tight space and he was shushing you with furrowed eyebrows and a finger to his lips, glancing at the door in worry and then back to you as he continued what he was originally doing.

It took you a few seconds to remember the walker he had stomped on, to remember the blood and rotted skin that had splattered all over you.

Heeseung was gently wiping your face off with his hands, using his sleeves at times for the areas that were particularly covered. You felt your cheeks flush in embarrassment, his large hands stiffening for a second when he realized how awkward this situation was.

He was taking his hands away swiftly and clearing his throat, shuffling backwards again and avoiding looking at you. It was silent for a few minutes and you felt suffocated by it.

“You didn’t lose anybody.” You broke the thick air by speaking again and he flinched before looking down at you. “Since Seoul, did you lose anybody?”

His eyes flashed with something heavy and sad and you imagined he was thinking about his family, slightly curious why he had left without them and what had happened before the other boys showed up alone at his doorstep. Then he was shaking his head to answer your question.

“Then maybe you’re more fit to lead than you thought.”

——

“Was he scared?” Riki’s voice was ringing in your ear again and you groaned softly, leaning back on your pillow and trying your hardest to ignore his constant questions. “I mean, I’ve never seen Heeseung scared. What was it like? Did he cry a little bit?”

After a few more hours had passed in the closet, your suspicion was correct and eventually something passed by that caught a few of the undeads attention. The stragglers had wondered outside the auto shop and the rest immediately followed the noise and movement.

Heeseung and you had waited another half an hour just to be sure before slipping out finally, backs aching from standing straight and rigid for so long.

You’d gotten in the truck with the supplies you found earlier in the day and headed back to the camp, not wanting to risk your luck any further and needing to beat the night as the sun slowly set.

The boys had affectionately greeted the two of you when you arrived, or more so Heeseung as you hovered awkwardly behind and watched them all. You saw a boy you didn’t recognize and figured he was Sunghoon, finally having faces to all the names.

They all carried different expressions of worry and upset and you watched them scan his skin for injuries or scratches, eyes crinkling with relief when they saw he was safe and returned to them. Your heart felt heavy and your stomach turned as you watched the display of care and love towards each other.

You’d caught Jake’s eye for a second and he narrowed his at you, causing you to swiftly give him a nod and slink back into the RV you’d been assigned to.

The same RV that you were now groaning in as you listening to the young boy, the youngest boy as you had found out yesterday, talk your ear off with questions about what it was like to be stuck in a closest with his hyung.

“He cried like a baby.” You were muttering and he laughed softly before shaking his head, able to tell you were lying to him. “I’m serious, my shoulder was soaking wet by the time we got out of there.”

“You know you’re funny when you’re not glaring at me.” He was remarking and you scoffed softly. “The others don’t joke around anymore so I don’t either.”

He sounded younger than he looked when he said it, voice steady like he didn’t even process the weight and sadness of what he was saying. Maybe he’d already started to forget what it was like to be a teenager with no responsibilities.

For a second you zoned out picturing him before the apocalypse, a younger Riki wearing a school uniform and excitedly chatting with the older boys. Maybe he was shy or maybe he was just as talkative and mischievous as he seemed to get the few times you’ve talked to him.

You were abruptly broken out of your daydreams when you heard shouts coming from outside the RV, immediately sitting straight up in the bed and locking eyes with Riki as his widened in fear and concern.

As far as you knew, everybody had turned in for bed. Heeseung didn’t like any one leaving their tents after dark, a heavily suggested curfew seeming to be followed religiously and you couldn’t think of good a reason for the boys to be disobeying this.

You were standing up swiftly and making your way towards the small door, being stopped by a hand wrapped around your arm.

Riki was shaking his head with a panicked expression, pushing you back into the RV. “What are you doing? You can’t go out there.” His voice was urgent and he took a step between you and the door.

His protective expression was making you feel sick and your expression turned stony, moving to push past him but stopping as the door was flung open without either of you touching it.

Sunghoon was stood panting, looking up at you guys from the surface level. He took a step up the RV’s metal steps and glanced behind him with a hard look on his face. Now that the door was open you could hear the shouts louder and also the groans that accompanied them.

“We have to go.” He was rushing out and your mouth parted slightly, looking between him and back to Riki who Sunghoon had been watching since he opened the door.

The younger boy was shaking his head as his shoulders dropped and you felt a wave of upset and guilt for him wash over you, knowing this had been his only home for the past year considering the fact he wasn’t permitted to runs as often as the older boys.

“I’m sorry Rik, there’s too many we don’t have any choice.” Sunghoon was shaking his head sternly but his eyes were soft as he looked at his friend. “You need to pack and we have to go, both of you.”

His eyes moved over to you hesitantly and he lost the affection in his gaze, you didn’t take any offense to it and nodded your head as he turned to rush back to help the others buy some time. You touched the younger boys arm and he jumped slightly before looking down at you with a heavy expression.

“Let’s pack your stuff okay?” You whispered and your unusually gentle tone just made him feel worse, curling in on himself slightly as he nodded and started to grab what little belongings he had scattered around the RV in an attempt to make it feel more like a home.

He was done quickly and you were getting ready to exit the vehicle and join the others when he was grabbing your arm again to stop you.

You almost turned to scold him for wasting time and not letting you go but stopped in your tracks when you realized he was holding a gun out in between your bodies, gesturing for you to take the weapon.

You considered saying no for a few seconds, knowing Heeseung and the other boys wouldn’t be happy with you for accepting and most likely would also scold Riki for giving it to you in the first place. The need to survive overtook this and you took the gun from him, nodding in appreciation.

The second you stepped outside you understood why the only option was to abandon the camp. The dead were pouring in from every side of the forest, their groans mixing together and attracting more and more every minute that passed.

Your eyes were darting around try and spot the other boys but you couldn’t see them in the chaos, feeling frustrated and panicked as you heard Riki’s breathing getting more strained from beside you.

Eventually you spotted Sunoo at the same moment he saw the two of you as well as he was rushing over to you with a serious expression, eyes bouncing around to check if it was safe to stop and talk.

“They’re out past the river.” He was explaining swiftly and you nodded despite having no idea how to get there. It seemed to make sense to the two boys however because they were quickly turning on their heels and disappearing into the woods, looking back a few times to make sure you were following behind them.

Sunoo was running ahead of both of you and your heart clenched watching him take out a few stragglers that were making their way towards the over run camp, his knife effortlessly going into their rotted skulls as he kept rushing through the woods.

Eventually the groans got quieter and you could hear the light splash of a stream, catching sight of the other boys huddled together before the saw you.

“They’re here.” Jake was announcing when he picked his head up and saw the three of you approaching. He stood up and rushed to meet you halfway, checking Sunoo and Riki for injuries before his eyes landed on you.

His gaze trailed down to the gun clenched in your hands and for a second you thought he’d take it from you, demand you leave or maybe try to kill you here and now so they didn’t have another thing to worry about. Instead he took a step closer and briefly scanned over your body, similar to the way he was doing to the others.

“I’m okay.” You breathed out and you weren’t sure why you said it, just wanting to get his concerned look off of your frame as soon as possible. He nodded his head but lingered on your for a second before turning and walking back over to the others.

You followed behind him to see what the boys were surrounding, watching as they all pointed at a crinkled map and spoke in hushed voices. They carried bags on their shoulders and you vaguely noted that Jungwon’s was full of the guns he was always taking such intense care of.

“We’ve been that way man.” Jay was sighing and shaking his head and he pushed Jake’s finger away and moved it further down the map. “From here to here it’s not clear, dead ends or there’s just nothing left.”

“Well we can’t go north.” Sunghoon was countering and you could see a large red X over the area he was referring to. You wonder how long they’d been planning an escape plan with no luck.

You listened to them talk for awhile with a sick feeling in your stomach, wondering if you should help and throw out the idea that was brewing in your mind. On one hand this was your chance to escape considering they had no home to even protect anymore, you could sneak out or hold the gun in your hands to one of their heads until you were far enough away that they wouldn’t follow.

This could be your only opportunity to be back on your own, not owing any sort of debt to a group that was dealing with their own conflict.

Riki was looking back at you suddenly with a worried expression and that thought was immediately out the window as you let out a small sigh, upset at yourself for what you were about to do, before stepping up towards the boys.

“I know a place.” You were rushing out and they all turned to look at you. Heeseung’s eyes were softening at your sudden want to help and you nodded at him. “It’s a few hours south but I stayed there for a few weeks before I kept moving away from that area.”

“You think it’s still there?” Jungwon was asking, his first time speaking to you directly since you’d arrived to their group. His voice wasn’t as harsh as his glare though and he seemed genuinely curious, not suspicious of your motives.

“It was gated.” You shrugged and bent down, bumping into Heeseung’s side and causing him to sway in his crouched position. You were touching the map and felt relieved to see the area you were referring to wasn’t crossed out or circled. “It might not be but it’s worth a shot. Plus we don’t have many options.”

“We?” Heeseung’s voice was soft from beside you and you turned your head to look at him, flushing slightly when you realized how close to each others faces you were.

“Yeah.. we.”

——

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hms-no-fun · 7 months

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so, (SPOILERS FOR FIONNA AND CAKE but its relevant to the question but im gonna put a bunch of line breaks just in case lol)

so fionna and cake ended with fionna basically being like, you know, youre RIGHT god, if magic came back my wish would simply be twisted and it would suck, there will be no rule breaking miracles! I will now work as a struggling minimum wage employee in seattle and Be Happy about it. i sure am glad the threat of losing everyone i know and love set me straight!! sorry to send u this really random thing the ending just felt like such a slap in the face and i wanted to ask someone who knows that exact Seattle Struggle. this is absolutely me appealing to the Writing Gods to back me up that the ending wasnt very good lmao but if i have a direct line to the craftsgoat i simply must use it for something stupid at least once

FULL SERIES SPOILERS FOR FIONNA & CAKE AFTER THE BREAK!!!

i really disagree with your read on the ending. it didn't feel like "just struggle with seattle minimum wage forever and be happy about it" at all to me! the whole instigating incident was that fionna wanted to transform reality into something that she personally thought would be better, without taking into account the fact that other people exist and have internal lives just as complex as hers. she comes back to her original world to find marshall and gary holding hands, explains to them the magical adventure she's been on and the fact that their world is about to transform into something unrecognizably magical, and they receive this with abject horror! fionna doesn't know whether simon becoming ice king again will erase marhsall & gary's burgeoning relationship, which makes her realize that in her quest to escape the boring, oppressive reality of working odd jobs to make ends meet, she's only ever focused that energy on how to make things better for her.

i really want to dig into this because it's a key theme of the show. there is a destructive selfishness innate to the "heroes" of this universe, who feel entitled to the joyous empowerment of being able to defeat anyone and everyone they see in open combat. cake has a whole musical number about this! simon's arc in the last two episodes was betty grabbing him and shaking him until he finally asked himself, how would my life have been different if i'd just once let the woman i loved steer the ship for a while? and then of course we see the lich in a reality where he succeeded in eradicating all life, only to find himself desiccated and without purpose, begging the god of chaos for an answer it cannot give. brian david gilbert's ice prince seems perfectly put together and successful, until the reveal that he's outsourced his madness to someone who didn't accept the terms of the crown's curse. this didn't solve the fundamental problem, it just inverted the roles of its expression by making princess bubblegum into the mad candy queen. nothing about the status quo has changed, simon has simply given himself a more dignified role in it.

this is a story about what happens when people in struggle behave as though they are the protagonist of reality. when fionna says "this is the world i want to fight for" she's not fighting for the right to get another shitty minimum wage job. i think you've really missed something by accepting that conclusion when cake the cat is right there saying that her magical self IS the version of herself she wants to live as. being a normal house cat for her was, arguably, a form of body dysmorphia, and the show lets her keep that magic at the end! the thing is, their world IS changed by the events of the show! the status quo is altered!

like, what do we actually see everyone DOING when the credits approach? we see this entire disconnected community banding together to rebuild the city together, and we see a huge crowd of protesters outside marshall's mom's place demanding that she lower rents. we see people connecting with other people, including three outcasts from other universes escaping to this more boring one for their own safety. i loved this ending honestly, because it felt to me like an attempted refutation of the very idea that you can magically transform reality into something better overnight. if fionna'd gotten her original wish and made her world into, like, candy world, then... what? let's say they play it as like, at last people are freed from the shackles of capitalism and everyone just gets to be weird funky critters going on adventures or whatever. what would that, as art, actually say? what would that mean to us in the real world? if we're going into this cartoon looking for some kind of revolutionary energy (which IS present in the text, much to its credit), what actionable or symbolically resonant message are we supposed to take from a story that resolves its problems with magic? at that point, it ceases to be relevant as anything more than pure fantasy, because it has abandoned any connection to the material reality WE are trapped in.

i don't want to magically transform the world overnight. this whole show goes out of its way to explore how trying to transform the world overnight, in a world where such a thing is possible, is a really fucking bad idea for a whole host of reasons. regardless, such things aren't possible in our world. so going into the finale, my worry was that they WOULD turn fionna's world into another candy world and just say, ah, the revolution is when you think the right things so hard that the material plane bends to your will.

that's neoliberal thinking. that's like the essence of the failed leftist project of the "end of history" era from the 90s onwards, when marxism was systematically rooted out of academic cultural analysis and replaced with the delusion that if you can just get people thinking the right things, you can affect change in the world. well here we are, it's 2023 and all that magical thinking has got us is a world on fire and a civilization of human beings so thoroughly disempowered that they would literally rather pretend to be a tortured anime protagonist than exist in this boring, shitty, violent reality. you can't think your way out of oppression. raising labor consciousness is, at best, step one. you want to know why unions are winning big right now when they've been completely useless in this country for decades? it's because they've stopped giving a shit about optics they can't control and remembered that the boss's value does not exist without labor. you do not necessarily need marxism for this, marxism is simply the most accurate articulation of the fact that workers who make the things a capitalist sells can kneecap the capitalist by refusing to make the things they want to sell. change doesn't happen with the publishing of a book or whatever, it happens when enough people in real life press their material demands hard enough that someone in charge is left no choice but to listen.

so for me, fionna & cake ending the way it did was a huge relief, because it wasn't espousing magical thinking. the solution to fionna's ennui and economic anxiety was not to just get another job and be happy to live in the world as it was-- it was to create a sense of shared community and struggle, uniting the not-seattleites in their survival of a near-apocalypse and using it as a jumping off point for fundamentally transforming the state of that world as it exists. fionna had to realize that her problems are everyone's problems, and that making her life personally better at the expense of everyone else's agency is just an act of kicking the can of responsibility down the road indefinitely. no one who gets their wish in this show is happy to have gotten it, or avoids punishing others who didn't ask to be involved.

the "canonization" of fionna & cake felt like a reaction to the idea that we in our world are permanently isolated from the fictional realities we create where change seems to come so easy, and the powerlessness that can engender. instead this show is saying, okay, let's say we are in continuity with these fantastical realities. what do we actually DO with that? how do we make this world more fun, more interesting, more fulfilling for everyone to live in? the answer is the same as it's always been, and no other answer would ever feel satisfying: you do it by organizing the workers against the current arrangement of the state with the explicit goal of transforming it for the better.

what does simon do at the end when he gives fionna her world to her? he says that no one person should have that responsibility, that it's been in one person's hands for too long. so he gives it to her in the form of a dandelion, whose blown seeds merge with and become part of everyone trying to survive the scarab's attack. the idea here is that while no single person ever possesses the power to transform the world on their own, the world itself belongs to all of us, and it is within our power to transform it together. those who hoard power want us to believe that this is not the case precisely because the basis of their power is fraudulent and maintained through the violence of the state.

as someone who does live in seattle for better and worse, as much as i do wish i could make literally anything better right the fuck now by whatever means necessary... the fact is i can't. and it does no one any good to labor under the assumption that i or any other individual has that kind of absolute transformative power. the solutions are all right there, and they are simple, materialist propositions whose only difficulty lies in how successfully we've been propagandized to think that the individual is God, or at least speaks on His behalf. there's no thinking our way out of this pickle, and no one's gonna do the hard work for us.

as to the question of how you actually get people in real life to get together and do all that hard work... well, personally i think it's unfair to ask a 10 episode cartoon show to give you any kind of actionable advice on that front. i might even go so far as to say that such an expectation is an expression of the very same magical thinking which the show tries to push back against! in any case i liked it quite a lot and i hope this rambling answer encourages you to revisit the show and reconsider some of your takeaways

#sarahposts #fionna and cake #adventure time #spoilers #fionna and cake spoilers

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thatgirlonstage · 2 years

Text

The sending stone died before Cerrit made it out. And Cerrit is a full-classed rogue. No Sending, no spells at all. With nothing but destroyed continent beneath him, he’d have no way to contact anyone.

His family had *no idea* he made it out. They very probably assumed he didn’t.

When the entire continent of Dunemas went dark, when the news started to filter back of its destruction, when the scant survivors started trying to reach their families…there was no reason to believe that Cerrit had escaped.

Survivors and their stories emerge—but they’re civilians, mostly. Regular people who escaped on ships, through teleport, through trees.

The ones from Avalir and Cathmoíra have one particular story to tell: at the end, the Herald told them that the ring of gold, the magisters, the leaders of the city would go down with the ship. That no space on what lifeboats they had would be taken from Avalir’s people.

So that’s the answer: Cerrit, too, would have gone down with the ship.

His wife probably had a difficult conversation with their children. Told them about sacrifice, told them sometimes we lose people but they will always love us just the same, told them that their dad sent them away from the city because he loved them more than anything in the world and then spent every last moment he could trying to save as many more people as he could because he was a good man, because he cared so deeply, because he found problems and fixed them. These conversations probably happened amidst panic and chaos, as news of the attack of Vasselheim spread, as the gods descended and magic raged out of control across Exandria, as the Betrayer gods wrought as much destruction as they could cause.

Were they still at home, when Cerrit finally found them? Did their home still exist after all those weeks he took flying across the ocean? Did they need to flee somewhere safer? Did Kir scrawl a note somewhere the wreckage — “Wingspan: gone north-by-northeast. Look for trail markers on the trees” because he’d promised, mom, he promised, and what if he’s coming but he can’t find us because we’re not here? Did Cerrit have to bring every ounce of his investigation and tracking skills — with no magic, no Avalir, no Patia to let him look back at memories, no Quay to inspire him, no Nydas to fund or enchant any helpful items, no partner to compare notes with, nothing but his sharp eyes and his brain and utter fucking determination — to follow after his family, weeks on an already weeks-long journey, slow and messy and fearing every day he might be too late?

Did he show up almost unrecognizable, head to toe in soot and dirt, some new scar from his near brushes with death, some fresh wounds still bound in bandages for want of anyone with healing spell slots? Did he find his family weary, grieving, scared, but whole and—for the moment—safe? Did they even believe it was him at first? Did they fear he was a ghost, or worse, some horror dragged from the wreckage of Avalir and reanimated by an enraged Asmodeus? Did he take off a bandage to show he still bleeds, and bleeds red, did he kiss his children’s heads and call Kir “Talon”, and see Maya clutching the sphere as if she hasn’t let go of it since it landed in her hands, and tell her—voice breaking at the reminder of Patia, at the first thing he has seen in months besides himself that survived Avalir’s destruction—that he is so, so proud of her, and more importantly he loves her so, so much, and then they knew, then they were sure: Cerrit kept his promise.

#critical role#cr spoilers #exu calamity #exu cerrit #cerrit agrupnin

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emelinstriker · 1 year

Text

Red Son ♡ Parental Guidance Pt.2

Demon Bull King be like: "If I had a nickel for everytime I lost my son's diaper, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice."

Just like the first part, Reader does exist in here, but the story revolves more around Red Son and your entire family chaos as a whole.

♤ Part 1

ⓘ Reader is FEMALE; (C/N) = Child's Name

♡ ~ Fluff ~ ♡

Finally, after an agonizingly long time of giving birth, the baby was finally in your arms. Red Son was anxiously holding your hand so tightly just half an hour prior, but now he was gently holding onto you and your child with a smile. He gave your temple a kiss while brushing his thumb over your hand, which was securely helping your arm hold up the baby that was previously crying.

"He looks so much like me when I was this small", he commented softly, making you huff in amusement.

"Well, do you wanna hold him?"

His eyes lit up as his gaze met yours with a smile. That was enough of an answer for you to carefully hand your son over to your husband. You also told him how to hold the baby correctly so it doesn't get hurt or become uncomfortable. It didn't take long for tears to gather in his eyes as he gently held onto your child while his gaze softened at the sleeping potato. "Hello, little flame..."

And finally, all was at peace...

...

...Actually, that would be a lie.

Okay, Red Son did sign up for this when he decided to have a child with you. From the constant waking up in the nights to the multiple diaper changes and random vomit. He knew it would happen, and he was mentally prepared at the thought... But now he was having seconds thoughts on if he was actually prepared. Especially when it turns out his baby could sneeze fire.

Of all the scenarios he had prepared the nursery for, a fire-sneezing baby was not on his list. He did not account for the possibility that the baby could possess fire abilities before it even reached the two-months-mark. Hell, he had a plan for if the child somehow ended up inheriting part of the Samadhi Fire! Good thing he did not. You both were suspecting that your son either didn't have it or he has such a small amount that it wasn't a threat to himself or others.

That did not mean that he wasn't a threat to the furniture. Grandpa DBK once came in to check on the little one, only to watch in horror as the crib was set ablaze in front of his eyes. The baby was absolutely fine and was giggling among the flames like a tiny pyromaniac, don't worry.

That was definitely a child of the Demon Bull Family, no doubt about it.

However, due to the discovery of the baby already being this much of a tiny menace, you reluctantly let your husband rework the nursery to ensure such fire could not expand. And while the room was under maintenance, you were tasked with baby duty for probably the entire day. Honestly, you didn't really mind because your mother-in-law was there to help you out. After all, she and her husband were absolutely smitten by the little flaming menace to society. Princess Iron Fan's experience in the field of motherhood was both a great help and gave a lot of content to talk about for when you're bored.

"You would not believe how destructive Red Son was as a child", she commented as he sipped on her tea. Meanwhile you were rocking the baby in your arms, lulling it further into sleep. Your talk with the little one's grandma was quite boring in his point of view. She giggled into her hand.

"Your own child is pretty tame compared to what he managed to do. Then again, my husband wasn't helping the situation either." She then side-eyed the Demon Bull King, who was awkwardly trying to eat from his plate. Honestly, having his son here right now would've been better... at least then his wife wouldn't try to solely pick on him for embarrassing memories. Unfortunately, Red Son couldn't attend dinner this time due to the nursery incident. So DBK had to survive this on his own.

He swallowed the food he just munched on before huffing, "I personally don't think I was that bad in raising him."

"You set the kitchen on fire-"

"That was one time!"

"But the bottle itself was covered in flames four times. Not to mention the diaper incident that somehow happened twice-"

"I'm telling you, the smell came from every wall! How was I supposed to know he hid them on the ceiling??"

You blinked in confusion, "I- Wait, he managed to hide two used diapers as a baby? On the ceiling?" Princess Iron Fan nodded with an amused hum. Your gaze lowered itself onto your own baby. Guess you had to be prepared for even more chaotic moments like that potentially happening. As if the fires (C/N) accidentally created weren't bad enough.

"Well, was there anything else that happened between the two of them?" You were simply curious.

The Demon Bull King suddenly started to eat a lot quicker, to the point where he was trying to eat everything off the plate at the same time, practically inhaling it all to escape this conversation.

His wife laughed, sending her husband a taunting grin, "Of course! Let me tell you all about it~"

DBK then apparently deemed his attempt to escape not fast enough and simply ate the plate as a whole. He then excused himself from the dinner table and speedwalked off to who knows where with long, heavy steps.

You and his wife stared at his quick exit from the scene. While you were absolutely baffled that he just swallowed the entire plate, his wife couldn't hold in her laughter anymore.

And while Princess Iron Fan was telling you more embarrassing stories about her husband's best fails at being a parent, the Demon Bull King found Red Son in the kitchen. He seemed rather annoyed at something, so his father had to ask, "Is something the matter?"

Startled, his son almost dropped the bottle he was holding. Red Son sighed in relief when he realized it was only his father. "No, no. Everything's fine. I fixed up the nursery and wanted to get a newly filled bottle before telling (Y/N) it's ready. Just...", he responded as he glanced back down at the bottle, "I don't think I'm doing this right."

His father crossed his arms, leaning against the tall doorframe. "Do you perhaps need some help, son?"

The shorter bull demon scratched his head at this awkward situation. "...I wouldn't mind some help, actually. My attempts were a little... embarrassing, to say the least."

"It certainly couldn't have been that bad! It's simply about filling the bottle and heating it up."

"That's the problem, father. You see...", he said rather timidly before opening a cabinet and pulling out two more baby bottles that looked burnt. The Demon Bull King repeatedly blinked in shock, not believing what he was seeing. Red Son on the other hand was blushing in embarrassment, placing the bottles onto the counter before hiding his face in his hands, groaning out his frustration to the world.

"I'm a failure of a father...", his muffled voice commented from behind his hands.

To his surprise, his own father laughed. Red Son gave him an offended look, "Are you laughing at my misery?"

The giant bull wiped away a single tear from his eye before taking a deep breath to calm down a little. "Seems like we're not so different after all!" Now it was his son's turn to be stunned into silence. "I honestly thought you would have less problems than me with this!"

"What-" "Haha! Anyway, heh, let me show you how your mother taught me how to heat it up properly..." The bigger demon then approached the counter with the bottles and filled the clean one that wasn't burnt with milk from the carton. "I'm guessing you were struggling with the heating process, yes?" Red Son awkwardly nodded at his father's observations. "And I'm guessing you tried heating it up with your own fire." Again, his son nodded.

"You're not supposed to heat it up yourself. We have a microwave for a reason", Demon Bull King added with an amused smirk. "Your own flames won't be able to safely keep the bottle intact while increasing the temperature at a consistent rate. Here-" He then placed the bottle in the microwave, closing its door before setting the timer and starting it up. The demon shrugged, "Now you wait. It's as simple as that."

Red Son looked at him dumbfounded before his frustration seemed to take over again. "Why the fuck didn't I think of that?? UGH! I'M SO STUPID! THIS IS SO STUPID!" His hair started to flare up at his rage as he clenched his fists.

"Do you truly believe having a child with your wife is stupid?"

His father's question brought him back down again. Calming him, but also catching him a little off-guard. "W- What? No... No, of course not! I love my child!"

Demon Bull King huffed with a smile, "Well, then you need to learn and adapt to your child's needs to raise him well. It might be annoying keeping up with it all, but it will help his life improve a lot." He followed up on his words by picking up one of the burnt bottles, inspecting it. "Don't forget, you agreed on having a child with (Y/N). And as part of that agreement, your child is your responsibility too." His eyes then glanced at the shorter demon's surprised expression. Red Son did not consider that his father could give him advice just like his mother.

His thoughts were cut off when the microwave suddenly beeped, indicating that the bottle was now heated. He opened the door and to no one's surprise, the bottle was still fully intact and the milk was now warm. And despite the heat it held within, he had no problem grasping the bottle with his bare hand and closing the microwave once more. He then gave his father a very small bow with his head, "Thank you for your help, father."

The Demon Bull King chuckled, lightly patting his son on his head, "You better move along now and tell your wife about the nursery. Pretty sure she wants to drop off the baby back in the crib aga-"

K A B O O M

Both demons froze in shock, startled at the sudden explosion. Thinking they were under attack, they quickly made their way back to their wives in a hurry. Until they heard your distressed, but also oddly calm voice coming from the dining hall.

"Um- I- I didn't know he could do that! I'm so sorry!"

"It's all good, dear- We, uh, can just fix it right back up! Don't worry about it!" Princess Iron Fan responded, sounding quite concerned about the situation.

Both men entered the dining hall and watched as there was now a giant hole in the wall. Its borders as well as part of the debris were engulfed by flames. You and PIF didn't seem harmed, just extremely shocked at what you two just witnessed. Meanwhile little (C/N) was giggling again, with the same giggle from the time he set the crib on fire in front of his grandpa.

"...Are you sure I'm not a failure of a father?" Red Son asked rhetorically, his hands gesturing towards the scene with an expression that could only be read as 'Bruh'. Demon Bully King couldn't help but stare at the giant hole in the wall as a confused Bull Clone walked by on the other side.

Turns out your child could not only sneeze fire, but also create a stronger version of it that acts like a fiery bullet explosion. 'Huh, parenthood turns out be more and more fun with each day', you thought somewhat sarcastically, suddenly becoming more tired by the second as you dropped off your adrenaline. Your husband ended up helping you feed the bottle to the baby since he noticed how much more tired you looked.

In the meantime, Princess Iron Fan told both bull demons about what happened and how you and Red Son should be careful with your child's newfound abilities. The fact that he already possessed such powers within the first month was concerning.

It didn't take long for MK's gang to get permission to visit once your baby was properly settled into your home. The Demon Bull Family was a little bit wary about the gang's visits at first, but they quickly got used to their presence. Mainly because they weren't usually bothering the two of them in the first place. They were rather out to bother you, your husband and your little flame.

You never even met your husband's friends before their visits, so you were glad they all were kind and seemed to be enamored by your child. Red Son made sure to tell them beforehand about the potential fire sneezes that can happen. He also gave them other general warnings of abilities you two picked up on while observing the little one.

But with that being said, the gang had a lot of fun interacting with the kid. And it was quite surprising to see him not freaking out over all the attention he was being given. Well, for the most part... He did cry during their first visit due to MK and Mei's constant screaming. However, after telling them to be quiet around the baby, things seemed to be a lot more at peace with them.

Tang was extremely curious about the child's early powers while Pigsy was seen smiling a lot more around the baby. Sandy usually brought gifts with each visit, especially non-flammable, or at least highly fire resistant toys for the baby.

And Wukong was... on edge. At first, at least.

Of course he congratulated you two and also found the baby adorable. But after you told him about the chaotic incidents the child has caused... He was a bit cautious. Not for his safety, but for your and the gang's safety... Also the universe's, but Red Son and DBK already told him about how your child does not seem to possess the same type of power as the Samadhi Fire. At least that bit of information made the Monkey King loosen up enough to enjoy his stay around the child more.

In general, things were getting a lot more interesting for your family. Especially because Red Son suggested having another child in the future once you got your current child's powers under control.

Because apparently one fire-sneezing baby is not enough.

> Masterlist <

#lmk x reader #red son x reader #redson x reader #lego monkie kid x reader #lego monkie kid #fluff #demon bull king #princess iron fan

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skinnyazn · 11 months

Text

Lick Your Wounds

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar) Chapters: 2/3 Notes: Thank you to @solidly-indulgent for inspiring the fic with their request of Jag getting injured and Ghost being sad feral, I'm cranking out these chapters, also idk why this needed to be a chapter but we had to put Ghostie through some more ~t r a u m a~, smut next chapter,

Part One | Part Three | AO3 | MASTERLIST

Simon watched everything happen with wide eyes behind his mask. He watched as the man with the rocket launcher’s brains exited his skull, watched as the death of his cranial neurons caused his finger to twitch against the trigger—one last desperate grip at life. And he watched in absolute horror as the missile made contact with the wall you were firing from. Screamed your name as the wall caved in a plume of smoke and chaos. Shook Soap’s hand off of his shoulder when he tried to pull him into cover.

It’s happened once before, these feelings. A long time ago when he saw the corpses of his family littered about the floor. His nephew looked undisturbed, as if he was just sleeping. His mother, face down. Every sequential death he witnessed or caused left him feeling nothing. He’d steeled all his emotions away, turning himself into an empty vessel: a ghost. Waking in the middle of the night drenched in sweat—to horrors replaying and a voiceless scream on his lips and a constant numbness. But here he was, all these years later. Feeling. Guess you brought out the worst in him. You reminded him he was human after all.

Soap yanked him hard into cover as a bullet whizzed by his head.

“L.T.!” the Scot shouted. “L.T. focus! We can’t worry about her right now.” He fired his assault rifle at an approaching target.

Can’t worry about her. It echoed in his head. Reverberated off every part of his skull. In spite of the oppressive heat, Simon felt hypothermic—like he was frozen in Russia instead of this Mexican jungle. But he sucked in a deep breath and snapped back into The Ghost because that was all he knew how to do. He stabbed the enemy next to him in the neck; a spray of blood gushed across his mask as he removed his bowie knife.

The pair advanced in unison. Soap set up the charges against the metal door to the target room while Ghost provided cover.

“Clear out!” Soap shouted. Simon shifted two steps to his left.

The explosion was small but impactful as it burst the doors open. Soap ducked inside, clearing out any remaining enemies while Ghost surveyed the grounds of the compound, looking for any stragglers. He fired his rifle into a few more bodies before following Soap.

“Fuck,” Soap breathed.

The inside was filled with caches of equipment. Computers, hard drives, munitions. It was what all of you had come for and then some. All the evidence that the Buluc Chabtan were smuggling for the Cartel.

“It’s gonna take ages to sort through this, L.T..”

Simon’s mind was still reeling—fighting the bile that was threatening to come up. He tamped it down.

“Fifteen minutes, Sergeant. That’s all the time we get if reinforcements come.” He looked at his watch and then at Soap with something of a plea in his eyes.

Johnny sighed. “Go. I’ll bag as much as I can.”

Ghost nodded, then threw his collapsable duffel on the floor and hurried out the door.

Back in the stifling heat, Ghost weaved between crates and trucks and corpses, making his way toward you as fast as he could while maintaining his guard. It was oddly quiet amidst the chaos—all the insects and birds silenced and only the radio playing. The compound appeared clear as he sprinted with his rifle in hand. His sweat drenched his camo fatigues, turning them a shade darker. Ahead, he finally saw the rubble and smoke from the rocket's destruction. He felt the bile come back but sucked in a deep breath instead and climbed inside the collapsed structure.

#eheheeheh #trauma team #my fic #fan fiction #cod fic #Simon ghost Riley x you #Simon ghost Riley x reader #Simon ghost Riley x female reader #Simon ghost riley #ghost x jaguar #mw2 #mw2 fic #mw2 ghost #ghost x you #ghost x reader

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azulyrae · 7 months

Text

❛ —— 𝐈𝐈 : The Spy’s Gambit.

after a long year — one lost due to grief and isolation and non-spoken ache — [name] archeron had finally been granted the awaited opportunity to flee from the constricting borders of velaris. what she did not predict would happen, whatsoever, was the insistence of a ruthless — asshole — spymaster on demolishing the barriers of her lone fortress and testing the limits of her powers and patience, during the single travel needed to reach their training destination.

past the illyrian mountains and west from rask, the shifter had two well-stabilished objectives in mind: one, train with diligence to finally move towards her own goals in the mortal lands; and two, try not to permanently disfigure azriel’s face with a scratch of her jaguar claws. five minutes in, and the oldest sister was sure that the latter would be the most difficult of her tasks.

the second chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

pinterest board / spotify playlist.

word-count: 14K.

“We felt the imprisonment of being a girl.”

— The Virgin Suicides, Jeffrey Eugenides.

The Gods whistled a melodic tone. One to carry a whiff of fate and purpose; one to invade a girl’s lung and fill it with her first breath into the living. The soft whisper of the divine converges with the unknown; no longer a benediction, but a sacrilegious bawl of confusion and grief. For a girl is born in a man’s world, and that is perhaps the cruelest form of torture offered by the Gods.

The room’s shutters were trembling from the strength of the boisterous storm. The wind howled, a treacherous and machiavellian whisper, an omen of disaster. Lightning brought sudden brightness to the obscure sky, and there was no natural occurrence so alluring, yet so violent. Bolts were but a fast-paced concentration of lethal energy, tearing and clawing and parting the unaware clouds.

The woman laid on the linen-sheets, coated in sweat and blood. Her babe’s voice matched the screams of the storm, challenging it with every breath. Maids moved with trained-agility, clamping the umbilical cord; cleaning bloodied legs with a white cloth, until one could no longer see a single tone other than bright red; and opening the curtains so as the father could hold the bawling babe closer to the light. All around her, there was noise and movement. Yet, she could not tear her eyes from the vile thing that had clawed through her, slicing her open as a lighting bolt would to a cloud. Her husband swooned, whispering a gibberish she did not care enough to decipher.

“The Goddesses weep,” an old maid whispered. “A girl is born, and the skies are grieving.”

But she was wrong. The storms were not a symbol of grief, they were the purest image of violent rejoice. It shouted and celebrated for it had observed the birth of a babe meant for chaos and disappointment. The mother was disgusted, cursing the natural spell that fell upon a room whenever one witnessed a birth. No other soul could see the same as she did, all blinded by the supposed wonder of a newborn’s cries. But the mother saw past the veil. Rather than a girl, she had given birth to a vessel of malice, a child of deceit and destruction. The storm would not have matched the babe’s shouts otherwise; the wind would not have answered; the husband would not have forgotten about his wife — bloodied and vulnerable — if not for the treachery of the child.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, cradling the uproarious creature close to his chest. The mother had hoped for the monster to bite and pierce the father’s heart, showcasing the true horror of her spirit. Perhaps, such wishes did point to malice — only it was not her daughter’s, but hers instead.

“She’s not,” was her matter-of-fact answer. “No babe is ever born beautiful.”

The man came closer, if only to defend his daughter’s honor. She loathed him then, for allowing himself to be stolen from her opened arms, straight into the unconditional love of fatherhood; loathed the child, too, for she had dared to claim him; and pitied herself, for being a victim of a tragedy no other being could understand. The mother had spent nine months whispering to her growing belly, singing and welcoming the kicks. In her heart, with all of her motherly instincts, she knew it was a boy she carried. Surely, that miscalculation of nature had murdered her brother; surely, the doctors had missed the occurrence where her boy was discarded and eaten by his monstrous twin-sister. There was no other proper explanation, if not that one.

“Oh, but ours is,” insisted her husband, a stranger. He forced the babe into her arms, caressing the crown of the creature’s head. He did not care whether the mother remained in pain; whether she was feeling tired and dirty and in terrible need of rest and clean sheets. His eyes remained glued to that devious thing. “See the strength of her grip? The curling of her lip, the form of her nose? She is a made copy of yours.”

The woman shuddered. Was there a greater insult than being compared to one you despised? She had wanted to shout, demand them all to leave her chambers, cause a scandal and give their servants a lifetime worthy of gossip. However, the little serpent clung to her, and she had a strong grip indeed. In awe, the woman found herself pressing the babe closer to her chest, touching the skin as soft as the silk-sheets that she bloodied during childbirth.

The presence was compelling, demanding. “Nurse me,” it seemed to shout. “Feed me,” it cried. “Love me,” it begged. The mother spent an entire year doing as she was expected and coerced to do. The babe was fed from her breast, regardless of the nipping and pain, sipping the milk along occasional droplets of her mother’s blood; received tender care and warm clothing, constant baths and cradling whenever she cried during the night — which she did, constantly. However, the thing the woman had never managed to do was the latter. She could not love that eager and violent parasite, regardless of the motherhood instincts and the sayings that she had given birth to a physical copy of hers. The creature stole a year of her already decaying youth before it lost the taste for the maimed breast. She would no longer allow it to seize another single thing.

The mother conquered a second pregnancy briefly two years after that disastrous disappointment, yet, she had never quite mastered the art of ignoring the small serpent and its midnight cries. Despite it all, her firstborn was the one she could not abide to watch out for. The same did not apply to those who came after whatsoever, for the woman had three more babies — three more little girls — and failed to love them at all, as if the small, twisted amount she could give had been entirely devoted to her child of chaos.

Following-in-suit to the behavior of her firstborn, the three kicked and moved within her, but this time, she was much more prepared, and learned not to love them too soon. Motherly love was the death of logic and boundaries; it was an open door for obsession and worry, and girls were undeserving of that, for the gender inequality had long stolen the heirdom from their grips, and the mother refused not to bear an heir of her own.

[Name] had cried for two entire years. No one could understand the reason quite well. Overall, she was quite a spoiled babe, resting on a gold-made cradle and receiving professional and qualified assistance, hence the general confusion. However, when the moon grew wide in the pitch-black sky and her first sister was born, [Name] had stopped crying. It was as though she had granted herself enough time to share her discontentment, to allow the conflicted feelings to pour from her eyes and form small lakes of crystal-clear tears. Crying would no longer do her well, not when her sister had a pain of her own to be mended. Twenty-four years later, [Name] did not manage to find her tears still, for they remained buried underneath the soil of her deepest hidden fears and failures.

Perhaps, [Name] had but used all of her tears when she did not need them; perhaps, she should have stocked a few before the damage became unrecoverable; for, as of now, alone in a house she could not learn to feel comfortable in, her eyes remained dry.

Well, not entirely dry.

[Name] cursed out loud as she went to grab a white and clean cloth, applying pressure on her closed eyelids, tearing up from the awfully strong stench of the toxins she had been experimenting with. Months prior, she had received an invitation from her sister. She was missed, said the letter delivered to her by Clotho. And in all honesty, [Name] was entirely aware of that fact; of how her absence was a dagger twisting inside her closest sister’s heart; of how badly Feyre had been hurting. [Name] couldn’t do a thing against her own numbness, her silence and lack of expression; she didn’t wish to strike a conversation with a single soul, but Feyre had called, and [Name] would always answer.

Though the female was barely there, her sister did not quit: they sat together for hours in her studio as she finished a painting, commenting on her routine in order to encourage [Name] to do the same. Between the humming reverberating on the porcelain of [Name]’s warm teacup, and her mute nods and forced smiles, Feyre had caught onto something and ended their brief encounter, no longer sending letters, as [Name] knew the youngest began to feel as though she was a bother.

When [Name] left her sister’s newest home — seeing patterns of her in every wall and furniture and color — she was fighting back tears, cursing herself for the consequences of the overbearing and paralyzing sadness that came after a particular morning, when she woke up with enough time to ponder on her purpose in that new life, and realized she had none. Although [Name] refused to linger her glance on the pieces her sister painted, they gave her a small thread of hope, an olive branch to be offered in the future. Throughout her small talk and monologues, Feyre did complain that she was struggling with a specific painting of her mate in the Summer Court. She scurried through every shop in Velaris, and still couldn’t find an ink with the exact shade of violet of his eyes when the sun shone on it. [Name] didn’t quite understand the rest — something about how she couldn’t create the colors herself because it was impossible to get it right — but what she did decide was to try and give her sister that small gift.

Of course, that proved to be a hassle.

[Name] decided that the conventional path would serve her for nothing. Feyre was a fantastic and experienced artist, combining already-made ink and trying to get a result through red and blue and droplets of white had led her sister nowhere. [Name] would not succeed where her sister had failed, not when art, and many other matters, were concerned. Of course, she resorted to someplace else, traveled to the inside of a place that had never once left her alone: science.

Chemistry, to be more precise. It was a somewhat unknown concept, poor in substantiation and mostly filled with theories that, on their hand, inspired and fed countless experiments. Experiments that she meant to learn from in order to conduct her own; a path that, of course, was infertile and leading nowhere.

[Name] had been tied to Velaris. Her departure was inconceivable: the barriers kept the female in place, regardless of the animal form she chose to overfly it. Her options, of course, grew limited to the scarce flora of the mountains, hence her constant flights of exploration. She found wild red roses and blue tiger-lilies; squashed the petals and placed them on separate glass-jars, filled with an alcoholic solution she created with sugar, yeast and water. After that, things grew slightly more complicated. [Name] calculated the amount of petals and alcohol to create paints with different tones of blue and red, started to mix them together and attempted to achieve the said variation of violet. Once that failed her, [Name] started to collect resin from the trees, create her own solution of water and propylene that would serve as a solvent, and finally, add the pigment.

Resin, solvent, pigment. She had been creating ink after ink ever since, her eyes wet and her fingers scarred from the constant contact with acid; her limbs tired from the everyday transformations of her fae body to the body of a gyrfalcon; and yet, the violet desired by her sister was never found.

After months into that search filled with failing attempts, [Name] noticed that she had lost her reasons. The process of finding that exact shade of violet was no longer an olive branch to be offered to Feyre: it was a reason for her to remain awake in the night — to fight off the sleep that often came with nightmares from times she did not wish to remember. From overflying the mountains in the morning; to finding the spot she claimed to train her throws with daggers; to reading and studying at the library in the afternoon, weirdly mourning the absence of Bryaxis, the monster that kept her company before the war; to creating paint from dusk to morrow, repeating the entire process every single day; those were all a well-manufactured web of excuses.

[Name] did not wish to be left alone with her thoughts. She first tried it during her father’s burial — the one she refused to attend, deciding to be by herself instead — and it did not end well. Reminiscing was a troubling effort, for the previous battle was a blur. [Name] could remember overflying the field in the gyrfalcon form, dodging the attacks of the dark faeries; she could remember being in the middle of it, too far from Feyre, even further from Elain and Nesta; she could remember her father arriving with four well-familiar ships and men-at-arms to reinforce their armies; she could remember Hybern’s hiding fleet that had followed them close, with at least six thousand soldiers.

Then, came the rage.

Her sisters were fighting Hybern: Feyre was trying to connect with the Cauldron that stole everything from them; her allies were about to be faced with an unfair battle at the bay, and she could do nothing to prevent it. Once again, she found herself being an useless burden, unable to protect her sisters, regardless of her efforts and training; regardless of her wits and her words; she was never enough. The poverty, Feyre being taken away by Tamlin, her sisters being thrown inside the Cauldron, Elain being kidnapped right under her nose, were all but some of the most crucial moments in which she failed them. Despite the things [Name] did to give them comfort, the people she murdered, the lives she financially ruined, the men she was touched by, all for her sisters to suffer still, to grieve and to face horrors [Name] had, too, failed to shield them from.

Rage brought forward a boisterous roar. The clouds darkened, thunder competed against the deafening shout of a vengeful and seemingly-wounded animal. [Name] moved her head down and saw nothing but a terrifyingly huge and fast shadow, flying towards the open sea. She felt her throat burn, her jaw oddly heavy as she opened it, and then lightning: pure chaotic energy, mortal and devastating, passed through her mouth and teeth with yet another roar. It took a second for her mind to wrap around the fact that the beast — that thunderous and large creature — was her. After that, she was led by rage and instinct, her mind a fog that couldn’t process the events through the lenses of the creature.

Tapping into the dragon’s core — trying to understand it — terrified her. The feelings that it brought, the chaos and glimpses that it gave her, it was all too much. The treacherous act of repression against the dragon inside had brought her immense sadness. [Name] had watched as Feyre met her happiness, protected by a male that loved her beyond himself; had watched as Nesta moved out, her coping mechanisms against pain being so similar to the ones [Name] herself had once resorted to; had watched as Elain tried to make for a comfortable home in that new life, filled with the support of Feyre’s new family. [Name] had watched as the world — and everyone around her — moved quite too fast, while she was stuck in the same spot, sitting alone in the cold as the realization came to mind: she no longer had use to them.

[Name], who had ceased to weep when her first sister was born; [Name], who had been raised to provide for them through the heritage of their father’s business; [Name], who had abandoned herself and her innocence to a brothel so that her sisters could have food and proper clothes; [Name], whose life had been dedicated to give them comfort, to shield them from misery, was no longer necessary. Her task had been gladfully taken from her shoulders, and [Name] couldn’t help but wish that she had clung to it a little tighter.

But then, realization came: she was no longer required to aid her sisters, but there were still people left in the mortal lands that had once relied on her. Perhaps, if she tied the business left open, if she checked on their financial situation after her departure, that would give her closure. Hence to say, Azriel’s proposition was the whiff of summer-air that caressed her skin where the cold previously hurt. He was her getaway from the suffocating barriers of Velaris, from the acid air of her room, from the shackles of her thoughts. The male was freedom.

Or so she thought.

She had waited for his second knock for an entire week. If their matters were as urgent as he stated, then surely he meant to be his annoying-prick-self first thing on the morrow, barging in with that infuriating grin and the banters she secretly missed. But he vanished — literally. [Name] wasn’t sure why she had expected otherwise.

The sight of their piled gifts was a knife that she refused to turn inside herself; it was the excruciating pain of knowing one had been a disappointment to others, that one had failed to grab the hands of those who were extending it. However, she did grab Azriel’s gifts, presuming it was a clear message of her intentions. The male gave her a weapon she had no experience with; surely, if [Name] retrieved it from the pile, he’d understand that small peace offering of hers and they’d grow closer yet again. Because, regardless of her words and her poison, [Name] did value their once long held conversations. Azriel had been the one to strategize with her, he had been the one to search for her in the crowds, he had been the one to sit with her through a whole night after Elain’s kidnapping, and after sleep stopped coming to [Name] entirely.

He was a friend that she abruptly pushed away and that, yet, insisted on fighting against her voice. Keeping his gift close to her chest should have been enough to drive him nearer, but perhaps she had been too arrogant in her thoughts. For months, [Name] witnessed his never-ending struggle against the chains of her power, his obstination to go against her orders, to offer an aiding hand, and for months, he failed. Until, as it seemed, he stopped trying.

The worst, most devastating part of it all, was that at the time, she wasn’t sure whether his sudden absence was deliberate or a direct consequence of her power. Azriel fought against her speech for such a long time that when he ceased, [Name] couldn’t tell if he lost that battle, or free-willingly walked away. She had presumed it wasn’t the latter, no one managed to get rid of her treacherous grip once they were caught by it. Hence why she loathed the Cauldron the most, it gave her not a power but a death sentence, the living proof that her mother was right all along. [Name] was not a living being, she was a slick force of chaos that used her speech to manipulate and cheat and lie. The female could not control that aspect of herself, therefore, she failed to control the intensity with which her commands affected those around her.

She did attempt to learn more about their extent and whether the voice intonation was of any importance when it came to her power’s usage. However, she reached no conclusion. It was a concept so simple, yet so maleficent. The results would always be the same, regardless of external speech factors; a whisper of hers had the ability of convincing a powerful foe to throw himself off a cliff, so long as he heard her and understood the language she spoke in. Cruel, dishonest, menacing. The power capable of annihilating an entire army, of sending previous allies against one another. The damage it could cause when combined to her shapeshifting was incalculable, yet the thought did not reassure her regarding her strength. Instead, it showed [Name] that in a world of capable warriors and diplomats and leaders, she didn’t fit in a single of them; she was the poison mingled with wine and ministered to those who were fair, she was the least trustworthy, the least honored one — she was a monster.

[Name] had spent nine years of her life wishing that someone would be merciful enough to attend her request to kill her. And apparently, now she was fated to spend the rest of her miserable and immortal existence commanding the acts of every sentient being around her, while actively wishing that at least one refused to obey her. [Name] had been strong ever since she was a small toddler, arguing for the privilege of having her hair combed first. Even then, she had always been prepared to fight for what she wanted or judged correct. Rather than using brute force, [Name] relied on the efficiency of well-aimed words and smiles and praises thrown at those who valued it; she was a little girl on a stage, playing countless parts and having countless masks to please whoever was near in order to achieve her ambitions. It was who she was at her core, regardless of her mother’s thoughts on the matter. [Name] didn’t know how to live, if not by fighting to convince others to respect her stance and thoughts, and deem her a valuable ally. And suddenly, there was no need for her to pick such battles, because the fighting spirit could be stolen from everyone else, if only she desired as such.

During her darkest times, it was the thrill of a debate that managed to keep her alive, the soothing adrenaline of emerging victorious from a purchase. When the touch of men grew too harsh or too violent, when their hunger and greed tore her soul apart, the solace of her being could be found in a well-balanced chess match played against herself or other activities that she considered challenging. Upon noticing that it was no longer required of her to strive, to fight, the world around her grew null. The Cauldron stole too much, in the process of giving her too much.

There was no point in entering a match, when one knew they already won. Whatever were the strategies she offered, the propositions she gave, the arguments she spoke, so long as she triggered her voice correctly, they would abide by. The prospect of their lack of opposition, of counter-arguments, was exasperating. The Priestesses simply nodded when she commanded them to grant her access to prohibited lanes. Her conversations ceased to be interesting. Even an ancient monster, one feared for it represented the concept of nightmares itself, felt victim to her commands. There wasn’t a single being residing in that world that [Name] failed to convince.

Where, before, others around her bent to the strength of her will, the wittiness of her words, now, they just bent. She didn’t need to argue anymore, didn’t need to fight. The very reason for her euphoria regarding life was gone. [Name] had endured enough pain — metaphorical and physical — survived enough aches, to understand that the loss of what the Cauldron had claimed from her was something she could never recover from.

Yet, the most devastating acknowledgement came when she caught herself relying on such a curse. Quickly enough, the comfort of immediately having whatever she needed became addicting. Whenever she grew tired of an argument, of the debate to convince one to do something she wished for, [Name] crawled back to the comfortable bushes of control. At first, it was impossible. The words that fell from her lips were poisonous, even when she didn’t mean to order, even when it was barely a suggestion — a request — whoever heard would give her what she wished.

[Name] found herself slipping into madness, stumbling through darkness, until she understood that the curse that fell upon her might as well be the opening key for her biggest punishment. She stole a mirror from a nearby room and started to practice on herself, over and over, hour after hour, the female stared at her own reflection and polished the control of her capabilities. Her suggestions were, again, suggestions, her voice would only be harmful if so she wished to. [Name] granted herself the privilege of speaking with others without fearing to accidentally command them; yet, the more time she spent with herself and her thoughts and her frustration, the less she wished to interact with the external world.

Worst came to her when, during one of her experiments — while Nesta and the reminiscent parties of the Inner Circle had traveled to a Council with the other High-Lords — [Name] accidentally exploded her bathtub. Cassian barged in, quick as the wind and as armed as he could, fearing an intromission, only to find [Name] all covered in soot. He had helped her clean the entire thing — even though both knew the House of Wind could magically do it by itself — and all in the while, they talked. First, it was of politics and the upcoming war, followed by their Court’s plans, the Cauldron, [Name]’s trauma and even a small bit of his own. The commander was emotionally smart and entirely non-judgmental. The female relied on him and his council, watched as a small friendship started to bloom, and ended up teaching him how to polish his chess abilities until he advised they should get some sleep.

It was a pleasant day, one [Name] hadn’t experienced in months. Yet, the fear accompanied by what she confided was paralyzing, so much that she commanded Cassian to forget about it all: what she told him, the explosion, their chess matches. It didn’t matter that he, too, had told her personal things of his past; it didn’t matter that it was unfair of her to keep his secrets while actively denying him the rights to be reminded of her own ones; in that moment, she meant only to keep herself safe, to keep the mask of the unshakeable sister intact. And so, she controlled him, stole his free-will, and was met with no opposition.

[Name] found herself unable to face the general ever since, yet it seemed as though he hadn’t forgotten entirely, or, in the very least, his instincts and care weren’t as laid-back as they were before that day. Perhaps her commands lost strength if her will wasn’t as strict; perhaps a traitorous part of her wished that her voice would fail to work and, as a consequence, her grip wasn’t as strong. Regardless, she hasn’t used that power ever since. It was awful enough to have a blood-lust dragon residing inside her heart, [Name] didn’t need to be met with more trouble. Besides, she had a problem of bigger importance in mind: the reason why Azriel was immune.

[Name] left her bedroom, swiftly moving towards the library in one of the many alternative routes she found efficient when it came to avoiding the two Illyrian warriors that once insisted on checking up on her. Upon entering, she waved at Clotho, noticing the deep purple color on her fingertips. The priestess placed a white tissue on the counter, and [Name] moved to grab it, beginning to scrub her skin clean.

“You’re early today,” she wrote out curiously. In fact, she was. Usually, at this hour, [Name] would be at her training spot, in a secluded space amidst the furthest mountain range. But, because she wasn’t sure when Azriel meant to call her for their training, [Name] chose not to leave the House of Wind at all, fearing to miss his knocks.

“I’ve been adjusting my routine,” she lied. As insane as it sounded, the female could almost feel the huff that Clotho meant to give her. [Name] didn’t smile at her — she rarely did smile at all nowadays — but she did attempt to give the priestess a reassuring glance.

When [Name] was first introduced to the immensity of that library, Clotho had been the one to welcome her. At the time, granting her access to that space seemed to be Rhysand’s way of offering [Name] an agreement of peace, one that she willingly accepted, for the amount of books and knowledge and possibilities inside that place was more than enough. She didn’t yet speak at the time, fearing that her voice might come out as a command, and she could still remember Clotho’s handwritten note, slipped inside her pocket. When [Name] had found it, she almost wept.

This is a safe place. You needn’t fear nor cower from it. We’re all females.

Females who had suffered from fates similar to [Name]’s. Females who understood the invisible mind scarring — and physical scarring, too — left by the worst a male could offer. Females who would never judge, for they shared her hurt, and fought the same battles. She had never stopped visiting since. Whether it was to read her fair amount of books, to share a moment of silence, or to, at least when it was still possible, spend time with Bryaxis. [Name] found solace inside that place, and strived not to bother whoever resided in it.

Quietly, the female made her way to the corridor reserved to the almost untouched books that were written in the ancient language. At first, the thought of mastering it seemed absurd and ambitious. The language itself was filled with trials and ambiguous phrasing — [Name] had studied countless alphabets throughout her brief mortal life, and was still left aghast at the complexity of them all. However, moving past her initial desperation, determined to spend her time with activities that could be of use in the future, [Name] began to learn through association. The ancient language was somewhat close to the Glacolithic, Runic, and Ogham alphabets: three written-patterns found in excavations and searches by the mortals from the continents beyond the great ocean. Of course, [Name] didn’t speak any of those, but she did study certain translations before, when life was easier and she had a purpose.

Afterwards, the task grew slightly less demanding, though it remained tiresome. [Name] had to resort to tactics from her childhood and teen-years, in which she would read a text in a foreign language, circle the words she did not have knowledge of, rewrite them in a separate paper and then proceed to search about their meaning. Before the war, she had Bryaxis to scoff at her naivety, correct her terrible pronunciation, and guide her through some phrases. Overall, even if it refused to do a thing more — for it enjoyed watching her exasperation — the creature proved to be quite an useful teacher. However, as of now, with Bryaxis long lost, [Name] had to work with her already-gained knowledge, which was maddening. If she was even a little more advanced, she would’ve been able to read a specific book that promised to solve more than half her problems: The Binding Magic of the Fae and Other Rare Talents. When the Archeron moved towards the shelf, she scoffed at the said book’s cover and grabbed the one next to it instead: Fables and Myths for Unruly Children.

[Name] sat at the closest table, searching for the page in which she had stopped reading the day before. Because materials written in the ancient language were rare — and such few understood it, since they lacked the basis [Name] herself had been privileged enough to get from Bryaxis — the fae gathered whichever book or text or diary they could find, so long as the pages had the complicated alphabet of those who came before them. Childishly, they believed that every book was academic, which led them to retain it, all offering the same excuse: one day, they would learn the ancient language; one day, they would get to read and understand the pages of the piece they found. Of course, they never did. Hence why, in that very moment, [Name] was finishing to read the fable of a very stupid Queen that ignored the warnings of a witch and ended up giving birth to a dragon, rather than a child.

“That’s such a terrible moral,” she muttered to herself, suddenly being reminded of why she had decided to stop reading that book in the first place.

Mid-sentence, she felt his presence without a single failure of a heartbeat. When [Name] was yet a mortal, Azriel found it amusing to arrive unannounced, hiding in the shadows until she passed by, appearing behind her with a shit-eating grin that only grew when she jumped out of her skin and cursed him out loud. The Spymaster managed to pull that prank thrice before she grew used to it. [Name] would never fail to spot his figure, regardless of how well-hid he was: the shadows around him were different, the air hung with an odd electricity whenever the male was near, and she could guess his position based on instinct alone.

It wasn’t a surprise to raise her eyes from the book and catch sight of him sitting on the chair in front of her. Azriel moved his head to take a glimpse of the text at hand and frowned upon noticing the language in which it was written.

“I didn’t know you were allowed to this part of the library,” he stated matter-of-factly, waiting for a confirmation that she refused to give him: I wasn’t, until I commanded them to believe otherwise.

“It’s been seven days,” [Name] retorted, ignoring his previous point. She closed the book of fables and myths with unnecessary strength, cringing at the loud sound it made.

“You’ve been counting. Eager, much?”

His taunt made her blood boil — although she did ignore the fact that her cheeks felt hotter all of the sudden. Azriel’s grin, and the confident manner with which he placed his hands on his nape, pointed out that he, on the other hand, did not. The second he opened his mouth — whether it was to tease her some more or try to get to her nerves — [Name] interrupted him.

“Fall from the chair,” she commanded, and he rolled his eyes at her, nearly scowling. At least she had wiped off the grin from his face.

“Nice try,” the Spymaster told her with annoying nonchalance and that unknown immunity she could not track the source from.

“Couldn’t hurt,” [Name] shrugged, and he felt silent with his arms closed.

When Azriel had been assigned to a position in which he needed to return to the Archeron manner weekly, Feyre pushed her older sister aside for a private conversation. Her voice was soft — yet more mature, as if Feyre had aged five decades in five months — while she tried to soothe [Name]’s tension. She could still remember the slight heads-up, the promise that Azriel was naturally quiet and introspective, and that did not mean that he held some unspoken grudge against her or her ideas. Although that proved to be true to some degree, [Name] was quick to notice that the male was not as quiet as previously stated. Each word of his carried some sort of taunt or invite to a private competition that [Name] never failed to accept or stumble upon. The male seemed to thrive on her annoyance, and though she was not entirely amused herself, [Name] noted the clear difference between his treatment towards her, and the general treatment she received from others.

After an entire decade of misery and prostitution, [Name] saw herself as though a crumbling stone fortress, one that once stood high and tall, proudful and unshakable, but that started to deteriorate with the acid rain and the constant attacks from external forces. The fortress was filled with mug and cracks and thorns, and people grew wary whenever they approached it. No one treated her the same, as if they feared that a single touch would be enough for the entire fortress to crumble entirely; she could sense their hesitance in their contradiction, their pity and the glances given whenever they thought she wasn’t looking. Azriel challenged her, treated her like he would everyone else. Even when she was a mortal whose life hung by a limited thread, he valued her thoughts, and never once sugarcoated his words.

As of now, she could yet feel the same determination and notice the same treatment. Even though [Name] had spent nearly a year hiding away, avoiding the reality and feeling stuck in the same place, Azriel refused to act as though she was a scared and lashing animal in the woods: he was not wary nor was he pitiful — he was ruthless, challenging, taunting, his logic and sense of duty matching her own. Azriel was everything that she needed at that moment.

However, that did not mean that she was willing to give him any further sense of amusement. Her pride was a chalice of lethal poison, one that she drank from until there was not a single droplet left. To fill their silence with an inquiry meant that he would have a possible confirmation of her eagerness, and [Name] would rather share a teacup of warm tar with her late grandmother inside the Cauldron than to fulfill his ego.

She felt a slight tug coming from his mind. Because her abilities granted her free-passage, regardless of their barriers, to the thoughts of those around her, [Name] made sure to never roam close to the limits of their brains. A single misstep was enough for her to stumble on the deep roots of one’s memories, and she learned the consequences of her accidental prying when, during a shared dinner, [Name] was bombarded with the indecent mental-conversation held by Feyre and her mate. Since it was rude — and awkward — to listen to those small things left unsaid, [Name] learned to deactivate that side of her power, and only did use them when invited to. That tug coming from his part was an invitation, as if he had opened the front gate of his mental barrier and invited her in.

With a slight raise of her eyebrow, [Name] extended the invisible string of her power, entering his mind. Surprisingly enough, Azriel seemed to have closed his fist around it, not letting go of that small connection between them. Although his expression remained that same one of nonchalance, the memories sent her way explained enough of the given situation, and what led the Inner Circle to vote for her training and participation in that particular task.

It was a marvel to witness how one’s train of thoughts mirrored their particular personality. Azriel’s memories were brief and to-the-point; he didn’t dwell much on unnecessary details and favored an efficient approach that covered most of the basis as fast as it could. It was as though he was in a constant state of haste, a master-spy that understood the importance of offering a good résumé in a limited span of time.

“Who would’ve thought you hold me to such high regards?” Azriel taunted, and she blinked, caught offhand.

“What?”

“A master-spy?”

“You can read my thoughts as well?” [Name] inquired, too shocked to take note of his cockiness.

“Was I not supposed to?” His grin fell from his face, giving way to a wary crease of his forehead.

“It never happened before,” and though she chose her words with care, the female could feel the sudden pressure around her reach, understanding that the Spymaster was demanding her to leave his mind. She did as it was urged, respectfully stepping away from his conscience. A further inspection of his sudden rigid features told her that he did not mean to speak on the later occurrence, and aware of his vexing capacity of staying silent for a long period of time, [Name] changed the subject to what mattered the most. “Why am I the one most suitable to breach Montesere’s barriers?”

Azriel stretched, shifting uncomfortably in his seat — one that was obviously not meant for the wings of an Illyrian warrior — and sat upright. His expression was one of concentration, whereas his stance was the same he held whenever he meant to speak in a tone of politics and strategies. It made her reminisce those hours spent inside the four walls of her office, discussing tactics based on the most accurate predictions of their opponents’ movements, and her chest ached with sudden longing.

“Montesere had a particularly rough war against Vallahan, a hundred years after the First War against Hybern,” he briefly began to summarize, and [Name] failed to hold her tongue.

“Yes, I’ve read about it,” she interrupted, mentally scolding herself.

“Why would you read about Montesere, of all places?” Azriel inquired, before realization passed over his features. “Right, their dragons.”

It was an affirmation. He did not need to ask that of her, when the answer presented itself as white as a layer of untouched and recent snow. [Name] did not mean to lie either, even if the misleading sentence was formed not longer after he deduced her past reasoning. The two had never lied to one another, or so she preferred to presume. Without a doubt, both hid their fair sum of secrets, but it was not of their character to dance around the truth whenever the other figured a thing or two out. It was a dynamic as old as their unstable friendship — if one could call it that way — and one the pair remained loyal to for more than a year. She never would have told him of her research about the dragons during the most ungodly hours of the night — at least not then — yet, since his speculations came close enough to the truth, [Name] would not lie to him either.

“I traced their origins and inevitable extinction back to Montesere,” she confirmed, the fact alone bringing an odd sense of grief to her chest. Those next words came as a whisper, hardly audible. “I figured they weren’t creatures from our world, which was somehow soothing. These realms are so filled with magic, it was a nice twist to learn of something fantastical that we had no access to.”

Azriel stared at her in silent pondering, and [Name] caught the phantom of a warmth glance sent her way before he masked it. “We don’t know exactly when the dragons roamed into our world. The most acceptable theory is that another portal opened up, one similar to the one that brought Amren, and some creatures passed through it. Amidst the chaos of the war, every King and High-Lord was too preoccupied with their barriers and battles to take note of a lone portal somewhere near Montesere. We presume it happened during or after the conflict.”

“Of course,” [Name] agreed with a slight movement of her shoulders. “They would have used the dragons against their enemies’ forces — your forces — otherwise. The fact that they didn’t merely points out that there was no time to train those creatures or tame them.”

He hummed in confirmation. “After Hybern’s defeat, his allies were left in economical misery. But we had no idea of those dragons whatsoever until Montesere’s battle against Vallahan. Considering the scarce extension of their nation’s territory, a sudden declaration of war was imminent. They had no space to train those dragons, and surely enough, Vallahan offered the expansion they needed.”

“I’ve read that those dragons spat fire,” she muttered, haunted by the loss of a sight she would never have a glimpse of. “But it was not enough to conquer Vallahan.”

“Fire can not breach solid stone,” Azriel pointed out, and [Name] did not miss how he hid his hands under his armpits. “Vallahan has the geographical advantage of being surrounded by a steep and towering extension of mountain ranges. To spit fire, Montesere’s dragons needed to reach the Capital, and once the kingdom started to retaliate—”

“I know,” she sharply stopped him. “They placed catapults on strategic points of those mountains. Even so, I hardly think those traps were responsible for so many losses. A dragon is unstoppable in the air.”

“They had a very scarce training,” Azriel retorted, and though his taunt was imminent, she fell victim to his invitation, well aware that he meant to rile her up in order to understand how well-educated she was in that particular subject.

“Most were grown during their passage, those dragons weren’t lacking in terms of flight,” [Name] scowled, sitting upright herself. Mentally, she could see a chess board unravel — those sixty-four black and white tiles that, somehow, always managed to be a metaphor whenever a conversation between them was concerned.

“They lacked discipline.”

“They lacked purpose,” she hissed, surprised at her own rage. “Montesere sawed their back-spines to make way to their saddles, chastised them with whips, and stole them of their previous freedom. Most of those creatures threw themselves on the mountains with the intention of retrieving their free-will through death.”

The Cemetery of Rocks. [Name] once saw the name in an old map. It was written all over the mountain range of Vallahan, and she trembled with the mere thought of how many dragon skulls and bones laid on those lands.

“It might be true but it’s not the entire reason, you know that,” Azriel half-conceded, and his trust on her judgment despite her past outburst was astonishing. [Name] blinked, regaining her composure not longer after.

“Well, obviously. The altitude of those mountains was an opponent of its own. The safest crossing option was through the highest route, but an unprepared rider would lose consciousness with the lack of air that came from such tall heights,” the female absentmindedly completed, growing tired of that conversation. It was more a genocide than a war, and at each attempt to breach Vallahan’s borders, Montesere returned with less dragons and soldiers, until there were none left. “But that’s not the point, is it? What have they done after that loss?”

“Montesere raised a magical barrier,” Azriel commented with a grimace. It was clear that, for his own reasons, he was not quite pleased with that obstacle.

“I caught on to that, what surprises me is how long you took to find out,” it was not a taunt on her part. She was merely being sincere. “Neglecting them to that extent seems reckless.”

“It was, but we all had worse worries than Montesere at the time. Hewn City, the Illyrian soldiers’ insolence towards the Night Court’s orders, and our own lack of experience on how to manage the entire territory after Rhys’ father passed away are just some examples of our concerns. We did send them letters, but those remained unanswered.”

“You’re finding excuses,” now, that was a taunt.

He broke into a grin. “Think you could have done better?”

“I’m sure that I could.”

“You’ll get to prove that soon enough. Our efforts can’t breach through their barriers, we’re hoping that your magic will be the exception.”

“Because I was Made?”

The memory was painful enough, and he merely nodded before rising from his uncomfortable seat. “Go grab your stuff, we’re leaving now.”

Although that was a thing she had anticipated, [Name] was startled with his abruptness still. Giving herself a moment to recollect her thoughts and priorities, she remained glued to her chair. “We’ll train and go to the Mortal Lands. I’m not helping otherwise.”

“I have the tattoo to remind me of that,” he bit back with a roll of his eyes. “And even if I didn’t, I could still drag your ass to our training site.”

“You’d lose both your hands before you got the chance to,” she threatened, the thought of a male touch bringing back memories that she was quick to bury.

“To do that, you’d need to shift into something more harmful than a small bird,” he spoke with a boredom that made her want to claw at his neck. How he was aware of her morning flights, she had no interest in finding out, but his remark boiled her blood regardless, and the challenging expression on his face let her know that Azriel mentioned that on purpose.

With an everlasting sourness, [Name] strolled to her bedroom, nearly kicking the door open as she went to grab her pack. Azriel, who was close behind her, coughed immediately, and the sound made her smile briefly. She felt the phantom touch of a daring shadow on her shoulder, as if it hummed contentedly with the slight shift in her mood.

“What the hell have you been doing here? It smells like horse shit,” he complained. [Name] made no move to open up the windows — she merely closed the bathroom door — and Azriel’s eyes laid on the shadow on her shoulder.

“Leave it be,” she hissed at him with a scolding glare, growing tired of his urge to drive his shadows away from her. Azriel’s scoff was muffled by his arm as he had used it to cover his nose. “I was trying to replicate your scent, did you not like it?”

The second they moved from the stench of her bedroom and towards the main balcony, Azriel’s impossible behavior returned. “I had no idea you missed me that much. What was the plan afterwards, sprinkle the perfume on a pillow and hug it in your sleep?”

“You’re despicable.”

“You’re speechless.”

As the pair approached the main hall, [Name] did not fail to note the absence of her sisters. Her mind was conflicted, unsure on whether that occurrence was deserving of relief or grief. Falling quiet and crossing her arms, she had decided on both. No one but herself could be blamed for the insecurity of her younger sisters regarding [Name]’s feelings on a farewell visit of their part. Her emotional withdrawal had brought the solitude that ravaged her insides, a bittersweet and well-deserved fate: to miss her sisters as a punishment for how badly and frequently she had failed them.

“You’re leaving already?” A particularly deep voice came from behind them, and [Name]’s body grew rigid at the sound. Shadows curled on her nape and shoulders, seeming to whisper a soothing harmony on her ear.

“It’s been a week,” Azriel shifted on his heels to stare at his brother, and his shoulder brushed hers slightly. [Name] almost missed his warmth.

“So? You weren’t given a deadline,” Cassian noted. The female moved ever so slightly to stare at him, unable to bear with her impoliteness otherwise. Azriel’s shadows accompanied her frame as her back met the nearest wall, and [Name] waved awkwardly when Cassian’s warm, hazel eyes laid on her.

“Doesn’t make the situation less urgent,” the Shadowsinger retorted. Cassian tore his glance from [Name] lazily, observing his brother with his mouth tightly shut. The two seemed to have a quiet, yet heated argument, their expressions shifting as they spoke in a secret language born from centuries of acquaintanceship.

At last, Cassian’s shoulders slumped a bit. Whatever those glances and the discussion hidden in between them meant, the General raised the flag of surrender. [Name] could still see the creases on his forehead, the predictions and strategies regarding Azriel’s motivations, but it became clear that he would rather not voice them nor meddle any further.

She was slightly startled, whatsoever, at the sudden outburst of foreign thoughts that poured inside her own mind. Regardless of the barriers and training to maintain one’s consciousness on a leash, during certain stressing moments, it was natural to lose a bit of that composure and untighten the ruthless clutch, allowing the river currents of thoughts to run its wild course. Whenever [Name] attempted to put that specific occurrence into words, she felt as though a madwoman would. How could she complain to Cassian that, unbeknownst to him, he started to think too loudly? The female caught an overall understanding of his worries and hesitation before burying her power, refusing to pry on the General’s mind without his consent.

What she heard, however, was clear enough. Although guilt tore her apart with its greedy fingers, clawing on skin and muscle, [Name] offered a nod of reassurance and a small upward curve of her lips to Cassian, attempting to demonstrate her willingness to ignite a frail ember of friendship. He was suddenly aghast, but the grin that broke free was almost a key to free her from the self-imposed prison of remorse.

“Give him hell,” Cassian told her, pointing to Azriel with his head. A single shadow roamed closer to her face at the act, and [Name]’s grin somehow found a way to her lips.

“Planning on it.”

Azriel rolled his eyes and his brother gave his shoulder a nudge, offering [Name] a last farewell smile before he made his way to the stairwell at the end of the hallway. The female was well aware of where that path led: the training rink at the very top of the House of Wind. She had started to observe the entire architecture of the place from the first moment her feet met its surface. [Name] studied the cracks and turns and patterns, from the substructure to the truss, and was left mesmerized at the intrinsic manner with which the house converged with the mountain it was built on. [Name] had concluded that, if not for the aid of magic, the entire structure would not last longer than a single month in such hostile ground. It was, matter-of-factly, a finished subject: magic had built what the common hands could not. However, she could not help the wandering thoughts and plans, pondering the most suitable approach to use was she the one assigned to architect the foundation, with nothing more than calculus and trials.

It was a pastime that came back from when she was but a toddler, fidgeting with her hands and sitting on her father’s lap at his office. [Name] was an eager girl, aware of her responsibilities as the oldest, desperate to learn more of the Archeron trade. Of course, her father could not teach a single important subject regarding the stratagems of a merchant’s life to a child of six, for she would scarcely understand the basis. Rather than sending her off to find suitable entertainment elsewhere, the man gave her detailed drawings of the family’s fleet, instructing that she was to trace the ships’ plans and try to recreate it with as much accuracy as she could. Soon enough, [Name] began to draw ships of her own, using a ruler and the knowledge gained with the already done projects she so eagerly stared at. The interest evolved, from ships to houses to structures with many floors and windows. [Name] enjoyed the process of drawing particular projects through calculus, the right pencil and different sorts of rulers and compasses; she adored the immersion of her observation; her attempts to guess the thought-process of the one responsible to architect the base of the finished construction where she stood.

Yet, it was an infertile and incongruous activity. Someone of her age and responsibilities could not give oneself the luxury of wasting time on straight lined-doodles and unfinished ideas.

[Name] had spent much of her years reading about economy, learning about negotiations, practicing the sweet-tongued mischief that led one to agree to a risky, yet calculated partnership. It was a necessary sacrifice, for it granted her younger sisters the freedom and privilege to dedicate themselves to more pleasant pastimes. Elain fell for the art of gardening, Feyre began to experiment with paintings, and even Nesta had, for a while, devoted herself to dancing, before their mother managed to poison that love too. It was not proper for [Name] to try and do the same — not when her passions were so strict, and scarcely as interesting as her sisters’.

Chess was an interesting game with valuable strategies that could be recreated in battle; chemistry aided her understanding of their world, for it could be found everywhere, and was an important tool when it came to the creation of substances and devices that didn’t rely on magic; the studies of the weather and barometric were crucial if one meant to predict the most appropriate moment to patch off a fleet of goods; and even those silly texts about body language had somehow helped her in her craft. But coming up with the structure of mansions and houses, alternative internal systems and weaponry? It was of no use.

[Name] had ceased to dream of those creations, and decided to never draw a single thing again after she had nearly crumbled at the sight of her father, coming to Velaris with four ships — the same ones she drew, the same ones she showed him, the same ones whose plans he kept safe, even during poverty — to aid in their battle against Hybern. It should not be hard to abandon those childish desires after such a brutal loss. However, during most of the times, the female caught herself observing and predicting, as she was doing just then, and had to tear her gaze from the walls, forcing her mind back to the present.

“There’s drool on your chin,” Azriel called out through gritted teeth and an odd, ironical smile, as she moved to touch her skin, scowling at him immediately. “We could stay for another hour if you want to stare a little more.”

Despite the venom on his words, [Name] gave the male an ironic grin. “I’m sure that wall is much more interesting than whatever you’ll have to show me.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “The wall.”

Azriel walked straight through her, and his shadows moved all around him, covering the outline of his broad back in the incorporeal of pitch-black. The sudden abandonment of both left her puzzled, and the silence that overcame their past banter was a fruit of their bewilderment.

Upon reaching the balcony, [Name] was reminded of Clotho’s note. Observing the position in which the sun held itself on the sky, she noted that it was, indeed, quite early. Time had the odd tendency of becoming a mere nuisance when one was too focused on a more pleasant task, and to [Name], who thought very little of reality and dreamt of detaching herself from it, the passage of time was constantly forgotten. She thought it was, at best, one in the afternoon. Instead, her brief glance told her it couldn’t be past nine.

Azriel leaned sideways on the balcony, staring at her with a vexing expression of impatience. Her scowl all but deepened as she followed in suit, noting how the yet-to-be warm sunrays basked on the columns, all made of white stone and marble. [Name] was sure that an artist of some sort had been a part of the construction, for architecture could only travel so far alone. The pattern of those columns, from the base to the abacus, surpassed the limitations of a ruler and calculus: it was the heritage of a talented artist who understood and valued Velaris, who managed to engrave a Starfall with nothing but marble and argil. It was magnificent, and yet, she would have enjoyed the observation better if not for a bad-mannered Illyrian soldier groaning at her delay.

“Where are we meant to go?” [Name] inquired, ignoring his ill temper. “If you try to drag me to those Illyrian mountains I’m going back to my room.”

“And survive amidst that stench?” Azriel mocked, finally breaking into a grin. “We have a deal.”

“That never mentioned where you would be training me. I ain’t going back there.”

“As much as I would love to drag you and watch as you gave them reasons to call the Archeron sisters witches,” he commented, seeming to be delighted with his own thoughts. “I, too, won’t step foot into that hole unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

The sudden bitterness in his tone made her swallow the taunt that hung prepared at the tip of her tongue. She, instead, fixed the bag on her shoulder and moved closer, seeing the fall that awaited for a misstep, as though a starving beast. Ten thousand steps. A journey she had never longed for, never had the need for either. To create wings was, as of now, as simple as taking a deep breath. [Name] wished she had been given that ability sooner. She could think of countless painful scenarios, all involving a bed, a man, and a tiled ceiling, in which flying away would have been useful. But she pushed that memory aside, observing Azriel’s wandering glance, and the experimental close of his hand, as if he was making sure that his fingers still worked, that his long-ago healed skin remained to be covered in scars rather than flames. It was a situation she understood well enough: when one was trapped into unpleasant memories and could not tear oneself from them without external help.

“Where are we going, then?” [Name] asked, her voice seeming to be enough to free the Spymaster from that trance.

“Northwest, past the mountains and the Faerie realms.”

The female’s next words caught in her throat as she stared at him in utter shock. Azriel outstretched his hand, the single wisp of a shadow nestling itself in the strap of her bag. She hadn’t need a phrasal command, understanding his intentions immediately. [Name] gave him her bag, and Azriel held it as he took flight, gliding over her. His frame and wings covered the sun, creating a patch of shadows that moved ever so slightly from where she stood.

“Shift into something bigger than a swallow, or you won’t be able to keep up with my flight,” that brought her words back.

“Excuse me?” The idea of shifting into a bigger winged predator made her mouth dry with fear, the core of the dragon within her still a vivid memory that kept her rooted in place.

“When in the skies, wingspan is crucial for how fast the creature can move—”

“I know that,” she nearly hissed, irked at his tone, as if he had been trying to explain a difficult concept to a toddler.

“So? Shift. We don’t have the whole day.”

“Why can’t you just winnow us there? Too weak to do that while with me and a single bag?” Her taunts might as well have been flies surrounding his ego. Azriel was not at all moved, seeming merely out of patience as he awaited for her.

“You need to learn the path for yourself. A single shift in the wind and you’ll be overflying Rask without knowing. I’m not taking that risk.”

[Name] crossed her arms against her chest. He would not drag her, nor would he insist further. If truth was being told, Azriel had not touched her once in months — and those rare times in which their bodies met were fruits of accidents or desperate measures. More than anyone, he respected her space. The Shadowsinger would not grab her and drag her body to where she needed to be, which left them both in a competition fueled by obstination and pride.

“I’m going there once and never again, why would I need to learn anything?”

If he was hurt by her statement, the pain trespassed his features as swiftly as a blink. “You can’t possibly expect us to winnow you around wherever your heart desires. It is one thing to help your sisters, who can not winnow nor fly, but you are more than well-equipped to go through those miles alone. The length from Velaris to beyond the mountains is a long one, and winnowing there would be tiresome. Move your ass and shift.”

[Name] gritted her teeth, feeling as though a child that had been scolded. He remained the same, not bothering to move a single inch, his breathlessly handsome face taken with stoic challenge. If she had dared to do as though those architects that evolved into artists of their own craft, how would her columns be? Her once frustratingly short life had but turned into an infinite thread of centuries and possibilities. Time was no longer a reaper, but a welcoming host. At last, immortality offered her plaster and resin, tools for modeling and argil. Still, she dodged it, for she would not have built a column or two, she would have sculpted him, right in that glorious stance, wings wide open, with eyes that burned with arrogance, and hands that she longed to touch after what seemed to be a lifetime of avoidance and fear.

Her eyes met his. [Name] hated the male that brought such feelings to the surface, and she hated him even more for knowing that she was not capable of tormenting him with the same urge, the same treacherous bite of desire that hid amongst roses of feigned distaste.

“Don’t expect a dragon,” she told him at last, trying to think of an animal whose wings matched the span of an Illyrian’s, resenting those who saw her as nothing but a beast.

“I never asked for one,” he answered matter-of-factly. In his face, she noted the slightest sign of comprehension, hiding somewhere in between the cracks of that mask of nonchalance.

Harpies and eagles came to mind at once, but those were birds of both size and violence, animals she had never shifted into. [Name] learned the hardest way that each and every animal had an instinct, one that was deserving of proper attention and care. When she shifted into a creature, the first seconds were crucial, for the very core of the chosen animal would overcome her own mind and desires. Because she failed to control the dragon, [Name] had lost the grip of her actions and memories throughout the battle, acting on an instinct that was not hers. Showing such a vulnerability in front of Azriel was not a part of her plans — especially when he was cocky enough without that knowledge. So she played it safe. In a brief of a second, she was no longer a High Fae, but an ensemble of white and brown and black feathers, eyes as pitch as Azriel’s shadows. A gyrfalcon, slightly bigger than the ones found in the wild, and the same form she adopted during the last battle against Hybern.

“You could’ve picked something bigger,” Azriel commented, observing the bird she chose, and [Name] chirped her discontentment, flying to his eyes with her claws in position.

He chuckled, his chest rising and falling as his lips parted way to a sound she had never once heard until then. [Name] cursed him mentally, for the shape of the falcon did not allow her ears to capture the sound entirely. Azriel dodged her claws and began his descent towards the city. [Name]’s smaller and more agile frame allowed her to harness the speed faster, and her wings opened wide as she drew closer to the ground. In a swift movement born from practice, she was flapping her way up, swirling in a mute laugh at gravity’s failed attempt to keep her anchored to the soil.

Flying was something she would never give up nor grow tired of. When the breeze shifted into a stronger current of air, when there was nothing underneath her feet, when she was being caressed by the freedom brought by the wind, it was as though she had been reborn. For the duration of the flight, there was nothing but her form, the wisp of wind and the infinity of the sky. [Name] only mourned that she had never learned how to fly the same as her sister and the Illyrians — with an actual body rather than the shape of a smaller animal.

Azriel’s shadow appeared above her in an instant, and he naturally picked up a faster pace as they began to fly horizontally. None thought that haste was necessary, and their flight to the barriers of Velaris was one of utter calmness, in which the pair overflew the city while [Name] danced around the strings of his daring shadows. Once met with the invisible barriers, she grew tense, fearing the denial that had been thrown her way countless times before. However, Azriel flew swiftly through it, and once her turn came, [Name] was met with the same lack of opposition.

The air felt different then, and so did the Spymaster’s disposition. He quickened his pace, and [Name] forced her wings to grow larger, biting back a painful chirp as her bones stretched into place. In order to shift into an animal, she learned there were a few prerequisites. The female needed to grow familiar with the creature. It went beyond seeing them in a drawing: she had to master their behavior, understand their instincts, and study their entire anatomy. For months at hand, Morrigan winnowed her outside Velaris not only to train, but for her to see those animals in the wild, and although that came into use, there was also the case of bodily difference. It was a matter of compression and expansion. When one had to shift into a smaller bird, their previous body would, of course, suffer from brief consequences of adaptation. [Name] understood it as the process of folding and unfolding a sheet of paper: the possibilities were limitless, but the more you folded, the more lines would appear on the surface that was once straight and clear. Her shape-shifting ability relied on imagination and pain tolerance. [Name]’s bones could stretch or break under pressure to give way to a different structure; she could take over the impressive size of a dragon or the insignificant form of a ladybug; so long as she was able to endure the agonizing seconds that preceded the change.

But pain and I came to an understanding a few years ago, she thought to herself, no longer suffering from the lingering ache left in her bones, ignoring it as one would do to a mere casualty.

Her eyes were trained to the perimeter as she took in the sight of the mountains. The two of them overflew an extension of rock, trees, and eventual rivers, and when she was faced with unknown and plain territory, [Name] knew they had surpassed the frontier of the Faerie Realms. Her small heart dropped and a spontaneous chirp escaped her beak. It was a land of infinite possibilities, of wonders to be unraveled in a biome of sand and heat that she had read about but never met. If fate had been kinder, [Name] would have glided to Azriel’s arms and shifted into her fae body; she would have gaped at the vision before her and wept at the opportunity to be met with such a wide extension of land; she would not have flinched at the sound of his scoff against her earlobe, would not have frozen when his grip tightened around her body. But then again, if fate had been kinder, she would never have gotten so far as beyond the Faerie Realms. With that resolution, she merely flew faster, resting on his nape with enough care as to not maim his skin with her claws.

“Getting comfortable?” Azriel mocked, and in her silence, he continued. “Or was I right and your tired ass should have turned into a bigger bird?”

A single claw scratched his nape, threatening to pierce the smooth skin. He hissed, but she did not bother staring down at his reaction, her eyes glued to the scenario that unfolded underneath them. Azriel himself grew quiet, and did not attempt to stop the scarce and frail shadows when some pooled at her feet and made her company. It could have been hours or minutes — she would not know — but eventually, the desert gave way to sporadic specks of green, that, on their hand, grew into a huge forest, miles and miles of trees and rivers, of mountainscapes covered in moss and leaves, some standing so tall that they kissed the clouds and were coated in snow.

Azriel began his descent, and once they were sheltered from the burning midday sun, she noted the sweat pooling on his neck. [Name] had barely felt the heat back then, but dressed in Illyrian leather, undoubtedly the Spymaster had been punished by the warmth. Not wishing to add further discomfort, [Name] flew away from his nape and re-started the diligent flapping pattern of her wings, losing herself amidst the trees and enjoying the breeze on her feathers. Eventually, she nearly lost the way through all of that freedom, and had to be guided back to Azriel by one of his shadows, who grew stronger and with a bigger range after the pair escaped the ruthless ministration from the scalding sun.

It was the start of the afternoon when she heard the waves. Azriel led them west, clearing their way through the forest and propelling himself up whenever the trees grew too troublesome to dodge. [Name] had half the notion that their overall altitude decreased mid-flight, and although the increase of the heat was an imminent indicator of their destination, her mind would never have wrapped itself around the existence of a beach. It seemed unreal to her — someone who had been rooted into a home in the middle of a small town, someone who had never been allowed to travel, someone who had thought it was impossible to see the world in that life — that a single place could hold both a forest and a beach, that tree and sand could share a neighborhood, but there it was.

The soil began to lose its domain as the pair flew closer west. The more they descended, the more the earth shifted into solid rock. Although she could point out natural coexistence, the trees and its leaves built a thicket glued to the ground, as if they had forgotten the proper way to grow and started to be pulled by gravity and its invisible string. She could see them more as huge bushes than trees per say, for the stalks were so small and thin, and palm trees were now a common sight, their movement following the sway of the wind. There was a small quantity of moss covering the rocks closer to the sea, and mountains of mid-length were caught in between forest and shore, as though it was the one thing connecting the two.

The waves kept their steady onslaught against the tall and sharp rocks of the shore, and Azriel duck, his frame a dark contrast to that haven of sun and sand and sea. She followed in suit, noting that, from a huge cavern located on the top of a cliff at her right, plummeted a thin waterfall. Once Azriel landed on his knees — a dramatic pose he seemed to treasure — he stretched his neck and placed her bag on the sand. Staring up at her, who chose to keep gliding, the well-deserved resting made for the return of his teasing spirit.

“If you want to fly some more, I’m sure those seagulls back there would be up for a good fight.”

A revolted chirp died on her throat as the opportunity ensued. Azriel got himself distracted with the disappearance of his Illyrian armor, and [Name] duck, shifting back into her fae form mid-air. She fell on his back and the Spymaster — who was still on his knees — fell face flat on the sand. The female got up as soon as her body touched his, grabbing her bag and staring at the sea.

“Did you make me wait an entire week for us to sleep under a cliff and live off the coconuts from the palm trees?” [Name] taunted him, whistling innocently once his deadly glance fell over her form. She had no doubt that he would find a way to retribute that prank of hers with twice as much force.

“Look behind you, smartass,” he scoffed. The second she did as so, hot sand was thrown on her nape, particles of it entering her jacket. [Name] didn’t need to spare a single glance to understand what had happened, and the sound of his own whistle — meant to mock her previous one — made her blood boil. However, before she could engage in a childish sand-battle that was beyond her normal behavior, her mouth fell agape at the sight above her.

There was a large cavity in the middle of the towering cliff. She squeezed her eyes to catch on it, for the entrance was covered by yet another pair of waterfalls, the two with a current stronger than the one she had seen earlier, acting as though a curtain of slight fog and liquid. The water fell on a small pool — surely one that had been made due to erosion — and followed a short route through rock and sand that disembogued on the sea. For a second, the female believed that her enhanced ears granted by the fae body had begun to fail her. She could hear the sound of the waves against the shore, the seagulls fighting for a poor, freshly caught fish, and the wind rustling the palm trees’ leaves, but she could not hear the sound of the waterfall, which was alarming considering the intensity of the flow.

Damn were those explosions! Soon enough, her sight would fall victim to the same tragedy, due to action of the toxins she so diligently worked with, the thought made her shiver. Perhaps it was a sign to start using those stupid leather-strapped googles.

As if caughting on her confusion, Azriel chuckled somewhere behind her. “The sound is muted by magic.”

Ah, [Name] realized. Magic, of course. The very thing that made the faes’ lives easier, that granted them the means to create things that no mortal could dare to aspire, not even during their most drunk state. [Name] was unused to that kind of commodity, and would sometimes fail to phantom the extensive lengths in which one could go with the aid of magic. Magic that she wielded, and that she refused to use out of the fear of forgetting the pleasure of building and drawing with her own hands, of cooking and preparing her own bath, rather than handling it to an external and incomprehensible force.

Azriel was suddenly by her side, eyeing her curiously before continuing. “I’ve created that cavern. It’s not born from a natural process, nor was it there already. I wanted a quiet place of my own, far from any boundary, so I grabbed a good enough pickaxe and built myself an entrance.”

“You’re fucking with me,” she scoffed, her glance holding his own. “You opened a hole through solid rock with your strength alone?”

Azriel himself was shocked. “You forget how strong we are, don’t you? How strong you are. [Name], considering the entire set of our abilities and scarce limitations of our bodies, opening a cleft is the least we are able to do.”

Her breath nearly caught on her throat at the sound of her name on his tongue. Rare were the moments in which both addressed one another by their given names, and she had only noticed it now, that not sooner he had said her name, she wanted to hear it again. And again. And again. During the most diverse of circumstances, some dirtier than she predicted; the sudden desire, a wave that the female had never thought she was capable of nurturing for someone else after all of those harsh years. She swallowed a lump of nervousness, stared at the entrance above them, and Azriel continued.

“It took me a while to create it, though. It was not the home I cared for, it was the process of reaching it. I wanted something to do with my hands after the war,” his voice shuddered ever so slightly at the mention of his scarred skin. It was a sound so vulnerable and, yet so swift, that one could even argue that they had imagined it. But [Name], who paid attention to his every movement without, had caught on it.

Allowing him to ignore that change in tone — to never address it — was the thing she loved the most about their dynamic. Azriel did not want her pity, nor did she want his, however, if one was to slip — opening an unwanted crack on the solid walls of their fortresses — rather than acting as though a listening ear to a pain neither wished to address, the other would simply wait until that fissure was mended. They would not offer each other soothing sentences or draw the illusion, born from a childish desire, of a future without battle and suffering. The two had experienced the worst that could come from the cruelest beings; had been both maimed by constant cruelty; had been scarred enough to refuse that blind idealism that drove pure hearts to the possible existence of long-lasting peace. They were born not to protect, but to survive. And silently acknowledging that single slip, granting the other a second of vulnerability, was their way to keep each other strong, to keep marching forward — without pity, without unnecessary emotion.

Like Calls to like. It seemed to be a keen enough saying when it came to the two of them.

“Sometimes, I would come here and punch the rocks until they gave in. Sometimes, I would use the power of my Siphons. Rarely, I actually used the pickaxe,” [Name] snickered at that. “I’ve built this entrance through rage and boredom and ease. It is a creation from every single feeling I’ve had during the years. When I noticed that I had opened enough space, and that it was about time I started decorating for once, I was kind of disappointed.”

She hummed, sweat pooling on her nape from where the fabric of her jacket clung to. “I’m sure those rocks back there would be up for a good fight,” the female commented, using his previous words against him.

“Better to fight a rock than a seagull, at least cliffs are tough opponents.”

“Seagulls actually move and fight back,” she countered.

“So you admit that you would struggle in a fight against seagulls?”

His tone was amused, causing her to grit her teeth. “I’ll give them your severed arm for lunch.”

“With this heat and your heavy choice of clothing, you’ll faint before managing to land a single punch,” Azriel noted, and [Name] shifted in full-force to stare at him, about to comment on his choice for Illyrian leather, just for her words to flee from both mind and tongue at the sight of him with merely a black tank-top and matching trousers.

“When did you—”

“Magic,” this time, his winning grin and mocking tone did nothing to vex her. [Name] was quite too busy tearing her eyes from his frame. She heard a dry laugh, followed by the sound of his wings propelling him up in the air.

Feyre had once said that [Name]’s transformations were one of the most beautiful sights she laid eyes on. According to her youngest sister, her previous form would vanish, giving way to the brief appearance of grouped particles that gleamed in silver, as if her magic was the manifestation of stardust. From the core of ethereal light, she arose in the newest form that suited her desires best. As [Name] took the body of the gyrfalcon, she couldn’t help but wonder whether or not the breeze born from the flapping of her wings scattered the said gleaming essence of her magic. It was hard to imagine that she could be the source of such a beautiful thing, but it was not unpleasant.

To reach the inside of the cave, she had to go through the liquid curtain of the waterfall. When [Name] shifted back, her body and clothes were drenched in seawater. Azriel waited ahead, leaning on the arched frameway of the wooden-door. He had gone through the trouble of building an entire entrance, with an external leisure area located left from the door, surrounded by fences made of polished wood. As soon as she began to walk towards him, hissing at the feeling of her wet socks, talons of shadows came to circle her wrists, guiding her to the entryway. She did not need their assistance, but accepted it still. The cave’s ceiling was enchanted, and although she could see the stalactites, they seemed awfully out of place, for rather than pitch-black darkness above, [Name] saw a mimic of the ethereal afternoon-sky of Velaris, with the bright blue shade accompanied by the faint hues of pink and lilac, a sign that dusk was near. His shadows swirled more comfortably now, as if the shore and burning sun from the outside drained them of life.

“We never managed to get the sky right,” Azriel commented as she reached the entrance, stepping foot on the single step that led to the leisure area. A shadow seemed to point the way left, and [Name] noted a set of armchairs, two common chairs, both suitable for Illyrian wings, and finally, at the corner in between the two latter, a chess set displayed on a table.

“We?” [Name] whispered half-attentively, her eyes glued to those damned pieces and that damned board, her fingers stretching due to the sudden urge to play.

“Rhys and I,” he explained, and she could sense a tinge of amusement in his voice. “The house itself wasn’t meant to be heavily enchanted or guarded. It was glamoured to avoid unwelcome visitors, but I hadn’t felt the need for further protection until I came up with the idea of bringing you here.”

[Name]’s eyes met his attentive ones, and the depth of his sea of longing was hued in hazel and golden-light.

“Hence why you made me wait for a week?” She inquired, and the sound of her voice was almost a treacherous profanity after it slashed through their previous silence, loud with words unsaid.

He swallowed hard, gripping the doorknob. “I like to keep you on edge, impatience suits you well. The threats are my personal favorite.”

Perhaps, she went mad with the heat; perhaps, the water clinging to her ribs had made her reckless; perhaps, her mind remained filled with much too many thoughts about chess and constructions and sculptures to process another thought if not one of those subjects; because the trap was an obvious obstacle placed on the side of her foot, and [Name] chose to willingly step on it, if only to amuse the Spymaster further.

“I will punch your teeth.”

“Feeble excuse to touch my lips.”

[Name]’s mouth shot open and she felt the blush that crept up her neck. His winning-grin had given her the actual desire to punch his teeth, but then again, that would make him smile more. Azriel gave her bag a light kick and pointed with his head towards the chess board.

“Change into something fresher and we’ll play a match or two.”

“Weren’t we here to train?” [Name] questioned, ignoring his first sentence. She hadn’t brought fresher clothes; all of her wardrobe was of long-sleeved shirts and dresses, for she meant to cover the inside of her left forearm.

“We are, but it’s almost dusk and we’ve flown most of the day,” he pointed out, crossing his arms against his chest. [Name] tried not to notice the muscles of his biceps, nearly shivering at the sight.

“I don’t have fresher clothes,” she blurted out, fearing that he could catch the trail of her thoughts otherwise.

He raised an eyebrow. “Cut the sleeves of some shirts, then.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need to.”

“We will be training under the scalding midday sun, you need to,” he stated matter-of-factly, annoyingly unbothered.

“I can handle—”

“Why, [Name]?” The Spymaster asked again, the sound of her name nearly causing her knees to buckle. Once met with her silence, however, he continued. “Wanna strike another deal?”

The challenge left her on edge, a shiver running down her spine where the tattoo of their pact had appeared a week prior. “We’re striking deals whenever we find an impasse?”

“If that’s what I need to crack open that mouth of yours,” a sea of curses poured from her thoughts but Azriel did not give her the chance to voice them. “Only this time, I was thinking of chess rather than magic.”

“Chess?” She asked him, tentatively. The bastard sure knew how to spike her interests.

“We play a match. Winner asks a question, loser is obliged to answer honestly.”

This got her to crack a laugh, one that echoed with arrogance. “You won’t get many answers from me.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” the ambient had shifted into something more electrifying, a sudden string of shared anticipation. “But I like that deal, you’ll be forced to speak up more.”

“I speak,” he countered, almost offended.

“Sure. I’ve known you for a year and the only things I’m sure of are your name and the friends you have.”

“Well, I know your name and the fact that you have three sisters.”

“You know more than that,” she rebuked immediately.

“Like?”

She fell silent. He grinned. His hand turned on the doorknob, and the passage to his home-cave was granted.

“Alright, Azriel,” she said, and his entire body seemed to shudder. “You’ve got yourself another deal.”

Their second chess match began.

trivia: the war between montesere and vallahan is entirely made-up and not a part of canon, alongside the story of the dragons. i came up with a few things of my own for the sake of the reader’s development! ;)

general notes: i am deeply sorry for how long it took me to post the second chapter. if i am being honest, i struggled a lot with their dynamics, since what i once wanted for them seemed to be very out-of-character with the az we know. i decided to work with his silent-little-shit-self and his very brief (SJM i am inside your walls) interaction with gwyn. i hope you enjoyed this chapter and i would love to hear your opinions and criticism on it. i promise i will try my best to write smaller chapters and to post them a little faster! lots of love <3

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @arilindemann @bsenpai @rachelnicolee @piceous21 @forsiriussake @sassybluebird @esposadomd

#acomaf #acotar #acowar #azriel #azriel / reader #azriel imagine #azriel imagines #azriel x reader #acosf #acotar x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel x female!reader

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