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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 3 years

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Sensate Focus

A bitch takes one Human Sexuality class and gets stuck on the fucking Sensate Focus bullshit then has to write a fic about it. Its me. I’m the bitch. 😂

Warnings: Geralt is self depriciating-whats new, insecure jask, insecure geralt, overwhelmed by touch, big vulnerability, they’re in couple’s therapy, so like, its a rocky relationship, we got some connection building and cuteness in the end too, its not all bad, mentions of sex, nudity but like not in a smutty way, for once I dont think i used a single swear word? I had big feels while writing it i really hope they translated lmao.

I am but a humble psych major, not an actual therapist, so plz don’t come at me if shit isn’t accurate. I tried my best.

Also this is under a cut for a reason, not just length. If you are easily triggered by touch starved type fics this is not for you. It gets emotionally heavy plz read with caution.

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“You want us to what?”

“Come on, Geralt. You said you’d try.”

“I- no. Just- why? What’s the point?”

Both Geralt and Jaskier turned to their therapist, each equally confused and a little scared.

The tiny woman kept her face completely impassive and answered his question, “The exercise helps people get out of their heads and reacquaint themselves with, not only being open with their partner, but also slowing down and enjoying touch for touch sake. Without being so focused on the end goal of sex or pleasing a partner, people can begin to refocus on the connection attachment theorists claim is the underlying motivation for sex without reproduction in the first place.”

Geralt swallowed hard. This was for him and he knew it. He’d said it himself, he was fucking terrified of failure and rejection and that absolutely extended to Jaskier. His husband. Of five years. Who’d been with him for ten. Logically it made no fucking sense, but the woman with the PhD had told him this was rather normal for a child of divorce as if he’d said he didn’t like horseradish sauce. He didn’t see how being scared of your spouse secretly hating you was normal in the slightest.

He glanced over at Jaskier who sat at the other end of the black leather sofa picking at his nails. When they’d gotten married they’d laze around all day just holding each other and talking. It was safe and sweet and Geralt couldn’t for the life of him remember how it was tainted.

“Alright,” he grunted, “What’re the rules again?”

The next afternoon they’d carved out an hour and a half with no distractions, no phones, not even any music to Jaskier’s dismay. Apparently that was against the ‘guidelines - not rules’.

They stood in their bedroom, lights dimmed and curtains drawn, as much for the ambiance as for the privacy. Geralt felt his stomach flip flop as he stepped out of his clothes, feeling a bit ridiculous. It’s not as if this was the first time they’d seen each other naked, but it was the first time they were to spend ‘as much time as necessary’ -whatever that meant- touching each other, one at a time.

Jaskier dropped his clothes in the laundry bin and stood with his arms crossed, almost like he was hiding, “Right. So… Do you want to go first? Maybe go over things again?”

“Do you want to go first?” Geralt asked, immediately drawing his bottom lip between his teeth to gnaw at the peeling skin.

“I just want to know why you look so scared, to be honest,” Jaskier breathed.

Geralt took a deep breath, reminding himself that he wasn’t the only one being vulnerable here, “Not scared. Just nervous.”

“Rules then?”

Geralt nodded, “No talking. No, uh, erogenous zones. No sex. No kissing. If you don’t like something or it’s a big turn on or it tickles, move the other person’s hand.” the weight in his chest lessened a little bit, this really was simple. Just touching Jask. Something he’d done a million times. Hell he might not even get anything out of it. He didn’t need to be so damned worried about things going wrong.

“If you get overwhelmed think about temperature and texture and how it feels. Don’t think about what the other person is thinking or feeling. The only bit that matters is moving their hand,” Jaskier added, his posture relaxing ever so slightly as he rocked up on his toes and back down.

Geralt stepped a little closer, holding out his pinky finger, “We don’t stay still if we don’t like something.” He said it more to reassure Jaskier than anything.

Jask hooked his pinky around Geralt’s and smiled, “No barreling through,” he agreed.

“Can I, uhm… go first?” Geralt kept their pinkies hooked together as he let their hands hang between them.

Jaskier looked surprised, but nodded fervently, “Of course!”

“Okay,” Geralt pulled his hand back and ran it through his hair before stepping a bit closer, hovering both of his hands over jaskier’s shoulders, “So I just-?”

Jaskier nodded and whispered, “No talking, love.”

Geralt let out an amused huff, the irony of the words bringing a soft smile to his face. He took a deep breath in and slowly let it out as he placed his hands over Jaskier’s arms.

Sensations. He could do this. He was doing this.

Jaskier’s arms were soft, both in texture and in feel, giving way to Geralt’s fingers ever so slightly when he squeezed. He trailed his hands down over Jaskier’s elbows, noting the patches of dry skin over the joints that Jask had been scandalized by in college. His forearms had more hair, but it was softer than Geralt’s, silky even, and nice to touch. Geralt trailed his fingers down Jaskier’s wrist and back up, watching as the little hairs stood on end but seemed to stick to the pads of his fingers as he moved past them. When he noticed the goosebumps he glanced up to Jaskier with mild panic in his eyes, worried he’d already fucked it up and made him uncomfortable. But his husband just nodded, a light smile on his lips.

Temperature. Back to task.

Geralt picked up Jaskier’s hand, holding it in one of his as he skimmed his fingers over his knuckles and calluses. His palms were warmer than the back of his hand and it seemed every spot where his skin had built up from use was just a tad colder than the thinner skin next to it.

He gently guided Jaskier’s hand back down and trailed his hand up his arm, ghosting his fingers over his collar bone. He thought about how much softer this skin was, and how it made the butterflies in his stomach go wild as he moved back and forth over the spot a few times. He liked the pleasant little pitfall of his stomach, not arousal but not unlike it, just a little higher in his abdomen and lighter. He moved his other hand to mirror his movement’s on Jaskier’s other shoulder, palms soon coming to rest over his chest almost on their own.

Geralt was so aware of his hands they almost felt numb. It made him think of one of those motor skills brain maps where it showed how much of your brain was devoted to moving which part of your body. Those huge chunks devoted to his hands must have been screaming.

Jaskier gasped as a bit of his chest hair got caught in Geralt’s ring as he swept his hands downward. Geralt gave him an apologetic look but just got a grin and slight shake of his head in return instead of the shock he expected.

Geralt continued, moving his hands in slow circles over Jaskier’s abdomen and hips and flanks, marveling at the warmth he felt not only under his hands but spreading through his chest. He let his hands rest above Jaskier’s hips, just at the bottom of his ribs and watched as his hands slowly moved apart and back together in time with Jaskier’s breath. It looked like such a small movement, but when he closed his eyes he felt like he was throwing his arms wide open. He tried matching his breathing to Jaskier’s, but that was close to overwhelming, so he moved on, refocusing on the texture and thickness of his chest hair as he moved up to his neck.

One of his hands stayed resting on Jaskier’s chest as his other brushed up the side of his neck with the backs of his fingers. Even with such light pressure he could feel the thick ropes of muscle and tendons under his skin. It was warmer over his pulse point and Geralt’s breath hitched when he felt the little thump of a heartbeat under his fingers. He closed his eyes for a moment, surprised to find himself taking a deep breath, not out of fear or frustration, but to sink into the feeling as much as he could. He counted the beats, making a note of how comforting the feeling was. The longer he held his fingers in place, the softer the beats became, until they leveled out to a soft and steady thrum.

When Geralt opened his eyes the beats picked up, matching the strange look on Jaskier’s face. Geralt moved his hand over his jaw and back a few times. He could almost hear the ridges of his fingerprints catching on Jaskier’s stubble as he traced over his upper lip.

He felt a soothing sense of familiarity when his fingers grazed along the outline of Jaskier’s lips. His body latched onto the feeling and he found himself starting to get watery eyes as he reacquainted himself with the thin pink skin. He remembered their first kiss and how much it scared him even though he craved it so completely. He remembered kissing Jaskier over and over and over when they’d finally said ‘i love you’ and dropped the casual pretense. He remembered their kiss at their wedding, soft, firm, and a little wet with happy tears.

An annoying voice that sounded an awful lot like their therapist sounded off in his head, “This is what I was trying to tell you, asshat. Focus on the positive.”

Geralt smiled despite the sharp tug behind his eyes that told him he might cry, and brushed his fingers up over the thin skin beneath Jaskier’s eyes, careful not to press hard enough to catch and pull at the blueish skin. He traced his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones and hollows, his chin, and his cupid’s bow, all with that same surprisingly pleasant near-tears feeling in his chest. He watched Jaskier’s eyes watching him as he carded one hand through his hair.

That was what did it, what made the tears start to dribble down his cheeks as his hands continued to gently comb through his husband’s hair. The look of wonder and relief he was met with was overwhelming. He felt a bit of guilt, sure. Guilt for letting things get as bad as they’d been, but he was overwhelmed by how much love he felt. It permeated his whole body and the air around him. He hadn’t even felt this in the beginning; this was a settled and sure feeling, not the frantic need he’d felt before.

Geralt pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes, sending a fresh wave of tears over his cheeks as he brushed his hands over Jaskier’s back. He traced his spine, counted every rib, and outlined his shoulder blades with the tips of his fingers.

Their fronts were pressed together, but technically it wasn’t against any rule, so neither of them moved back. Geralt’s hands moved to the dip in Jaskier’s hips, his thumbs brushing over the place where his skin creased when he sat and Jaskier wrapped his hands around his wrists. A warm puff of air washed over Geralt’s face as Jaskier breathed a small laugh and moved his hands up. Surprisingly enough, Geralt was only amused by being moved, filing the information away for later as he settled for measuring Jaskier’s breaths again, now leaning into the full body tingle he felt when they both exhaled.

He wanted to stay right there for hours, but he suddenly wanted Jaskier to touch him. More than that, he wanted Jaskier to feel like him. He gave his sides a gentle squeeze as he straightened up and rocked back a bit, making the smallest bit of space between them.

“Switch,” he whispered, the soft sound coming out like crunching gravel in the charged silence.

He let his hands fall to his sides as he opened his eyes, a little relieved to see he wasn’t the only one crying.

Jaskier immediately reached up to cup Geralt’s cheeks and brush the tears away. It was odd, having to stay still when Jask was right there, when he could still feel the echoes of the sensations in his hands. But he stayed put, if for nothing else than the look of cautious excitement Jaskier was wearing.

He wanted to tell him there was no need, that he would gladly spend the rest of the day standing in the dim light of their bedroom, silently taking turns softly caressing each other. But rules were rules.

Jaskier drew his hands a little closer together over his cheeks, making sure all the tears were smudged away with his thumbs as Geralt’s eyes fluttered shut. The warmth of his hands was soothing, especially when Jaskier slowly brushed his thumbs over Geralt’s eyelids. As Jaskier dragged his fingers over Geralt’s chin and brushed the backs of his fingers back up and over his cheeks, Geralt almost started to feel dizzy. He forced his eyes open and focused on watching Jaskier’s face.

His tongue stuck out between his lips as his hands fluttered down his nose and to his lips. A wistful smile graced his features as he brushed over the chapped skin, pulling his bottom lip down just enough so when he let go it popped when it jumped back up to meet his top lip. Geralt tried not to smile, wanting him to do it again, but raised an eyebrow. Jaskier openly grinned and popped his lip a few more times before smoothing his thumb over it. He tucked some hair behind Geralt’s ear and cupped his hands around the base of his neck, gently pressing his thumbs into the tense muscles.

A shiver ran down Geralt’s back as Jaskier brushed his hands out and over his shoulders, thumbing circles over the points where muscle just barely covered bone. Geralt watched his eyes, watched the little crows feet get deeper when he smiled and watched his brows lift up and together.

It occurred to him then that Jaskier might have been just as lonely as he was, that the exuberant extrovert he’d married wanted this as badly as he did. It truly never crossed his mind until he saw it written plain as day on Jaskier’s face; he wasn’t the only one with insecurities in their relationship.

Every bone in his body wanted to pick Jaskier up and crush him to his chest. The trails of goosebumps his fingers left over his skin made it even harder not to, but Jask was enjoying this. He’d even go so far as to say he was lost in it. Rules be damned, Geralt couldn’t take this away from him if he’d wanted to.

When Jaskier’s hands ghosted over his navel he shivered and let his eyes flutter closed. If he wasn’t going to break and move he should at least lean into it.

However, being held without expectations, without needing, or even being allowed, to do or say anything in return was beginning to seem overwhelming. How had Jaskier just stood there and watched him? How could anyone just stand and constantly be told with the light brush of someone else’s knuckles over their cheek that they were desired and cherished? When the hands pressed to his chest told him over and over that he was loved, what kind of escape was there?

One of Jaskier’s hands once again brushed his tears away and he leaned into it, lip trembling as he looked up at the ceiling trying to compose himself. Jaskier would have none of it, gently tilting his head down until their noses brushed and he was forced to look into his watery blue eyes.

He needed this. Geralt was terrified but Jaskier’s expression spoke of a yearning that ran so deep even he probably couldn’t put a name to it. Geralt licked his lips and offered a watery smile, feeling warm relief when Jaskier smiled back and ran his hands down his arms to rest behind his elbows. He squeezed the meat behind his arms, the tops of his forearms, the tendons in his wrist, making his fingers involuntarily curl. Geralt didn’t move, he barely breathed, as Jaskier watched his own hands roam over Geralt’s like he’d never seen anything like it.

When he stopped trying to run the sensation faded to a dull roar. Jaskier’s hands were warm and his breath across his skin was gentle. Geralt might even admit he felt a little bit worthy of the adoration in his husband’s eyes after a few minutes.

Jaskier’s touches were light in some places, firm and grounding in others. Like when he circled his arms around Geralt and pressed his palms into the small of his back, resting his forehead where his collar bones met. Geralt had no idea how something so simple could make him feel so weak. He knew it wasn’t entirely true, but it felt like the only thing holding him up was Jaskier’s touch. When he rocked back, even if it was only an inch or so, Geralt had to fight not to follow him.

Jaskier rested his hands over his ribs, just above his elbows, and stared into his eyes.

They’d agreed to say ‘end’ with their therapist. That’s what Geralt was waiting for. So when Jaskier whispered ‘enough’ and gave him a gentle squeeze it was all he could do to bite down on his lip and keep quiet. Of course he would say enough. The one word Geralt had struggled with from day one. Being enough always felt impossible, but he could begin to think of it as a bit more attainable standing in their dim bedroom without a sound in the world other than their breathing.

He nodded and they both picked up their notepads and scribbled down the notes they were supposed to. Geralt’s was just a list of words but he didn’t care, he filled most of the page and chucked it on the bedside table before tugging on his sweats.

When he looked up for Jaskier he found him staring at him, worry on his brow and pen hovering over what looked like a second nearly full page.

“Do you, maybe want some tea while you write?”

He licked his lips and nodded, adjusting the blanket wrapped around his shoulders before going back to frantically scratching words onto his page.

Geralt gently closed the door after him and took a deep shaky breath as he padded into their bright kitchen, running his hands through his hair. The kettle seemed to take forever with how fast his mind was racing, replaying every bit he could to lodge it in his memory.

Jaskier was just closing his notebook and setting it on top of his laptop when he opened the door with his foot, careful not to spill any hot liquid on the carpet.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispered, taking his cup and sitting at the foot of the bed.

Geralt joined him and draped an arm over his blanket wrapped shoulders, “Of course.”

They slurped at their mugs in silence until Geralt was able to take a full sip without scalding the roof of his mouth.

Jaskier’s voice was soft as he spoke, the air from his words interrupting the steam drifting up from his mug, “Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm,” Geralt leaned in just a hair.

“Why did you look up?” Jaskier rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder as he asked and it took Geralt a moment to remember he was supposed to answer.

“I…” he took a deep breath to pull his words together before he mis-stepped, “You stood still and watched me, and looked happy… and I wanted to do that for you… but I started crying again and I-hm. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t want to be there-here. Wherever.”

One of Jaskier’s hands drifted from his mug to Geralt’s thigh, “I was just worried.”

“Didn’t translate, huh?” Geralt asked, giving him a light squeeze.

“Not quite,” Jaskier chirped, almost giggling.

Geralt hummed and pressed a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head, “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay. Now I know.”

There were a few more moments of silence before Geralt chuckled, “I didn’t realize your hips were so ticklish.”

Jaskier snorted, an attempt at sipping his tea absolutely aborted to save a spill, “I’ve never been ticklish, Geralt.”

Geralt set his tea on his knee and tilted Jaskier’s chin up to look at him, suddenly concerned, “What didn’t you like about me touching your hips?”

Jaskier’s goofy smile turned a little sly, “Absolutely nothing. In fact,” he started, taking both their half finished teas and setting them on the window sill before turning to envelop Geralt in the blanket with him, pulling him down onto the bed, “I liked it a bit too much.”

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philliamwrites · 3 years

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koi no yokan

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Pairing: Kazuha / Aether

Tags: boys kissing, slight angst with happy ending, simping aether, practice sparring

Words: 2k

Summary: “A healthy mind in a healthy body,” Kazuha said, crossing the little circle they used as their practice area to the maple tree where they left their stuff. He took a dark cloth from his backpack and began wiping his body. Aether looked pointedly at the clear sky as if checking if one of Baal’s bolts would spontaneously flash and smite them. “Whatever thoughts trouble you will affect your performance and slowly but steadily deteriorate your physical capabilities.”

“Did the wind tell you that?” Aether wasn’t really into the idea that the gentle breezes cooling their hot skin spilt all his troubles. Be it his mourning for his absent sister or how horny he was for Kazuha. “Maybe the wind should just mind its own business.”

Notes: Inspired by @jeruki's fanart. My twitter: @philliam, my ko-fi: philliam

koi no yokan(恋の予感) (n.) lit. "Premonition of Love"; the sense one can have upon first meeting another person that the two of them are going to fall in love. It is the feeling that future love is inevitable.

In his journey through Teyvat, Aether had seen a lot of things. Dragons, assassins, sentient flowers shooting their frozen or burning seeds at him which never made for a funny joke when he and his party sat around the campfire in the cool evenings. Catboys grown into men who paid their taxes and lived a humble life near calm Springvale. Name it and Aether had seen it.

But Kaedehara Kazuha was something else entirely. When he fought, it was hard to look away. He had a dancer’s grace and a seemingly unerring instinct for what his opponent would do next. His sword wasn’t simply a weapon he swung to cut through enemy lines. It was part of him. Like Lumine completed Aether, Kazuha was only fully himself with a weapon in his hand. This kind of commitment Aether only knew from Xiao, but Kazuha made his devotion for battle look divine; so much purer. Almost innocent in a way that did not speak of foolishness or guilelessness or the innocence of a child that simply waited to be consumed by the world. Kazuha’s innocence was something honest, linked to the making at the heart of the world.

He looked happiest with his sword slicing through the air. He looked graceful plunging from the skies like a hawk pouncing to catch its prey. He looked deliciously fuckable with his hitatare slipping off his shoulders and revealing smooth, white skin glistening with sweat. Aether had noticed a little scar winking at him whenever the fabric slipped and wondered how it would taste like near that elegant curve where Kazuha’s chest turned to solid, firm abs. He imagined leaning over and tasting Kazuha’s skin and suck—

A harsh blow swiped his feet from under him. The world spun and for a moment Aether was flying again, soaring through the sky before golden eyes flashed in malice and his sister was taken from him. The reality of Lumine being absent would come to Aether in flashes. He knew it to be so, but he could not feel it to be true except in these sudden bursts of realisation. The light of that strange, unthinkable truth would dazzle him for a moment and then it would be gone again, a fleeting sense of terrible loss. The pain almost always felt the same, and all he could do in that moment was take it, endure the unbearable and bear it.

It ended as quickly as it stared. Aether’s back hit the hard ground, the impact punching the breath out of his lungs. He stared up at the beautiful crimson sky stretching overhead—red like so many things in Inazuma which was fitting for the country governed by a goddess with a taste for blood.

But then, Kazuha’s even more beautiful face bent over him.

“Focus, Aether,” he said, offering his hand. Aether imagined pulling Kazuha down next to him where they would roll in the dirt like two puppies, drunk on adrenaline and intoxicated with the addicting taste of defiling these sacred lands where the cries of helpless, innocent men would never be heard over the ever-present roar of thunder. Where neither of them was welcome.

Instead, he allowed Kazuha to pull him back up on his feet, slick skin against slick skin, with a swift ease that left little room for imagination how else he could manhandle Aether. He swallowed, his mouth dry.

Kazuha exhaled softly, and even in that companionable silence Aether had grown used to, it was loud enough to catch his attention. “Where are your thoughts, Aether?” Kazuha asked.

Aether kicked some pebbles. He could hardly confess how he imagined sucking Kazuha off. Somehow he didn’t think someone as versed, with a soul consumed by wanderlust like Kazuha, would like to hear that. So he simply shrugged, inspecting the hilt of his wooden practice sword as if it could be held accountable for his lack of focus.

“Oh, you know,” he said, shrugging. “Archons and Visions and the like. The usual stuff.”

Kazuha’s eyebrows rose. Aether held his stare for a long minute but ended up turning away first. Somehow he didn’t believe secrets could be kept hidden for too long from those keen scarlet eyes, and while he wouldn’t mind presenting his body to him, he wasn’t too comfortable bearing his very soul to someone he’d known for less than a month. He wondered if that even mattered. He had let Kaeya rail him in much shorter time than that.

“A healthy mind in a healthy body,” Kazuha said, crossing the little circle they used as their practice area to the maple tree where they left their stuff. He took a dark cloth from his backpack and began wiping his body. Aether looked pointedly at the clear sky as if checking if one of Baal’s bolts would spontaneously flash and smite them. “Whatever thoughts trouble you will affect your performance and slowly but steadily deteriorate your physical capabilities.”

The wind picked up, tossing Aether’s hair left and right so it came even more loose after their sparring. He was sure his mind played tricks on him, but somewhere in the distance it sounded like Venti’s clear, bell-like laughter. If this was his weird way of trying to set him up, Aether was not happy with it.

“No, you just did.” Kazuha finished cleaning himself, but was in no apparent hurry to tie up his hitatare. When he looked back up at Aether, his smile was a little mischievous but still gentle, and Aether wanted to kiss that stupid grin away. He flopped down next to Kazuha. Dry maple leaves rustled under his body and he took one in his fingers, turning it this and that way just so he could observe the crimson and stall time.

If he met the Raiden Shogun and she didn’t have the answers he desired, then what? How much longer would he have to journey, to tread foreign countries and dangerous lands until he found what Lumine needed him to see? Why was this arduous task better suited than simply telling him? The only logical answer was that during her own travels, Lumine had grown to not trust him in a way only she understood and couldn’t confide in him. The thought closed like a cold fist around Aether’s heart. There was nothing logical about that, for if Lumine chose to hide her heart from Aether, where would that leave him? Loneliness spread like a dark stain inside him, a horror that stole his breath and tightened his chest. Black dots danced across his vision. Aether noticed his body moving without his will, he sat up, afraid he might suffocate. His heart. His heart wasn’t in his chest anymore. It was in his throat, making it hard to breathe. Just thinking she doesn’t need me, Lumine is gone forever and all I have loved, I have loved alone—

A warm hand grasped his, squeezing his fingers painfully until his splintering mind reassembled to the present. Aether stared at Kazuha with wide eyes, filled with horror, with fear, he just couldn’t understand how anyone bore that loneliness without a twin, without another part of their soul bearing the harsh world with them and give comfort and respite.

“Aether?”

Aether flinched, only noticing then how close Kazuha hovered near his face. When he looked down, he saw how his golden strands were caught between Kazuha’s slender fingers.

“There was a maple leaf in your hair,” Kazuha said, not taking his eyes away from Aether.

“Oh.” Aether’s reeling thoughts momentarily halted at this whimsical observation, so simple and apart from his anxious feelings. He looked up at the grand tree above them, crying red leaves. “Really?”

Kazuha still looked at him. A gentle tug lowered Aether’s head back down.

“No,” he said, and then kissed him. His soft lips brushed against Aether’s once, then twice and then he pressed his mouth to his, pushing Aether to the solid, hard ground. One leg stole between Aether’s, pressing a knee against his crotch, and Oooh. Until now, Aether had thought Kazuha to be soft and restrained, a man more servant to the voice of nature than his own desires. But there was nothing soft or restrained about the way he pinned Aether to the ground now, stole his breath and swallowed all those little huffs and moans, making Aether go crazy with lust.

Swift fingers dug into his bare waist. Aether was looking forward to the bruises he’d see blossoming the next morning. Their bodies pressed together hard; Aether arched his back, hoping that if he just willed it hard enough, he would become one with Kazuha and fill that gnawing black hole inside him. Kazuha reached out and put his thumb to Aether’s jawline. The tips of his fingers brushed the hollow of his throat and pushed against the pulse point where Aether’s blood visibly thundered in exalting beats against his skin.

Kazuha’s tongue darted across Aether’s lower lip. Willingly, Aether opened his mouth, longing to savour his taste and finally quench his thirst for the exquisite being that Kaedahara Kazuha was.

But Kazuha remained still, their mouths inches away from each other, each inhaling the other’s breath. Aether opened his eyes, meeting Kazuha’s that had turned so much darker. Wilder.

“You don’t even know what you do to people, do you?” he mumbled against Aether’s lips. His nose grazed his cheek as he dove for Aether’s jawline, his neck, mapping Aether’s face with his lips and teeth. Aether remembered Kazuha saying once that he smelled like stars, and wondered how that worked.

“What—“ Aether exhaled a long, shuddering breath. “—do you mean?” He tried to buck up into Kazuha, to create some delicious friction between them, but Kazuha’s grip around his waist was like iron. Aether whined, but Kazuha made with one, sharp bite pretty clear that whatever happened would only happen on his volition.

“The way you move, the way you look and think no one notices.” Amusement stole into Kazuha’s voice. “Or might you think only I don’t notice?”

“I am anything but subtle,” Aether acknowledged, planting a kiss on Kazuha’s temple. He chuckled against Aether’s skin. “And you don’t necessarily make it easier, fighting like this.” His hands sneaked inside Kazuha’s hitatare, fingers trembling with excitement spread against his warm chest.

Kazuha inhaled sharply. His own fingers trailed a path up Aether’s waistline, nails scratching the sensitive skin and sending shivers all over his body. “Look who’s talking. It’s hard focusing on anything else with you walking around like this.”

Aether laughed, dark and rich. “It’s my pleasure.”

“No.” Kazuha tugged the fabric of Aether’s black collar down and kissed his neck. “It’s mine.”

Aether didn’t know how long they stayed like this, cradled against the maple tree’s trunk, growing drunk on kisses and lust and the taste of each other until their lips were bruised. At some point, they had dozed off under the setting sun that made way to twinkling stars that winked at them in mischief. Only they knew the secrets and confessions they shared, absolving one another from their darkest sins.

“I know you seek your sister,” Kazuha said, studying the joints and bumps on Aether’s fingers before he brought them to his lips. “We both follow steps of people dear to us, choosing to ignore we only run after shadows. I think that is why my soul refuses to leave you.”

Familiar pain throbbed in Aether’s chest, but where it once was sharp and overwhelming, it now had softened to a dull song. Bearable. “I’m sure one day we’ll catch up to them.” He intertwined his legs with Kazuha’s, felt the warmth radiate off his body. “Together.”

#genshin impact #genshin #ao3 #philliamwrites #genshin impact kazuha #genshin impact aether #genshin impact kaedahara kazuha #kazuha x aether #kazuther #genshin impact kazuha x aether #genshin impact kazuther

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olivinesea · 3 years

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A Mixed Blessing

Chapter List

chapter five: swallow the sun

a/n: Sorry about this one, just know I feel fairly guilty and also there will be some happiness somewhere down the line. Just not here. Warnings: substance use, abuse & violence, vomit, suicidal thoughts…no, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Too deep in it to turn back now. ~5.5k

The first thing Aaron noticed was how very dry his mouth was. He tried to swallow but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. With significant determination, he lifted his hand, heavy and prickling as if the blood had pooled, to scratch the tip of his nose. He sighed at the immediate relief it brought. On their own accord, his fingers moved to address another itch, this one on the side of his neck. He hummed at the sensation brought on by the feeling of his fingernails dragging against his skin. Never before had scratching an itch felt so good, he was sure of it. He heard a voice mutter beside him. Turning his head, he saw Cole stretched out on the bed next to him.

“Hmm?” He hadn’t understood the muffled syllables.

“I said stop that,” he said, waving his hand in Aaron’s direction, like he wanted to grab him but couldn’t quite reach.

Only half listening, his attention caught up elsewhere, Aaron wasn’t sure what he meant and didn’t much care either. He moved his hand down to scratch at his shoulder, drawn by the bit of skin exposed by his shirt collar. Cole finally managed to make contact, shoving Aaron’s shoulder, knocking his hand away.

“You’re just going to make it worse,” he explained, words slow and thick.

Grudgingly Aaron dropped his hand to his side, but his fingers continued to twitch. His mind felt cloudy and he tried to remember what he had been doing. How long had he been laying here? He pushed himself up into a sitting position. His head swam and a wave of nausea washed over him. He closed his eyes, leaning with palms pressed against his knees, trying to gather his thoughts. Inhaling slowly through his nose, all he could think about was the damp mildew smell of the garage, of how much he disliked it and the way it felt like mold was trying to colonize his airways.

“What time is it?”

“Fuck if I know,” Cole replied with a laugh.

Aaron rubbed his face, he needed to get home. Home seemed so far away but he needed to make it back before his father got up for work. He gritted his teeth and tried to push himself up off the mattress. Cole’s hand shot out, wrapping tightly around his wrist, holding him in place. He looked down at it, the edges of his skin whitening beneath the pressure. His heart beat faster.

“I have to go,” he tried to say, but his voice wasn’t cooperating. The words came out wispy and thin.

Cole smiled, eyes still closed. “Happy birthday, Aaron.”

Aaron blushed, opening his mouth, but failing to make any sound. Cole let go, stretching both arms above his head, humming with contentment. Aaron’s arm tingled where Cole had gripped it, his skin resuming its normal color as the blood rushed back into place.

“Now get out of here.”

Aaron nodded, still unable to speak. There was far too much happening around him, between the lights and the smell and the touch lingering on his arm, still confused about what had happened but clinging to the peace he had felt. He didn’t have time to process what he was feeling, his only focus was the need to get home. He managed to stand up, his legs unsteady as he stumbled to the door, pulling it up only enough to fit under. Before ducking down, he looked back at Cole, still sprawled out on the bed. Thank you, he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure if the words actually came out.

The walk home was difficult, stumbling into lamp posts and tripping over uneven sidewalk in the freezing midnight air. Eventually he made it, up the stairs and into his room without incident. He undressed, shedding his clothes directly onto the floor. A problem for tomorrow. With his last reserve of energy he climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin, teeth chattering as he shivered, sweat beading at his temples. He curled onto his side and wrapped his hand around his wrist, holding it where Cole had grabbed him, pulling it against his chest as he closed his eyes and tried to remember every detail of how it had felt. He rubbed his face against his pillow, squeezing his wrist tighter. He fell asleep like that, holding his own hand, pretending it was someone else.

The sun filtering in through his window forced Aaron awake. His head was throbbing and he felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Groaning, he rolled over to block out the light. He could hear Sean’s little footsteps running down the hallway, nearing his door. He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep, hoping it would be enough to get Sean to leave him alone. The door creaked as it opened slightly.

“Aaron?” his brother stage whispered.

Aaron didn’t move though anxiety spiked through his chest.

“Mom says it’s time for you to get up.”

Aaron felt bile rising in the back of his throat.

“Aaron?” A little louder this time, his shrill child’s voice piercing through Aaron’s skull. “Mom says—” He was startled when Aaron suddenly jumped up, pushing past him as he raced for the bathroom.

He barely fumbled the lock into place behind him before falling on his knees and throwing up into the toilet. He felt a strange surge of contentment as it happened, relief as the limited contents of his stomach left his body. He leaned back against the cool porcelain of the tub, forehead flushed with sweat. It felt like he had a fever but also like his skin was buzzing pleasantly. Outside, Sean was banging on the bathroom door.

“Aaron?” he sounded on the verge of tears.

“I’m fine, Sean.” His ragged voice contradicted the assurance, throat raw from dehydration and sickness. He heard a sniffle and sighed. “I’m just going to take a shower, I’ll be down soon.” He felt out of breath, so many words taking a toll. He leaned his head between his knees, another wave of nausea threatening to overtake him. There were some unintelligible sounds from the other side of the door and then, further away, Sean calling for their mother as he ran downstairs.

Aaron reached behind himself, fumbling for the taps, knowing that he needed to get moving. There was no way his mother would let him stay home, he’d learned that well enough. Plus he didn’t want to answer any questions, didn’t feel up to enduring her accusatory looks. She knew enough about what her son was getting into to be suspicious of any sudden illness. She would never say anything to him directly, but she knew how to make him uncomfortable, how to let him know his behavior was unwelcome. Besides, if he went to school he could see Cole, the only person he really wanted to see anyway. He had questions, very important questions.

When the water was hot, he climbed in, his whole body shivering its confusion at the conflicting temperatures. His skin felt chilled while his insides burned, the headache had worked its way from the back to the front of his skull. He braced his hand against the tiled wall and turned his face into the spray. Eyes closed, he could almost feel the bliss of the night before, when everything around him faded away and he was left with a rush of warmth and the softness of oblivion holding him. He’d give anything to have that feeling again.

Aaron didn’t even make it through second period, by nine a.m. his anxiety had built to an intolerable degree. He needed to talk to Cole. His heart, its rhythm fluctuating wildly from racing to non-existence, felt like it was going to burst any moment. He lurched out of his seat and towards the door, a half formed excuse about needing the restroom barely leaving his lips. The teacher snorted, watching him leave, then returned to her lesson, not giving a second thought to it. He wasn’t her problem, let the truancy officers deal with that one.

He found Cole smoking behind the portables, just as he had the first time months ago. Cole didn’t look any worse for wear, certainly not sick in the way Aaron was. When he gave him that same infuriating smile, as if he knew something, some secret that he wasn’t sharing, Aaron felt a surge of resentment. It overwhelmed his usual hesitation, his deference to the older boy. He was always waiting on a signal from him, waiting for an invitation. This time he grabbed Cole’s arm and dragged him away from the group. Cole laughed, shaking him off but reaching a hand out to steady him at the same time. Aaron’s balance hadn’t quite returned.

“What’s up kid?” he asked, letting go once it seemed like he wouldn’t fall over.

Aaron gave him a dark look. “What did you give me last night? Was that…what was that?”

“What do you think?” Cole raised an eyebrow, daring him to say it.

Aaron grimaced. “Heroin?”

“Bingo.”

“Isn’t that—should we be doing that?”

Cole shrugged. “Well, did you like it?”

Hesitantly, Aaron nodded.

“Want to do it again?”

Aaron’s breath caught at the intense rush of desire, the absolute certainty that he wanted to do it again. Would do anything to make that to happen.

“Yes, please,” his voice cracked, hating the way it felt like he was begging.

They fell into an uneasy routine. Cole insisted he could only get high like that once a week, though he complained about being treated like a child. After seeing how sick it made him, he agreed it made the most sense to keep it to the weekends, when Aaron could disappear for a couple days without anyone calling to say he was missing school and his father was generally too inebriated to note whether he came home or not. He spent the whole week anxiously thinking about it, blowing through packs of cigarettes and joint after joint, trying to manage the rising anticipation of the high that was coming. The gnawing expectation of returning to that place, where no one and nothing mattered, where he didn’t exist.

He refused to admit to himself that the high was always a little bit disappointing. The rush was there, the relief after days of waiting, of unconsciously picking at scabs until they bled, of being too anxious to eat. He was losing weight but no one noticed, he was never that solid to begin with. But beyond that, he was always left craving more. Maybe if he just did a little more he could find what he was looking for. He started to bug Cole about adding another day, dipping into the supply twice a week. He didn’t know where Cole was buying the drugs so he couldn’t get them on his own, otherwise he would have. He might have been nervous about it at first but he was invested now. Nothing he’d tried before had given him that same sense of relief.

Cole snapped at him after he’d asked one time too many. He threatened to take it away entirely, telling Aaron he was too attached, that he needed to calm down. Aaron felt like he’d been stung, retreating into himself, refusing speak to Cole for several days. Not until Friday rolled around again at least, then he was back, as eager as ever, ready to say whatever he needed to convince Cole to share that way out with him again.

Alongside his increasingly frequent clashes with Cole, things were getting tenser at home. School had been calling relentlessly, asking why he was missing so much class. Every time he came home he was met with yelled accusations, with blows that did nothing to change his behavior. He started coming home later and later, hoping to avoid his father entirely. It worked for awhile, sneaking into the house well after dark, sleeping in his closet so it wasn’t obvious he’d come home. It worked so well in fact that he thought he’d solved the problem and he got careless with his precautions.

It was a night when he came back earlier than usual, having argued with Cole again about something trivial that was really an argument about drugs. He wasn’t thinking straight, still caught up in his irritation that Cole wouldn’t take him seriously, wouldn’t trust that he knew his own limits. He was climbing the stairs, too stoned and angry to be cautious. A large hand wrapped around his neck just as he reached the top of the stairs. He looked up startled, red eyes blearily taking in the form of his father. His nerves were too dulled to panic. In fact, this moment made a lot of sense to him. It was the obvious outcome if he had cared to look ahead at all. He coughed as the hand tightened, cutting into his airway.

“What do you think you’re doing?” his father asked.

Aaron tried to shake his head, grabbing at the fingers holding him in place, trying to pry them off.

“Did you know the cops came looking for you today?” He sounded almost conversational, the faint scent of bourbon the only detail giving away his insobriety.

Aaron had a hard time understanding what he was talking about, too focused on getting air into his lungs.

“And do you know what they said to me, when I told them I didn’t know where my delinquent son was?” His grip tightened, rendering Aaron’s struggles useless as he tried and failed to twist away. “They said without a properly excused reason for absence, they would hold me, me, responsible if you didn’t start attending school regularly.”

He laughed and the sound was cold and terrifying. He leaned in close to Aaron’s face. “Let’s give you a reason to miss school, shall we?”

He released his grip, tossing Aaron backwards as he did so. His eyes were emotionless as he watched his son crash down the wooden staircase. Only a slight hint of disgust was visible as he brushed his hand off on his pant leg. The sound brought his mother flying out of her bedroom, looking over the railing, horrified at the unnatural shape Aaron’s body was now making.

He was dazed but not unconscious, staring at the ceiling once again. How many times had he been in this position? He couldn’t even feel his body, didn’t register any pain. When his mother came down the stairs, anxiously tapping his cheek to try to get him to focus on her, his eyes slid away from her face, looking at the ring on her finger, the thing that tied her to this monster pretending to be human. He felt his own fingers, no ring there, no reason to stay. Distantly he heard crying and wondered why anyone would cry over him.

Sean had also been woken up by the noise. The little boy tried to come to Aaron’s side, but his mother waved him back, still looking at Aaron with concern. He hadn’t moved but that was mostly because he didn’t want to, not because he couldn’t. She didn’t know that. He realized it was Sean crying. This stirred an emotion somewhere deep inside his chest. Perhaps that was why he kept coming home—he loved Sean. Or he had. He didn’t feel much anymore except a desire to get high and an annoyance when he wasn’t. It was better that way. Other emotions were painful, only reminded him what a failure he was, how much he lacked. Sean was far better off without him, it was best to let him realize these things now. Still, he could hear fear in Sean’s sobs and he didn’t need to be that cause of that. There were enough other reason for him to be afraid within these walls.

Feeling guilty he tried to move, tried to rearrange himself into a less horrifying position. His ribs screamed at him as he unfolded his legs, untwisted his body. He swore, the sudden pain almost whiting out his vision. Sean whimpered.

“‘m okay,” he tried to reassure the little boy but he looked far from it. His mother, still hovering nearby, tried to help him up but only made him cry out as her hand put pressure against his side. She nervously looked up at her husband, still watching this scene from the top of the stairs, dispassionate and unimpressed.

“We have to take him to the hospital,” she pleaded.

Aaron felt like he was going to be sick, the pain, once he became aware of it, was building. A pressure in his head made him certain he would throw up if the lights got any brighter so he squeezed his eyes closed.

“Do whatever you want, he’s not my problem.” His father turned away, slamming the door to the bedroom. The sound made everyone flinch.

“Can you get up?” his mother asked. Aaron inhaled deeply and instantly regretted it, the expansion of his lungs making his ribs creak. Instead of wasting air on an answer, he pushed off the bottom stair slowly, using the banister to pull himself upright. He was hunched over, unable to completely straighten out, panting in much shallower breaths.

“Okay, okay, let me just get my keys,” she brushed her fingers through his hair lightly. He only turned his face away from her, focusing all his energy on not falling down. He didn’t think he’d be able to get up a second time.

“Sean, go back to bed,” she directed. Sean whined, wanting to come along, to make sure his brother was going to be okay. But she wasn’t listening, she was already moving around the house, getting a coat and shoes, finding her purse. He came down the remaining steps to where Aaron was standing and leaned against his thigh.

Aaron gritted his teeth. “Don’t—just listen to mom, buddy. We’ll be back soon. Just go back to bed.”

Sean grabbed the fabric of his pants, shaking his head and rubbing his runny nose into Aaron’s leg in the process.

“Please, Sean,” Aaron whispered, trying to hold his temper but every movement was painful, was asking too much of ability to remain balanced on two feet. “I promise I’m ok, it was just an accident.”

Sean looked up at him, suspicious but also young enough to want to believe. He’d been told repeatedly since he could understand: always tell the truth. There was no reason to think adults played by different rules. Aaron tried to smile, unsure how successful he was.

“I’m okay,” he repeated, mostly for his own benefit.

“Can I sleep in your bed?” Sean asked.

Aaron rolled his eyes, wanting to say no but not wanting to extend the discussion further. “Sure, get it warm for me okay?”

Sean nodded reluctantly and turned, cautiously making his way up the stairs, never letting go of the railing, as if he too might find himself crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. As if it had really been an accident that they were all equally in danger of experiencing.

Once his mother had explained to the nurses how he had crashed his bike riding home in the dark, and he had numbly nodded along with the story, there was a flurry of activity around him. The doctor shined a sickeningly bright light into his pupils, palpated the sore places on his side, had him demonstrate that all his major joints were operational. They wrapped his broken ribs tightly and gave him an ice pack to hold against his throbbing temple. If anyone noticed the lack of abrasions consistent with road rash no one mentioned it. He was wearing long sleeves after all. The doctor talked to him sternly about the importance of wearing a helmet and told him how lucky he was to have only sustained such relatively minor injuries.

Aaron wasn’t listening, was just doing his best not to stare at the bottle in the doctor’s hand. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the label so he stared down at his hands instead, fingers twisting together nervously. He could only read half the words printed there, the other half obscured by the doctors age-spotted hand, but he was fairly certain he knew what it was. He tried to listen enough to nod when it was appropriate, mumbling an apology and promising to make better choices in the future.

“Now, you’re going to be in a bit of pain for the next couple weeks so I’m giving you a prescription for oxycodone. Have you ever taken that before?”

Aaron bit his lip and shook his head slightly, wincing as he felt his brain slosh from side to side. “No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s pretty strong stuff so make sure you follow the instructions. Don’t take more than it says or you’ll find yourself feeling pretty sick; okay, son?”

Aaron fought the urge to say something rude, annoyed by the way the doctor was addressing him. He needed that bottle of pills though, this was no time to start picking fights. “Yessir,” he mumbled.

“Good boy,” the doctor patted his knee and looked over at his mother who was anxiously watching from a chair by the door. “You’ve got a very polite kid here Mrs. Hotchner, you must be raising him right.”

Aaron’s eyes were fixed on the bottle still in the doctor’s hand. He thought it would probably be a mistake to reach out and grab it but he was growing impatient. He could only sustain the model son act for so long, especially after the last few hours. He dropped his eyes when the doctor turned back to him.

“Here why don’t you take one of these now, it’ll help with the trip home no doubt.” He popped the cap off and grabbed Aaron’s hand, shaking one out into his palm while calling to a nurse to bring a cup of water.

Aaron stared at the pill, feeling excitement racing through his veins, finally he’d have control over his high. His hand shook a little and the doctor misread what he was seeing.

“Don’t worry, it will probably just make you a little sleepy. Nothing to be concerned about.” He held out a cup of water. Aaron popped the pill into his mouth before accepting, washing it down and feeling smug satisfaction wash through him as well. The doctor traded the cup for the bottle of pills and patted his knee again before leaving, wishing his mother a pleasant evening. When he was gone, Aaron and his mother’s eyes met. He could see she was hesitant about the pills and he wrapped his hand around the bottle tighter. No one was going to take this from him, he’d earned it as far as he was concerned.

She sighed, unwilling to argue about it right then. “Let’s go home, Aaron.”

He slid off the table to follow her, his steps only slightly faltering, buoyed by the key he now held.

It didn’t take long for Cole to find out about the pills. After Aaron didn’t show up at school for several days and, more alarmingly, didn’t turn up on Friday, he went to the Hotchner house looking for him. Though he knew where Aaron lived, he had never been there. No one was out front and he knew better than to ring the doorbell. Instead, he walked around the side and found him behind the house, stretched out on a bench, one arm dangling in the grass, the other covering his eyes.

“What the fuck?”

Aaron looked at him sleepily. “Huh?”

“Where have you been Hotchner?”

Aaron shrugged, sitting up warily. “I fell down.” He didn’t elaborate.

Cole snorted. “What are you even talking about?”

Aaron rubbed his nose, alleviating the ever-present itch on the tip of it.

“Do you know what day it is?”

All he got in response was a blank stare.

“Are you fucking high?” Cole sounded shocked, like he couldn’t believe Aaron would be capable of such a thing on his own. This needled Aaron’s pride, deeply annoyed by this persistent belief that he’d had no experience on his own, like he hadn’t figured things out for years without any help from Cole or anyone else. It was like Cole believed he was some innocent and, worse, he preferred Aaron in that role. Never questioning, always being led into things, as if he couldn’t make his own decisions. As if it wasn’t, in reality, Aaron seeking him out.

“What if I am?” he spat back. Cole had moved right in front of him so he stood up, disappointed that he was still several inches shorter.

“Are you stealing from me?” Cole’s voice was icy and sent an unwelcome flash of fear through Aaron. He tried to pretend it didn’t affect him, putting on a show of disinterest.

“Why would I? I don’t need your shit.”

“Liar,” Cole countered. “Where did you get it then?”

Aaron sank down on the bench again, he was too high to fight. He had been having a pleasant afternoon, everyone gone, just him and his pills and the sky. “The doctor,” he muttered, pulling the bottle from his pocket without thinking, “I cracked a couple ribs.”

Cole stared at him for a second, understanding passing between them, before snatching the bottle from Aaron.

“Hey!” He jumped up, furious. “Give that back.”

“What? I share with you all the time and you were just going to keep this to yourself? How’s that fair?”

Aaron faltered, caught by the logic of the argument, maybe he should have thought to share but the idea had never even crossed his mind. Still, they were his, he could do what he wanted, he was the one in pain after all. He tried a different tactic. “Please, I need them. It’s…it really does hurt.” He didn’t like to admit it, it made the high less enjoyable, tied it too closely to the nightmare in his home.

Cole’s eyes sparkled, he could tell he had the upper hand again, was back in the position he preferred. Irritated, Aaron tried to grab the bottle back but Cole was too fast, lifting his arm out of Aaron’s reach.

“Uh-uh, I think you need to learn a lesson about sharing.”

“Cole,” Aaron warned. This wasn’t a game to him. He could feel rage beginning to boil inside him.

Unaware, Cole laughed at him. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Furious and unthinking, Aaron shoved him hard with both hands, knocking him backwards. He tripped and landed on his back, the bottle slipping out of his hand as he tried to catch himself. Aaron breathed hard, the muscles in his side had pulled painfully at his broken ribs and the pain was making him see stars. Before he could recover, Cole was back on his feet and approaching him.

“They’re mine,” he said, as if that explained everything, as if that would fix the anger that had clouded Cole’s face. He took a couple steps back but he didn’t move fast enough. Cole swung his fist and it connected with Aaron’s jaw with a loud crack. He stumbled to the side, barely catching himself before he took another hit. His cheekbone burned with the impact, his ears were full of the brittle sound of his struggling lungs. His knees folded under him and he found himself on all fours in the dirt. He wheezed, trying to breathe around the pain in his ribs. Just out of reach he saw the prescription bottle and moved just enough to grab it. As soon as it was in his hand he scrambled to his feet, half bent over, free hand wrapped around his ribs. Cole watched him, anger fading but still not pleased with what he was seeing. Aaron probed his face, exploring the way his lip was swelling, the trace of blood running down his chin. He looked at Cole, betrayed.

“Fuck you,” he whispered, before turning and walking away, praying he wouldn’t be followed.

He didn’t know where he was going at first but found himself back at an old hiding place by the river. The tree with the tall roots that had cradled him so often when he would sneak away to make himself sick off his father’s alcohol. He sank down and, against his own wishes, cried. He hated himself more with every tear. He should never have trusted Cole in the first place. This situation was his own fault. How could he have believed someone cared about him? That someone wanted to spend time with him because they liked him as a person, not just a thing to get something from, a thing to be pushed around when he wouldn’t give them what they wanted. Now that thin illusion was broken and he had nothing left. He’d let this friendship, this experiment overtake everything else in his life. He’d pushed away what little he’d had to focus his energy on holding on to this, wrapping himself up in the high. The drug high, sure, but more than that, the high of attention and believing someone else understood him. But it had never been real and he should have known that.

He considered the bottle of painkillers, an idea floating up, whispering sweetly, promising a solution to the mistakes he’d let himself make. A way to erase the sting of realizing he was not and would never be anyone worth caring for. That would be the ultimate trick, one that no one would anticipate before it was too late. Carefully he poured out a handful. Took one. Took another. And another. He put a fourth one in his mouth but found he couldn’t make it go down. He held it there, tasting the bitterness as it began to dissolve. A wave of regret forced him to spit the pill out into his hand. Maybe today wasn’t the day, maybe he would just enjoy the high for now. He could always make that decision later, he had the means available. He leaned back and let the effect of the pills he’d swallowed pull him away from himself. Within moments he fell asleep, bottle clutched in one hand, the sticky pill, coated in dirt, in the other.

He was shaken awake roughly, someone calling his name. Trying to ignore it, he squeezed his eyes tightly, not wanting to wake up, to come up from the dark waters he’d been pleasantly floating in. Fingers snapped close to his ear and he flinched. Reluctantly he slit his eyes open. Cole was there.

“Leave me alone.” He tried to roll over, away from him. Cole pulled him back roughly.

“How many did you take Aaron?”

“What do you care?” His words were slurred, tongue lazy.

“Of course I fucking care,” Cole sounded exasperated and, though Aaron wasn’t sure he was interpreting the emotion correctly, worried. Finally he opened his eyes all the way to glare at the other boy, sullen. He licked his lips where he could still taste blood. Cole reached to touch his face and Aaron recoiled hard, hitting his head on the tree trunk. He yelped, the pain ricocheting through his skull. Cole’s hand still hung in the air between them. He looked disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low.

Surprised, Aaron looked at him again. This time he remained still, let Cole touch his face, touch the bruises, run his finger over the dried blood in the corner of his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to.”

They were very close now, so close Aaron could feel Cole’s exhale as he spoke travel across his cheeks. He held his breath and clenched his fists, crushing the partially dissolved pill still in his palm. Vaguely he noticed his other hand was empty. Just as he was about to look for the bottle, eyes darting to the ground, he felt Cole’s lips, pressed against his mouth. Shocked, he tried to make sense of everything, of how close he was, of the warmth, of the way the pressure caused the edges of his teeth to cut into his skin.

Cole pulled back, seeming to be as surprised as Aaron felt. They were frozen, tension holding them in place. Before he could form a complete thought about it, Aaron grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him back, crashing against each other. The tension shattered into an angry, clumsy struggle, all teeth and crushed noses. Cole was pulled off balance and knelt, one hand braced on the tree above Aaron’s head, one hand around the back of his neck. Aaron’s hands, gritty with dirt, wrapped in his shirt, holding on desperately, afraid Cole would leave the moment he let go. The kissing was rough and it made the bruise on his jaw ache, his broken ribs burn, but he needed this. Far more than he wanted to admit, he needed someone else’s touch to prove he was wanted, that he belonged. And for that kind of reassurance, he’d accept any touch at all.

chapter six

#criminal minds fanfiction #tw substances #tw abuse #tw vomit #tw suicidal thoughts #aaron hotchner #young hotch #a mixed blessing

18 notes · View notes

dai-ou-sama · 3 years

Text

Wrote a thing for AlbetherWeek2021!! Has themes of Day 1 and 3 (warmth and dreams), but it’s mostly just Albedo detailing how (and how much) he loves Aether.

—Please they‘re the epitome of a comfort ship I MEAN, WHICH OTHER SHIP HAS A STRING OF REPRESENTATIVE EMOJIS LIKE THIS: ☀️💫✨

Read on AO3 or down below!

Albedo woke to the sight of Aether curled against his chest, what, he decided, must have been his favourite sight in the world.

He was breathing in soft, gentle puffs, his shoulders rising and falling feather-like, nearly imperceptible. The sun had just barely risen. Its rays filtered through the curtains and set the room aglow with a soft golden light.

A draft of wind rustled past the curtains, parted them, stirred the dust in the air and illuminated them so they resembled snowflakes falling from the sky of their ceiling. Stray petals, all in different shades of yellow, drifted from the bundle of flowers hanging by their window onto their bed. They landed around Aether’s sleeping figure. Albedo laughed quietly to himself. It looked like a scene straight out of a fairytale.

For a while, he simply watched. Being in a sleep-tinged daze did not keep him from marveling at the sight of Aether; at his presence. It didn’t matter that this was a scene he woke to everyday. It hadn’t yet failed to steal his breath away and fill his heart with so much pure, unadulterated joy, that he thought it might burst.

Albedo watched him breathe; counted the seconds between each inhale and exhale. He mapped out the freckled constellations dusted over his cheeks and nose. Memorised them. He started combing through his hair, gingerly smoothing out the long locks with his fingers so Aether wouldn’t stir. He wondered at the way mornings casted Aether’s hair in light. Transformed them into strands of liquid gold solidified.

When all the knots in his hair were untangled, and all the stars across his face were found, he settled back into watching Aether breathe once more. It was a simple routine he repeated daily; one he fell more and more in love with with each passing day.

He reveled in the way warmth bloomed where their skin met skin. The way he could feel the soft thumps of Aether’s heart against his own even through the layers of fabric that lay between them. Thump, thump, thump. A steady, constant beat of life, heart to heart, that made him feel, more than anything, alive and corporeal and human.

There had been a time when Albedo had believed that he was an outsider living in a realm that he didn’t belong to. He was a hoax, an imposter, playing at human life in a masquerade.

He had doubted the very basis of his existence. Had questioned if his death would have amounted to anything more than an insignificant end to an artificial life. Like a porcelain doll falling to the ground, shattering out of existence.

From the faded memories of his youth, the written words of his old master had haunted him: Show me the true meaning of life and this world. Her final task to him before she had vanished into thin air.

Albedo hadn’t had an answer then. All he’d known were the laws of alchemy, the art of creation. Earth was the cumulative memory of time and being; soil was the origin of alchemy, the basis of all life; and chalk was the substance from which primal life was molded. There, written in words of fact. Simple, scientific. This he had understood. But what true meaning could have possibly been referring to had been lost on him.

No, he hadn’t had an answer. Not even then, when he would have given everything to see his master once more. When he’d been standing in the suddenly-too-empty halls of his old home, and wondering what the gnawing sense of absence inside him was. When he’d sat at the dining table that used to feed two people and eaten a dinner he hadn’t realised had long turned cold.

His master’s disappearance severed the only tether he’d had to the human world. The concept of meaning given to life and earthly existence became entirely foreign to him. He had found it laughably ironic that his talents lay in fabricating life.

Suddenly, it had felt like he was living in the margins of life. He was barred behind an invisible line, separated from everyone else around him. The depth of loss that had affected him had surprised him. He wondered if his master had somehow carved a part of him out and taken it with her when she’d left. Or perhaps, that that had been an entirely false hypothesis, and it was simply that he’d always been hollow. An empty shell, a facade of life — now simply made aware of it.

The more time passed, the more Albedo had been inclined to believe in the latter.

At least, meeting Alice and Klee in Mondstadt had helped quieten the clamouring in his head. Living with them was chaotic. It was a flurry of action and noise and laughter and warmth – so completely different from the efficient, systematic way he had lived with his master. Yet, somehow, their presence had still managed to feel familiar.

Their presence kept his anxiety at bay. Or at least, it kept his mind off of it. Klee’s hopeless antics and explosions staved him off from falling too far into a pit of wondering, wondering, wondering what having no answer suggested. No answer. No particular purpose or hope harboured in his being. What did that make of him?

It was a question that clung to him like a shadow that matched his every step and turn. Black matter, uncontrollable, that widened and stretched and grew at the back of his mind, eating away at more and more of him until it threatened to swallow him whole.

Life became a blur of passing interests before he had even realised it. A process of finding new creations and lifeforms that piqued his interest, before getting bored and moving on to find another. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

And then came word of the Honorary Knight. The rumoured traveler who didn’t seem to have come from Mondstadt — or anywhere in Teyvat for that matter. Who had been bestowed his title from the Knights of Favonius because of his contributions to the crisis with Stormterror. Whose name continued to be whispered around town because he, despite his grand title, continued to help with the average Mondstadtian’s most mundane of worries.

‘Aether’, they called him.

Aether. Albedo knew that word, he’d seen it in his alchemical texts before. The fifth element of alchemy; the purest form of air that the gods breathed. The personification of the upper sky, and the primordial god of light.

The boy who wore strange clothes and did kind things.

Albedo had been intrigued. Questions began wandering through his mind before he’d even become fully aware of them.

Where did this stranger come from? How did he control the elements? Why was he helping all those people? Wasn’t he tired? What did he look like? Was his hair as golden as the rumours said they were? Were his smiles truly as sweet as honey? Who was this mysterious person he was looking for?

...Is he like me?

And, somehow, just as his curiosity had reached its peak, they’d ended up meeting in his camp in Dragonspine. The traveler himself had come to find him.

Even now, Albedo still wasn’t sure if it had been this fact that had made his stomach flip in a peculiar way he hadn’t ever experienced before, or if it had simply been the sight of him.

The rumours had been true. Of his hair. His sunshine smiles.

More than that. How had the rumours managed to neglect how long his eyelashes were? Or how his skin resembled warmed marble? His lips to the soft curve of a waning moon?

And before Albedo had even had the chance to try and stop himself, he’d already thrown out a wild request for Aether to assist him with his experiments regarding the peculiar seed from another world. It had been made up on the spot and haphazardly hidden behind the excuse of ‘research’. Albedo still hardly believed that Aether had agreed.

In retrospect, Albedo often reflected on that moment. The same conclusion was always reached: he must have simply lost his mind in that moment. He was just glad that Aether never noticed a thing.

They spent the following weeks together, conducting experiments that confirmed Aether’s origins from a world beyond this one; that tested which laws of the Teyvat applied to him and which didn’t. Albedo’s initial questions about Aether were answered one by one. He easily formed more at a speed that far outpaced his answers. Questioning was, after all, in his nature as a scientist.

Questions like: What does he like to eat? Does he get cold easily? What would make him laugh? If I brought him flowers, would he smile? Is he as happy as I am when we are together?

Utterly scientific.

It had been weeks into their friendship by the time Albedo had noticed just how comfortable he felt around Aether. He was surprised by how often smiles broke onto his face, how at peace he felt. The worries that seemed to have plagued his mind permanently had been dimmed down, momentarily muted, and in their place was the thought of Aether.

They had found out early on that Aether was immune to poison and corruption. Evil did not affect his soul. He had the ability to purify corrupted objects with his touch. Albedo often wondered if that magic applied to him too.

But then, of course, that was impossible. Because, as much as Albedo wanted to believe in magic, he knew that problems did not go away by themselves, unaddressed. Problems demanded responsive action. This was so in experiments, and just as much in himself.

And so, one night in Dragonspine, when the snowstorm had been especially harsh, and the biting cold of winter seemed to seep deeper into him than usual, he’d confessed to Aether, in a fleeting whisper, all the thoughts and fears that clamoured in his head.

About the fact that he wasn’t, and wouldn’t ever be, truly human; that there was nobody else in this world quite like him; that it created an inexplicably jarring sense of isolation that he didn’t think anyone would ever understand. He confessed that he could not see purpose in his own existence.

He knew everything about the creation of life, but nothing about life itself.

His words had been uttered so quietly they had nearly been lost to the howling winds outside their tent. One could have pretended they were simply sounds of the storm imagined into words. The dwindling fire light between them could have been the only thing that heard him at all.

It was the first time Albedo had ever tried to vocalise the thoughts he rarely even let himself think. To speak into existence his emotions was to concretise them, and that had always been something he had instinctively turned away from.

That night, Albedo witnessed Aether’s smile drop from his face completely. For the first time since their meeting, he watched all familiar forms of joy and ease fade away from his expression and he immediately regretted ever saying a word because he could hardly bear with the fact that he was the reason why Aether looked like that.

A suffocating silence had settled over them like a blanket of snow. A sound too loud might have begun an avalanche. And then, like a shotgun, Aether had asked, “Do you love me?” His eyes had not left Albedo’s; his words had been steady. Albedo had failed to notice these things.

His breath escaped him in a heavy rush. Love? The question stumped him. The same way his master’s question had. What was the real meaning of life and this world? And suddenly, the same feelings of loss and confusion began welling up inside him again, amplified tenfold. A black hole ripped open beneath his feet, dragging him in, threatening to drown him.

His own silence crushed him. He fumbled for an answer, choked on his words. Looked away.

“...I don’t know,” he’d said. He had found himself incapable of explaining that he did not understand what being in love meant either.

Silence. It had been short, no longer than a few seconds, but Albedo had never experienced silence quite as loud. The world had begun caving in. He had been crumbling at his feet.

But Aether had not faltered. He’d gotten up and walked over to Albedo. He’d taken his face into his hands. His palms had been so, so warm against Albedo’s cheeks. So solid. “Then answer this instead: does your heart race when you see me?”

It was strange. Aether’s voice had been so quiet, so calm, yet it had managed to drown out the storms from the outside. He became an anchor. The world around them seemed to fall away. Suddenly, they were at the centre of the universe.

Albedo swallowed. Then nodded.

“Do you feel warm when I touch you?” Another nod.

“Do you fall asleep with thoughts of me? Wake from dreams about me?” And yet another nod.

“Good. Then you’re just like me,” Aether said. “Because when I see you, my heart races. When I’m by your side, I’m warm. I’m always thinking about you, and when I can think no longer, you visit me in my dreams.”

Aether’s voice had become fiercer and fiercer with every word he had spoken. There had been no joy reflected in his eyes in that moment, but there had been fire. A blazing flame that chased away – burned away – the shadows clinging onto Albedo.

“If you don’t know if you love me, that’s fine. You just need to know that I love you.” And then Aether had taken his hands and placed them over their hearts. One hand against each of their own. Albedo had felt two beats, identical, pound beneath his palms. “There, you see. Your heart is beating just the same as mine. Doesn’t that make you human enough?”

That was the night Albedo had found his answer to his master’s question. What was the true meaning of life and this world?

He hypothesised that the universal answer might have been love. The ability to love; the gift of being loved. But his personal truth could have only been one person.

That night had been years ago now. It nearly seemed like memories from another lifetime. Now, Albedo laughed when he thought about that night, because his present worries were so vastly different.

His present, most-pressing concern involved the fact that they had a list of a dozen-some chores that they needed to complete by the end of today, and Aether was still deeply asleep. And that was beside the fact that Albedo still had not figured out what flowers they were going to be using to decorate their home in preparation for this year's Windblume.

He’d decided that they would definitely be yellow flowers months ago, but he hadn’t settled on which ones he liked best. Marigolds, daffodils, dahlias, freesias, buttercups, primroses – each of them were a sentiment of his affection. Each unique in the type of love he felt for Aether.

There were so many things he needed to do…

Albedo watched Aether’s nose twitch. He felt him shift against his chest, then nuzzle closer to his neck.

…Later, Albedo decided.

Later, he would wake Aether up with a gentle flick against his nose so he could watch the way it scrunched in annoyance. Later, he would nag at him to get up so that they could go about finishing the chores they had listed out the day before. Later, he would indulge him with kisses all across his face when he began to complain.

Later, later, later. There were so many moments of the future waiting for them. An eternity’s worth, Albedo was sure. After all, they were beings that transcended time. Kreideprinz, the prince of chalk, birthed from soil, and the Honorary Knight, the boy made of sunlight and stars. It wouldn’t hurt to lay in bed for another hour longer.

#albether #albedo x aether #albedo #aether #I LOVE THEM SO MUCH YOUR HONOUR #my writing ew

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grogu-pascal · 3 years

Text

Bringing Home Strays

Excerpt: Paz's suite is admittedly a mess. A mix of his and your garments are strewn across the floor, decorated with random bowls half-filled with mysterious liquids and half-eaten foods. Tufts of white-orange fur litter Paz’s couch (which smells of wet cat) and to make matters worse, he’s just stepped in what looks like regurgitated gihaal.

Paz Vizsla x Reader | ~1.3k | Mature Themes

Tags: Fluff, Implied Age Gap, Dom/Sub Undertones, Sexual Tension, Size Difference, I Call a Beloved Star Wars Character Ugly Bcos He Is, Domestic Fluff, Soft Paz Vizsla, Crochety Paz Vizsla, Bratty Reader, Suggestive Themes

Somehow, during the two weeks Paz had been off scouring Planet Alderaan for a bounty, you had not only "acquired” a pet but also named the little beast.

“What do you mean acquired?" the mandalorian asks, pacing back and forth between the confines of his quarters.

“Y’know. Adopted,” you murmur. Embarrassment blushes at your cheeks at the admission. You distract yourself with the small loth-kitten nestled into your arms tangling it's wiry fur between your fingers as Paz's lecture drones on. This isn't exactly how you imagined your reunion with him would go—but perhaps it could be worse.

Paz’s suite is admittedly a mess. A mix of his and your garments are strewn across the room wildly. The floor is decorated with bowls half-filled with mysterious liquids and cups half-full of mysterious foods. Tufts of white-orange fur litter the couch (which smells of wet cat) and to make matters worse, Paz has just stepped in what looks like regurgitated gihaal.

You slouch down into your chair at the sight of the loth-kitten's dinner mushed against his boots. Scratch that, you think to yourself, maybe this is worse.

"And this?"—Paz holds up his datapad, soaked and dripping in some strange gel—"do you even know what fluid this is?" You look up at him through your lashes and gnaw at your lip. You do know what fluid it is, but telling him would only worsen his mood.

Taming the loth-kitten had made for an interesting two weeks. There were moments where you doubted whether domestication was even possible. But, as it turned out, the species could be incredibly docile.

Sure, the kitten had attempted to rip your finger from the joint when you scritched its little beard the day after you brought it home and yes, it had succeeded in slicing a scar down the length of your forearm, but it was nothing some bacta-gel couldn't fix. Besides, you had reasoned, the poor thing was probably petrified. The kitten could only have been a few weeks old, and you may very well have been its first time ever seeing anything remotely humanoid.

After the first few days of scratching and biting and clawing, you decided on baptism by fire. You took to picking the kitten up at all times of the day, equipped with a spare pair of Paz's extra gloves. They were far too big for you and flopped around at the fingertips as you pet the beast, but it was no matter at all. The kitten was hand-fed each meals and adored with baby-talk. If you needed to step out you turned on the holoprojector so that the loth-kitten could familiarize itself with human speech.

All of your hard work had proved successful in the end—the kitten, which was once standoffish and quite rude, had now become sweet and gentle, snuggling into you at bedtime and licking kitten-kisses onto your nose at wake. It was a fast learning little thing, potty training far quicker than an adiik. (Except for the incident with Paz's datapad).

For all of the troubles you had endured with the kitten's domestication you had named it Naast. Destroyer. You weren't exactly sure of it's gender and thought it rude to simply lift up it's long, silky tail and check, but it mattered none at all. Your excitement at having something to keep you company when Paz was gone for weeks trumped a thing as trivial as sex. You'd like to think you would have loved the creature all the same if it had been an womp rat.

"Paz," you start as his lecture reaches a lull, "the kitten had no—"

Paz nearly immediately lifts his hand in the air. He tilts his head away from you and stills. Silence, he seems to say. "You need to take it back," he remarks softly. You look up at him, burly arms folded over his blue-painted beskar chestplate and he returns your gaze, shifting his weight to one foot expectantly.

You rise from your chair and make your way over to where he stands, indignant and hulking. Naast immediately flees from your arms, jumping onto the couch and digging into the cushions with its fat claws before lying down. You continue walking, pretending not to see it. You aren't sure if Paz does. Naast isn’t exactly helping you make your case here.

"Paz," you whine as you reach him, fingers trailing up his torso to rest on his shoulders. Your eyes meet his visor with a pleading gaze. He stands unmoving.

You're toeing a line here, playing at tears and feigned hurt to get your way. It's wrong. You can be much worse. Even if Paz can see right through you right now, you know that he still won't be able to resist. Not after two weeks apart. Not with the way you're pushing your tits against the metal of his armor. Not with the way your nipples have roused to a pebble under your tunic. You watch as his helmet tilts downward towards you and catch your lip to stop a grin. It's working.

Paz stands at least a foot above you and with you pressed so tightly to his frame, you know that he's getting an eyeful of your cleavage. You extend the moment past means, shifting in faux-anxiety. Your eyes never leave his visor despite knowing his attention is elsewhere.

You tug on his shoulder to redirect his gaze from your tits to your eyes, big and wet. Before you can continue begging, he brings his hand to rest under your chin. Warmth spreads through your core as he runs his gloved thumb back and forth across your jaw, palm resting against your throat.

"Hmmph,” he remarks, testing your resistance against his fingers. “I see in our time apart”—he ghosts his thumb against your lips—“you’ve forgotten how I feel about whining." His voice is strained behind his helmet, tone dark and provocative. At this, your eyes shift from his visor to the bulge where his codpiece should be, and you can see where this is going.

You don't respond, instead you parting your lips to take his thumb into your mouth. A grunt escapes his vocoder as you work it further in your mouth, cheeks hollowing around it impolitely. "You need to take it back to its family," he grumbles. His other hand has worked its way to the back of your head, and now plays in the root of your hair. He's the same way when you suck his cock. Pulling and tugging at your hair. Molding you into his desires.

"Naast didn't have a family Paz," you reply, briefly pulling his tongue from your mouth. A trail of spit links from the digit to your mouth and you lick at his thumb to interrupt it.

His posture softens under you, hand gaining slack against your jaw. You take his finger back into your mouth. Your voice slurs as saliva pools on your tongue, "'ss what I was tryna tell you," you manage, tongue working against the weight of his thumb. "Lil thing was all by 'mselff."

You take his hand from your face and hold it in your tiny one, pressing gentle kisses into his palm. The sound of his breathing is stuttered now, and his garments are tight against his crotch.

"I've gotta say Vizsla. I’ve never known you to turn away a stray,” you murmur between kisses.

Despite your bare-faced manipulation, this much was true. Paz was a grumpy ole' fucker, a trait you found amusing, but he was also darling. This was the man who stood in as a youngling instructor for three weeks when their teacher fell ill. This was the man who fended off a fleet of guild members just to save Din's little green bastard. (Who, for the record, was a whole lot uglier than your precious loth-kitten). This was the the man who took you in a year prior when you showed up at his starship in the dead of night, soaking wet and shivering, without a credit to your name.

Paz Vizsla was no stranger to collecting strays.

"Fine," he huffs tightly, pulling his hand out of yours and walking towards the bed. You note the tension in his shoulders and giggle. You abandon the act as soon as he gives in, so you hardly care that he hears you. Besides, he fucks better when he's all worked up.

Paz begins to strip his armor off piece-by-piece as you bite back the grin forming against your lips. He lies down on his back, beckoning towards you with his fingers. You obey, nearly skipping with joy.

"I knew you'd let me keep him!" You grin as you pull your tunic up to shuffle onto his lap, "Naast is a good kitty, you'll see."

"It's not Naast I'm worried about," he muses halfway to himself as he bunches the fabric over your hips. "Dank farrik," he mutters at the realization that you aren't wearing any undergarments. He quickly runs a thumb over your erect nipple, earning a sigh from you. "Now, pretty girl, show me how good of a kitty you can be."

#paz vizsla #paz vizsla x reader #paz vizla x reader #paz vizla x you #paz vizsla x you #the mandalorian #smut #how else can you spell his name #paz is treated like the OC he truly is in our community #can't be canon divergent with no canon babez #tommywrites

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anarchyduck · 3 years

Note

[appear] “ i need help. please. ” gerfra

So sorry this took for-freaking-ever OTL ---------------------

Takes place: 1942, Paris

Germany does not find sleep easily anymore. The wheels in his head continue turning, agonizing over battle plans and strategies, over conversations he held with subordinates and superiors. He thinks about the paperwork that sits untouched on his desk, in untidy piles that would usually dive him made. A half empty bottle of brandy sits in the middle of it all, a glass of it in his hand as he stares out the window to the Parisian streets.

A rapid knock breaks through his thoughts and he stills, waiting. It is late and he is not expecting company at this hour. Another knock pushes him to move. He sets the glass down on the desk as he crosses the room, hand on his pistol as he nears the door. Thoughts filter through one by one, all with the touch of paranoia as he wonders who it could be.

“I know you’re there.” A voice, tired and strained, and slightly muffled through the wooden door. “Don’t be rude.”

A moment of shock stills his actions but then Germany opens the door. France stands before him, his clothes shuffled and worn. His face is narrower than last time Germany saw him, and he looks in need of a shave. More alarming than that is the blood that covers the side of his face.

“I need your help.” He says before Germany can ask. Tired blue eyes fix on him. “Please.”

He should not. He knows he should not. The last time he saw France was nearly two years ago after taking Paris. How tall and mighty France stood high even after being defeated. He was bloody then too. Though he was hurting, he walked with his head held high and greeted him with the same grace and charm Germany remembered him for. He came willingly and there was no need for shackles. Few days later, France was gone. Now here he stands, dressed in dirty clothes at his door.

Germany pulls him inside, closes and locks the door behind them. “You shouldn’t be here.”

France laughs dryly. “I could say the same about you.” He stumbles in his step before sitting down heavily in the closest chair. He groans as he leans his head back, his eyes falling close as he rests.

Germany realizes the strange situation he has found himself in. His enemy enters his living quarters in the dead of night, wounded and exhausted. He doubts France has the strength to fight back. The thought of radioing it in snakes into his mind. He should call it in. France would be arrested, placed into the cuffs that he avoided before. It would certainly resolve some problems. His superiors would congratulate him for the capture. Something about it does not sit well. The mental image of France being carried away to execution makes his stomach churn.

He finds himself walking to the bathroom to retrieve a first aid kid and wet washcloth. France is still in the same position when he returns and, were it not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Germany might have suspected him to be dead.

A chair scraps across the wood floor as Germany pulls it around the coffee table to France's side. He sets the kit down and, with the cloth, begins to carefully wipe the blood from the man’s face. “What happened?” he asks.

“Just a touch of carelessness on my part.” France replies. His eyes are still closed, though his brows twitch together every so often.

“Thought you had gone south.”

“I did, for a time. But I missed my city.”

Germany continues cleaning the blood away and finally finds a wound at France's hairline. It is clotted and closed now, though he wonders if it needs stitching. His brows pull together, and he moves the cloth away with a frown. The thought from before resurfaces once again, gnawing at his mind. A little voice tells him to call for reinforcements and another tells him to take care of it himself. Other questions came to mind, the top of them being why was France back in Paris?

France's eyes open and he tilts his head to look at him. He looks awful, Germany thinks. Cheeks are hollower than he remembers. Dark circles beneath his eyes and a day-old bruise on his jaw. A still healing scrape blemishes his cheek and he looks tired. Worn thin. “So?” he asks, drawing Germany from his observations. “How bad is it?”

“It’s fine. You’ll live.”

“What wonderful news.” France says and Germany cannot discern if it was sarcasm or not.

He stands and takes the bloodied cloth to wash in the sink. When he returns, France is helping himself to the brandy at his desk. Germany stills a moment and thinks of the many secret documents laying open on his desk. The paranoid voice hisses in the forefront of his mind and he chooses not to pay mind to it. Instead, he looks at the man standing by the window that overlooks the city. How delicately he holds the glass as he drinks, the moonlight in his hair.

“Quiet night.” France says. “Never could stand the quiet when I was younger and now, I don’t mind it much. This industrial age is so noisy that I almost wish for quiet nights again.” He takes a sip then looks to Germany. “Suppose you wouldn’t know much about those nights, would you? Long before the wonders of electricity and automobiles.”

“Why are you here, France?”

“This is yours, yes?” France picks up the other glass of brandy Germany left on his desk and holds it out to him. “Drink with me. And do not worry, I didn’t poison it.”

“I wasn’t thinking that.” Germany retorts as he takes the offered glass and, if to prove his point, takes a sip. France smiles lightly in approval.

“We both know it would take more than poison to harm you.” he says calmly. “It is exhilarating, no?”

Germany frowns, mind scrambling to catch up. “What?”

“Conquering. The rush of new territory folded into you. Better than any drug in the world. Better than sex.” France chuckles lightly as Germany’s cheeks color red. “Once you have that first taste, you only crave it more. Don’t you, Germany?”

“I don’t believe that’s an accurate description.”

“But you do understand, don’t you? The good and the bad of it.” France swirls the liquor around in his glass. “All that territory, it doesn’t belong to you. Your body becomes a war within itself and you crave more in hopes it will satisfy the ache.”

“Why are you here?” Germany asks again.

France exhales a sigh and, for a moment, stares into the swirling brandy. Then he takes a drink and says, “Wonder if I could take a bath while I’m here?”

Just how long does France intend to stay, he wonders. His mind wars with itself, frustrated he cannot gauge a proper read off the Frenchman. A thought that sounds awfully like his brother tells him to not to trust France. Do not turn your back, it says. Then again, Gilbert said that about many other nations. His chest tightens slightly at the thought of his brother and quickly pushes it out of his mind.

“Yes, of course.” he replies, and France smiles again.

“Thank you, my dear.” He finishes his glass in one swallow then sets it down onto the desk. Germany watches him go down the hallway and hears a door close. He drums his fingers around the glass in hand and looks to the empty one on the table. Pipes rattle in the apartment walls as he faintly hears the rush of water and he wonders how he has fallen into playing host to his enemy. He knows the trouble they will both be in if someone caught them.

If.

Germany’s mind falls back on France’s hollow cheeks and before he realizes it, he is in the kitchen preparing to reheat soup from earlier.

France emerges sometime later. In the time spent, Germany has cleared his desk and consumed another glass of brandy. It is enough to finally take the edge off and silence the whispers that slither in his mind. Soup is sitting warm on the kitchen stove, its smell taking over the small apartment. He wonders if it will be enough. If France will take it alone or if he will distrust a meal from his enemy. He looks up as his new guest enters the kitchen and frowns lightly.

“Are those my clothes?”

“Found them in the wardrobe. Hope you don’t mind.” France finishes buttoning the cream-colored shirt, leaving the last few buttons at the top undone. It hangs from his body though not in the same way it does to Italy. Though he is broader and taller than France, Germany cannot help thinking the clothes should not hang off that much. “God, I remember when you were smaller.”

“Excuse me?”

“You used to be this cute little darling that Prussia adored showing off. And now look at you, all grown up.” France exhales a sigh as he ties back his still damp hair. Few stands escape to frame his face and it's then Germany notices he has shaved. The shadows beneath his eyes remain, as does the bruise on his jaw. His eyes drift upward to the cut on his forehead and feels relief when he sees it is nearly healed. His gaze catches France’s and he sees the man smirking at him. “See something you like, Germany?”

Germany’s face warms and he hastily turns away towards the stove to lift the pot and stir the soup. Behind, France chuckles lightly and he wonders how much of this the man enjoys. All of it, he realizes. Would it be too late now to throw him out of the apartment? His jaw tightens for a second as he ladles some soup into a bowl and sets it down on the table.

“Thought you would be hungry so I…” he trails off awkwardly as he catches France’s still smiling at him. He is not sure what about this time.

“How kind.” France muses. He takes the seat and stirs the contents around in the bowl with his spoon. Faintly, Germany wonders if the man will take food from him. Would he think it was poisoned? But then the worries fade as France begins to eat.

“Entire city is rationing and here you are with real meat.” he comments between bites. “I thought all resources were going to the front.”

Germany’s jaw tightens as he frowns. “They are,” he replies.

“Don’t suppose you have cigarettes on hand, do you?”

“I don’t smoke.”

France raises a brow at him and puts his spoon down. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thin metal container from his pocket. “Then what’s this?”

“Gift.” Germany replies. “But I don’t smoke.”

“Hm. Mind if I do?” France asks as he pulls out one of the cigarettes from the box. He quickly lights it and inhales deep, holds it, then exhales. Germany waves off the smoke that wafts in his direction and moves to take the other seat at the table. They sit in relative silence. While France smokes and eats, Germany once again attempts to figure out the situation he has found himself in.

The grandfather clock in the living room chimes twice as France lights his second cigarette. “Does it ever stop?” he asks suddenly.

Germany frowns. “Does what stop?”

“Those gears in your mind.” France leans back into his chair, cigarette between two fingers as he looks at him. “They have been excessively turning since I arrived. You’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

“I am curious, yes.”

France hums in his throat and brings the cigarette to his lips. Smoke curls in the light as it floats about the room. “You wonder if I am here to steal your precious plans. Stuff papers and secret documents into my trousers and carry them off to my leaders.” He takes another drag, the end lighting on the inhale. “Or perhaps I sneak into your bed and slit your throat while you sleep.”

Germany’s brow furrows. “The thought crossed my mind, yes.” he says tensely. “Why else would you come back, knowing the danger.”

He laughs and flicks ash into the empty soup bowl. “My dear, I’m not crude like Arthur.” he says. “Besides, in my current state, I could not hurt you even if I wanted to.”

“Then what do you want?” Smoke swirls around France and it reminds him of Bismarck. When Prussia brought him to Versailles to be crowned as the new German Empire. He had his first cigar then and found it distasteful. It made his eyes water and the smell clung to his clothes for days. France had been there too. Silent and seething from across the room when Wilhelm was proclaimed emperor.

“What I want,” The memory fades as France begins to speak. “I cannot have.” He takes another long drag and Germany wonders if he intends smoking it down to the end as he did the first one. “Least not immediately, so I will settle for second.”

“Which is?”

“A soft bed to start,” France’s lips curl into a smile. “And perhaps your warm company.”

“No.” Germany says immediately and leaves the table, ears growing warm as France’s laughter trails behind him.

#gerfra #aph germany #hws germany #aph france #hws france #ludwig beilschmidt #francis bonnefoy #hetalia #duckie's writing #duckie answers #christieanne

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mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years

Text

Death Rings Twice || Morgan and Eilidh

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @braindeacl @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: While searching for answers, Morgan and Eilidh realize the situation is worse than they realized.

CONTAINS: conversations with dead people

They came and went in waves. The first time, only the first time, Eilidh believed them to be just a part of being a ghost. James had done so many times—go in and out of view like the watts on a bulb. But those changes had been consensual, come upon by his own will, and he never truly left. Not like she had, and did, and still do. Moments of nothingness. Blink and she was gone, truly and ultimately gone. Blink and she was back, not even left with a memory. Just a faint recollection, a faint feeling of a blank. Like trying to recall a blackout. You knew it was there, you felt it too—pages torn from a book. But you also didn’t, couldn’t, for nothingness was all that remained. Nothingness that seemed to be her destination. Those blinks got longer, longer, longer. With no sign of slowing.

Eilidh knew Morgan was facing her own bouts of strangeness. Maybe they were connected. Morgan believed them to be—magic set loose like a wildfire, with them in its path. Consumed in its flames, would it burn them all the way to the ground? Or would they come out the other side, for the better? This curiosity, and a gnawing worry, compelled her forward, right into Morgan’s residence. She ventured through those great and winding halls, as if she already haunted the place. She ought to haunt at least one. Before it became too late. Passing by an open door, that familiar face was finally seen. Eilidh stopped, stared. Felt that nothingness threatening to claim her again. Visage flickered—like a light on its dying breath. But the feeling passed, leaving her there, shining on. The motion, or her very presence, must’ve caused a stir. The two women met each other’s eyes.

“Boo.”

Morgan just needed to find the right book. Zombies had been around for ages and so even if whatever was happening to her was obviously very rare, it must have happened to someone else before. And that someone must have wanted to write it down. Because magic directly affecting a zombie body at all was worth writing about; doing so in this cruel, backwards way defied everything she understood about magic and living matter. So, Morgan sat on the floor in the library, swimming through a large haul from the scriberary, searching. When Macleod appeared behind the volume she was holding, calling boo, Morgan yelped with surprise.

“Oh! Stars! That was--” she laughed uneasily. “That was something alright.” She sat back and looked at the other woman. She had believed everything Macleod had told her but seeing her friend, so wild and earthbound, so connected to her flesh, floating and transparent was uncanny in a way her mind struggled to process. “I wish I had good news on the funky magic boogaloo front, but there’s just lots of dead ends so far. But that can wait. Are you...okay? At least, relative to our situation?

Good-hearted chuckle lept out of Eilidh—breaking the illusion of the spooky ghost in the corner. She closed the distance between the two, eyes curiously scanning the cover and pages of the book nestled in Morgan’s lap. More were strewn across the room, circling Morgan in a protective barrier, or perhaps a tomb—either for future study or determined unsuited. Where one group ended and the other began, she wasn’t sure. Mouth parted to offer assistance, her hands and mind well-versed to such a skill, but the words quickly died just as her flesh had. Wouldn’t be much use when turning a page was a difficult endeavor. She had learned that fact rather quickly.

When attentions were placed on her, Eilidh perked. “Aye. Convinced this guy his cereal was sentient. And some lady she could control plants.” Snort of delight shot out her nose as their faces returned to memory. But as the chuckles faded, so too did this delight. That lingering worry remained. A hand brushed her lips, seemingly in thought. “Also…” In absence of external stimuli, she bit on a knuckle. But where a prick of sensation, a prick of life, would usually awaken her hand, only a mere acknowledgement greeted her. Fucking hell, how has James not gone mad by now? A low growl rumbled, and at least it felt nice in her chest. Familiar. “Been going in and out. Kinda like blinking. If you did that with a soul. James says it isn’t normal. And they’re getting longer.” Another knuckle met her teeth; that same hollow impact replayed. “Guess it’s soon time.” Her eyes scanned Morgan, transferring the focus back to the other woman. Wandering gaze found the darkness under her friend’s eyes. “What ‘bout you?”

For what seemed like a long time, Morgan could only stare at her friend. Or rather, through her friend. She could see every title on the shelf behind her if she concentrated enough, because Macleod, despite speaking and smiling and grinning and mischief-ing as much as she had ever done, was incorporeal and transparent. Like a ghost. A baby undead ghost. Which wasn’t supposed to exist. “..Blinking? What? Uh, that sounds bad. And weird. I’ve never heard of ghosts doing that before. They cross over, and they have some kind of teleportation thing, but they don’t play peek-a-boo with a whole plane of existence. That’s…” Another very strange, logic defying twist of magic.

Morgan cleared her head and tried to answer Macleod’s questions. “I woke up at the beginning of the week able to feel again. All my physical senses that went dull were back. It took some adjusting, but I think it was more or less how they were when I was alive. But then my body started decaying even when I was full, or more than full, and healing was fading and now it’s basically gone! So I’m basically rotting away for no discernable reason, and I get to be super physically aware of all of it. Also, I smell, so maybe it’s a good thing you don’t have any senses right now. When did your stuff start? I mean, none of this should be happening at all, because the undead are immune to spellcasting magic that engages with our body’s energy, as far as I can tell, and we’re immune to most drugs and toxins, and I haven’t found anyone else in town being effected like this, so it’s not the big cosmic town bullshit--but if we can get a timeline, maybe that will tell us...something.” She sighed and closed the book in her lap, staring off into anywhere but Macleod’s face. The whole world was slipping through their fingers, just when she’d thought it really did want them after all.

Curt laugh escaped Eilidh. “Yeah. You’re telling me.” Just her luck to be subjected to the worst game of peek-a-boo in existence. Maybe her soul truly did want to pass over, but this supposed magic was keeping her here? Maybe the universe was trying to remedy the fact she shouldn’t have remained—at least not in this form—but the magic tried to go against the very will of the cosmos? Thoughts followed that tangent until it caused a dizziness. Bah, there’s too many maybes and what-ifs. She snapped a finger, sharp noise bringing her back to the present. Mind focused on Morgan’s words, her own story. As such a tale unfolded, her face fell, allowing that worry bubbling inside to find itself in her eyes, her parted mouth. Just as quickly, her eyes tightened, mouth closed, jaws tightened. Resolve overcame the worry, gave her goal new fire. “Aye. That is real bad.” Especially when it started so promising—the worst kind. “Best we hop to it prompto, then. Know anything I can look over? Double-check? Triple-check?” The ways of magic, the ways others shifted the energies of the world to their will, was not a strong subject of hers. But perhaps there were other pieces of the puzzle her ever inquisitive eyes could find. She needed that hunt, after all. Needed something to do—when all things physical brought boredom at best, her mind frequently rushed into restlessness.

Eilidh recalled the start of this plight. “I died beginning of this week.” The same as Morgan’s own unfortunes; a fact that did not escape her. “Or alchemied this way. Or some other magic.” At this point, she wasn’t sure which was true. Death was more reasonable to her. Familiarity always felt more reasonable, and she was very familiar with death. But Morgan seemed convinced its cause was magically induced and, well, she was the expert in that regard. Not Eilidh. “Blinked out the first time a few days later. Didn’t think too much of it. ‘Til a few more days later when it kept happening.” How much longer would this affliction let her speak with Morgan? Would it rip her away mid-sentence, as it had with Milo? Sharp snap of fingers returned. Temptation to bite the nagging thoughts away surfaced—to subject another knuckle to her teeth. But the snap sufficed. For now.

Morgan sat back, thinking. The town had already been shifted in the cosmos by the time she and Macleod were affected. And no one else she spoke to, dead or undead, was feeling anything strange in their body. So why them? And how? It didn’t seem right that the universe should literally change its rules just to be cruel to them. And if an alchemy break-through was responsible for Macleod, it didn’t explain her progressive deterioration. She would have to be confined to a circle in order for that to be the case, and the energy required to continually re-write her body would be outrageous.

She looked over at Macleod, aching to give her an answer. “I only have a few general compendiums on the stuff, but maybe there’s some kind of sickness, or some kind of critter that can affect people like us. Like, bookwyrms and brain biters mess with people’s brains, and there’s plenty of necrophages out there maybe…” Some magic, universe defying critter happened to chomp on both of them without their noticing on the exact same night? Morgan could hardly stand to hope for the idea, it sounded ridiculous enough in her head. But she had to try. If she stopped trying, this thing would take her. “Maybe there’s one that can explain this. Weird abilities that make people incorporeal or mess with their magic composition. Um, it’s those thick ones back there--” She pointed. “Or you could check out the area, see if anything unusual is sniffing around. Every critter’s gotta eat and sleep somewhere.” She smiled feebly. “We’ll figure this out before it’s too late. We’ve got too much to live for, right?”

“Critters!” The word shot out like a bullet. That was more Eilidh’s forte. A hand returned thoughtfully to her lips, though a bite did not come. Her mind was moving far too fast to focus on anything physical. Feet began to pace without her knowledge, beating against the air as if they contributed to her movements anymore. “Those bees cause hallucinations…” What were they called again? Those dick-hive bees. She had still yet to encounter them personally—such a treat will have to wait when she finally visits… that woman. Knowledge was acquired specifically for said venture, so she really should remember… “Eintykara.” But as research came tumbling back into her mind, so did an issue. “No. Cold.” Such weathers would cause them to grow sluggish—springing into action now would make no sense. “Hm. Caballi?” Her encounter with one had been very brief, but James’ was much more intimate. And she had certainly heard stories that mimicked their own. Of ghosts being attacked by them. Or more accurately, being fed upon by them. Could be the cause of their deterioration, those astral feedings. Perhaps they can affect zombies too? “But never saw…” They weren’t exactly invisible, to people like them. But much of them was left unknown, on this world at least. Could be a special sort?

More ideas flowed into Eilidh’s mind. And just easily flowed back out—conflictions and contradictions found in every sort. Though the universe was vast and wide and full of exceptions. Hardly anything could be said with certainty. And hardly everything was stored in her mind—that vastness refusing to be contained in just one thing. Or even in one world; creatures not found in any book had laid just beyond those cracks in the air. One, or two, or more could’ve slipped through. “You could be onto something.” Her feet stilled, and it was only then she realized she had been on the move at all. But they already missed that constant motion. Focus turned to the mentioned books, causing a chuckle to stir. “Would. But these guys do whatever the hell they want.” She wiggled her fingers and they blended and meddled together, like waves crashing into each other. “I’ll look ‘round. You focus on the books. We’ll see this through.” There was an attempt to turn and leave, but something held her there just a moment longer. Those hints of decay sprinkled on Morgan’s form—some grown worse over the course of their conversation. “Think you’ll manage?” The question spanning far beyond just Morgan’s research capability.

With the way Macleod lit up at the suggestion, Morgan could actually start to believe they were onto something. The world was full of strange things and there was so much they didn’t know. Of course if it wasn’t someone it had to be something. Maybe even a creature from another dimension. Some of the critters in those portals had probably gotten stuck on this side when Adam closed them, too, and maybe that was why they couldn’t understand the rules this infection worked on.

Morgan met Macleod’s eyes bravely. They were looking for a needle in a haystack. It might take weeks to comb through all of White Crest and identify the exact creatures they were looking for, especially if they turned out to be beyond sapient record on this world. But they would figure it out, wouldn’t they?

Somewhere beyond them, bewildered geese flapped their way to the sky and called to each other for safety, snow crunched under tired feet, a wind blew through the hollow tunnels of the world. Morgan took it all in, staring through the frosted windows. This was a world that buried its secrets better than its dead, but it was also one where life persisted in the most bitter cold. If anyone was proof of that, surely it was her and Macleod. And Morgan had a future to get to; Macleod probably did too, and if she didn’t, she deserved to stick around long enough to come up with one. So she had to be okay. There wasn’t room in this scenario for her not to be.

Morgan summoned her best smile and hoped with all she had that Macleod believed it and let some of the warmth rub off on her. “I’ve got this. And so do you. Death cut us a break once, right? Twice should be just as easy.”

That smile filled the air, found its way on Eilidh’s face, lifting her spirits in turn. Hell yeah. They had this. That implication hung in the air, threatened to bring it all back down. The one where she died. This soul she carried certainly had—will again. And technically death had touched her a few days prior. But the implication ran deeper than that, tied her to an assumption she kept getting chained to. But she did not let that weight touch her; only a twitch of a brow, a tighten of lips, betrayed these thoughts. Resolve kept her steady—kept them both just the same. Fate may try to give them a losing hand, but she’ll keep playing until a full house. And if not, well, seems she’s had her time then. Her soul will enjoy more, if these pesky blinks didn’t consume her in totality. For fate was hungry this week—eating away at her very soul, at Morgan’s very flesh. Was it feeding on others? How far did this hunger spread? She had no mind, no time to worry about passerbyers on the street. Those teeth readied to pierce again, steal more of them away. But she’ll try her hand at dentistry and rip them out before all was taken. “Good to hear! Let’s give this a–”

She vanished.

#wr eilidh #wr chatzy #wr eilidh chatzy #death rings twice

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rainsongmp3 · 3 years

Text

it’s a cold and it’s a broken

Dean screws up. Cas reacts. This is the aftermath. here on ao3

The call ends. Dean feels hollow. He sits in silence until the tear tracks dry on his face. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears and the crushing quiet of the house. He knew. He knew. He knew this would happen. He would fuck up and Cas would leave. But this is what does them in? Drugs and a lie? No. That’s not it. The drugs and the lies are symptoms, not the problem. Dean is the problem. God, he knew. He’s too broken and messy and fucked up for Cas and he knew.

Dean can’t stay here. He can’t stay in his quiet and his misery. Suddenly, it’s all too much. Jo is upstairs. Yes, Jo is upstairs. That’s good. Jo is here. He can talk to Jo. He goes upstairs and opens the door to the bedroom they’re sharing. Jo is asleep. Of course, Jo is asleep. Dean realizes that he can’t wake her up. He can’t wake her up and talk about his bullshit feelings and his bullshit heartbreak. He can’t wake her up and be a burden. Dean goes back downstairs.

Dean looks at Ellen asleep on the couch. She must’ve fallen asleep watching TV. Bobby is upstairs in their bed. Dean is struck with the thought that she has someone waiting for her. So does Jo. Everyone has someone waiting for them. Except for Dean. It’s too much. It’s all too much. Cas is gone and it’s too much. It’s all too much like a gunshot to the heart. Dean’s fingers close around a bottle of tequila in the liquor cabinet before he notices that’s where he was going. This is good. Tequila is good for being drunk. Tequila is good for turning it off. It’s all too much and Dean needs to turn it off.

Dean unscrews the cap, squeezes his eyes shut, brings the bottle to his lips, and drinks. And drinks. And drinks. And drinks some more. The tequila burns its way down his throat. Good. Good that it burns. Dean drinks again.

All at once, the house is stifling; stiflingly quiet, stiflingly small, stifling.

Strange how a house with its high ceilings and large windows can become a prison cell. A house that was once a comfort, filled with friends and family, good memories, and calming ocean air now feels akin to a metal box. Confining. Dark. Air-tight.

Dean runs.

He runs out the door. The bottle of tequila securely in his fist. No shoes, no jacket, no thought. He just goes.

Outside in the night air, everything seems just a little less. It’s less heartbreaking, less gut-wrenching, less impossible out here. Dean breathes. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Dean breathes maybe for the first time since Cas ended the call.

The gravel driveway bites at Dean’s feet. The tequila bites at his throat. Cas bites at his heart. It’s okay. Dean deserves to be bitten.

Waves crash, beating against the sea wall. They crash against the rock. White foam against unforgiving gray. Somehow, the foam wins. It smooths out the rocks’ sharp edges. How can something so soft cut down granite?

It doesn’t stop. The heartbreak doesn’t stop in the night air. Dean walks down the road. He turns at the space in between houses where man meets the sea. His steps are shakier now. With alcohol burning through his bloodstream, every nerve is numbed. His body doesn’t respond the same to his brain. It’s quieter that way even if Dean’s steps are louder. He climbs the sea wall using the grooves and spaces in the stones like rungs on a ladder. It’s awkward. He’s drunk and clumsy and one of his hands is occupied. He misses steps. He slips a couple of inches down the flat surface. His foot falls out of its hold. He can’t quite get the angle to pull himself up with the alcohol in hand. It’s almost pathetic, but he makes it to the top. Fifteen feet above ground seems a lot higher to a dizzy Dean. Nearly losing his balance in the process, he sits down.

The moon stares at him accusingly from above. Its choppy reflection in the ocean below blames him. I’m sorry, he almost wants to say. What good would it do to apologize to the moon? It’s Cas he needs to apologize to. Apologize until Cas will love him again. Scream I’m sorry until he’s blue in the face and falls to his knees at Cas’s feet. Weep there, on his knees, until Cas understands. Beg and sob and grovel until Cas takes him back. Because at the end of all of this, Dean is nothing without Cas. Dean is nothing. Cas is everything. Cas is everything good. Cas is everything light. Cas is everything happy. Cas is everything safe. Cas is everything that makes life worth living. Oh, how Dean loves him. Dean loves him so fiercely it hurts. He remembers those moments, those gentle moments, lying in bed together smiling softly and how in those moments his heart cracks open. It spills light into the lingering shadows of Cas’s room. It leeches love into the very atoms of the earth. Cas leeches him. Bloodletting in the most enticing way. How could Dean not bleed when Cas’s deep stare pulls at his soul and his smile soothes cracks? How can something so soft cut down granite? Dean sighs, pulling oxygen back into his bones, and lets it go again. He doesn’t deserve Cas. He never did. This is far from the first time he’s screwed up. He’s not built for this kind of thing— a loving, committed relationship. No wonder Cas gave up on him. Dean tries. He tries. It’s not enough. How could he ever be enough for Cas? He wasn’t enough for his dad. He wasn’t even enough for his own father. He’s never enough to make someone stay. His mom: dead. His dad: absent. His brother: preoccupied. Bobby: distracted. Ellen: disappointed. His old friends: left. All he really has is Jo now. Everybody leaves, huh?

Oh.

Everybody leaves.

Everybody leaves. He really thought Cas was going to disprove that. The exception. His stupid, dumbass exception. His exception with too-blue eyes. His exception with a gummy smile. His exception that knows too much about astrophysics to be a normal guy. (Not that he wants a normal guy. He wants Cas.) His exception who’s overly enthusiastic about bees. His exception that’s grumpy in the mornings. (Cas is garbage before 11 AM and without two cups of coffee.) His exception that indulges Dean’s stupid whims. His exception. His perfect, unfathomable exception. As it turns out, Dean was wrong. Cas is not his exception. Cas is Dean’s most grievous mistake. Not a mistake for having loved him. (No, never that. Never that.) His mistake for pushing him to this. The sight of Cas’s tear-stained face twisted in heartbreak and Sisyphean hope is an image Dean can never unburn from his memory. That would be his own rock to endlessly push up a hill. Cas’s was trying to love Dean. What did Cas do in a previous life to deserve that kind of endless torture?

Dean wishes he could sit Cas down in a coffee shop or maybe on a park bench and just explain. He’d tried, but mostly he just pleaded. Not with words. Or maybe not the right ones. Cas don’t do this isn’t the same as Cas please don’t go Cas please stay Cas please don’t leave me. Dean could explain. He could explain it all. He could tell Cas how he’s so beyond damaged. His dad might love him but it’s so buried underneath alcoholism and orders and grief that it never quite penetrates his skin. His father’s love isn’t even skin deep. It never made its way into Dean’s bloodstream. No matter how hard he tries, Dean can’t quite imagine his father telling him he’s proud of him. Not in the way fathers are supposed to. Everything always has to come second to Sam. ever since the fire, ever since take care of your brother, Dean, Sam has been his wampeter. His whole purpose. His God-given central theme. That’s so much weight to a four-year-old. A preschooler can’t do the job of Atlas. Dean can sometimes hardly stand the weight of it on his shoulders now. There is so much anger in him. It’s coiled tight: a viper ready to strike or a match a second from igniting. There is poison in Dean’s punch. It’s only a matter of time before Dean’s fist is aimed at Cas. Dean was raised with exchanging blows. What is love if not a deep, lingering bruise? It’s the kind that aches for days but you can’t help but prod at. The last thing Dean wants to do is hurt Cas. He never wants to lash out with his hands. It’s all he knows. What if he can’t keep the bubbling, boiling, lava-hot rage at bay? Dean’s lost so much, so many people. It used to keep him awake at night: the gnawing anxiety that he would lose Cas too. The fear of Cas burning sat so heavy in Dean’s bone marrow. The fear of aiming his own blaze at Cas turned every cell in his body to ice. Ice-nine. One touch and everything in him is killing blue-white frost. In those moments, Dean is scared to even lay a finger on Cas lest the blue-white frost gets him too. Dean is made of loss and violence and white-knuckling. The fear of exposing that side of him to Cas… that used to bring bile into his throat. So, Dean kept Cas at arm’s length. Even while they were chest to chest, Dean kept him at arm’s length. Keep Cas at a distance and save him from the snapping jaws waiting to tear at his flesh. Lie about the drinking. Lie about the drugs. Lie about the self-destructive timebomb. Lie about it to keep Cas safe.

But now. Everything is different. Dean would pour out everything in him to Cas. Take his heart and tip; let his artery drip every nasty thought into a cup and give Cas the option to drink. He would do anything, give anything to just be able to hold Cas in his arms again. He would swim oceans and bottle clouds to kiss Cas again. He would scorch the Earth to just have Cas look at him with love again.

Dean glances at the bottle still bound to his palm. More than halfway gone. Not a good way to get Cas back. Dean stares at the crashing waves. He watches them hit the stone and the sand. He watches the water caress the earth.

Dean stands on wobbly legs. Drunk legs are sea legs. He lets his drunk legs take him to the sea. Getting down the wall is less awkward than getting up it. All he has to do is sit and let gravity do the work. He controls the semi-slide down. Sealegs meet the sand. It’s damp. Dean wiggles his toes into it. He makes his way into the water. It’s cold, but not an unforgiving cold. It’s the placating cold of a snow day. He sloshes through the surf. His foot slips on a hidden rock and the world tilts even more as he goes down. His arms go out in front of him to break his fall on instinct. The bottle of tequila hits another obscured rock. It shatters. Dean raised the broken bottle by the neck. The bottom half is gone. It’s almost comical. He holds it the same as he did before but he’s only got a piece now. The ocean took the remaining tequila. He chucks the rest of the bottle as hard as he can to the rocks far to his left. Maybe he’ll make some sea glass.

Dean wades further into the water. The tide pulls at his hips. He lets it sway him. Everything feels cleaner in the ocean. Saltwater is good for open wounds. The ocean disinfects him. The waves pull the poison out of his blood. He is cleaner now.

Seven days later, Cas calls.

#i am an idiot and just learned how to do the keep reading thing so here! have a fic!#this is taken directly from my life and is the first time i’ve written anything in a while so be gentle with me #cw drug use #cw alcohol #dean winchester #deancas #dean fic #destiel fanfics #spn #spn fanfic

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porcelain-blue · 3 years

Text

Embrace the Entirety of the World

When Wei Wuxian comes back into the world, the first thing he registers is pain. It’s a sharp, aching thing, a body filled with bruises and the gnaw of an empty belly. He sits there, for a while, letting it wash over him; the nausea, the headache, the rasp of rough woven cloth under his fingers. It is so much , so distinct, sound and smell and touch a dizzying input where there had only been numbness and nothing before.

He is alive. In his marrow he knows how rare of a chance this is, how short and how fragile a single soul in a single body actually is, how easily lost, how infinitely precious. He is dead but now he is alive, and it feels like there is nothing he cannot do.

He breaks out of that shack with gladness, eager to leave the stink of human excrement and neglect, and inhales deeply, noting the thickness of the humid air, the sound of faraway chatter of a bustling household. He smells dust, and animal, cooking not too far away, and the sensation of it all almost overwhelms him once again, and it feels like something inside his chest clicks , a setting of a phantom bone behind his sternum. Or perhaps it breaks. He feels untethered, unmoored, feral. An animal thing, more beast than human, more sensation than cognition.

When he calms, he spares a thought for young Mo Xuanyu, and makes a mental note to set an offering and perform rites on his behalf. He thinks with a pang that Mo Xuanyu was never treated well enough to ever understand the nature of the gift he had given Wei Wuxian. He will, however, honor those last wishes cleaved into his forearm.

So he saunters into a mystery, absently enjoying the feeling of packed earth under the thin soles of Mo Xuanyu’s boots, and within a few xichen night has fallen and the Mo family is sundered by corpse limbs. Wei Wuxian commandeers a grumpy donkey, marvelling at the stubble-rasp of the animal’s flank under his palms as he makes his way down the mountain, thrust into the gaping maw of the world once more.

When Zidian coils around him and wrenches, he cannot help but grin to himself, a small thing full of bloody teeth. He feels delirious, and everything hurts white-hot, but the feeling-sound-crackle-smell of Zidian is so familiar that it feels like home. If he closes his eyes, the purple of Jiang Cheng’s robes may as well be Yu-Furen’s. Their rage feels the same, physically.

Lan Zhan’s hand is so tight around his wrist that he can almost feel his bones shift, and he hisses at the pain even though it feels good, in a way, to be anchored to this plane of existence.

Later, when he flings himself behind Lan Zhan’s body, the first thing his brain registers is how fine the weave of his robes are, smooth but sturdy under his fingers, the faint threads catching against his rough skin. It’s a weird, incongruent detail that he can’t get out of his head, even as he shamelessly flirts his way out of getting dragged back to Lotus Pier (he cannot, not right now, not like this). Lan Zhan’s voice is deep, deeper than he remembers, and the thrum of it catching his hearing sends the hairs on his nape standing, skin prickling in an uncomfortable awareness.

Later, in the Jingshi, his old friend spread under him staring steadily as he asks him to go back to his own bed, Wei Wuxian feels like the light was never like this when he was last alive, liquid and colourless; that shaft of moonlight cutting through the crystal shape of Lan Zhan’s irises is almost vicious in its beauty. His breath catches, but he plasters a bright smile as he plays the part of shameless, predatory Mo Xuanyu(as though a boy so young and starved could be anything but vulnerable). But all Lan Zhan does is jab a pressure point that makes him go limp and tingly, and all he can focus on is the sharp, clean smell of incense, and the furnace-warmth of Lan Zhan’s terrifyingly strong golden core under him. He sinks into sleep and it’s only a little scary, to go back into darkness and quiet, but the warmth and weight of Lan Zhan’s hand draped on his waist is always there, at the edge of his awareness, and he slips off into the first sleep of 16 years.

As they journey Northwest, Wei Wuxian lets himself go, trails his hands on walls and scuffs his feet just to feel the dirt squish under his shoes. He lingers at stalls, more so than he would have before, touching everything and looking. He buys rouge from a merchant and dabs into the soft, pressed powder with his pinky, marvelling at the texture. He dabs a little, on his lips, for fun. No more than a passing fancy, but in this new body and new life, Wei Wuxian is determined to honor ever passing fancy, feel every sensation he wants to. He thinks, privately, that he has earned it.

Lan Zhan makes an aborted movement at him, when he sees the pigment on his face, makes like he wants to press his thumbs against his lips to wipe it off. Wei Wuxian waits, head cocked to see what Lan Zhan will do. Lan Wangji, however, has never died and been reborn. He is, as always the paragon of self-control and dignity. He would never acknowledge any passing fancies, so he flexes his hand from his fist, and turns away. Wei Wuxian stares after him, not knowing what that was about, beyond the knowledge that Lan Zhan has been denying himself every single day they have been travelling together.

It bothers him. He knows that Lan Zhan is not a person given to doing whatever he wants, but something about the movements, the heavy weight of his gaze, something makes his teeth itch, and Wei Wuxian convinces himself that it is merely concern for his friend, a desire to see him happy and a little more free. I must give him my advice! He thinks privately, amused and mischievous, keen to start a new plan into action.

So he catalogues every time Lan Zhan makes a strange movement, every time those eyes rest on him a little too long. He wonders how long it will take for Lan Zhan’s resolve to break, and he makes sure to repeat every action that catches the attention of the venerable Hanguang-jun.

He dabs the barest suggestion of pigment on his face. Sometimes his eyes, most often his lips, just to see the tips of Lan Zhan’s ears pink when he turns away. It eventually seems tha Lan Zhan is intent on watching him, though, so Wei Wuxian simply loses himself in the joy of being here.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says for the first time, and his blood quickens as he registers the joy of being called, to have a name and to be recognised. The cadence and tone of that voice, and the warmth of those large hands on his calf over his curse-mark feel so real he cannot lose himself in his own traitorous, quicksilver mind.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathes, tasting the words on his tongue as they leave him, intentional, seeking their owner.

When Lan Zhan moves to pick him up, he does not squawk, does not struggle. He reaches up and loops his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck and lets himself be carried, because why not?

Why not live in the moment?

What does it matter, what it looks like, when a man carries another man?

Nothing matters, except feeling safe and warm and grounded, here, pressed up against GusuLan white, the fabric smooth against his skin.

Lan Wangji is still trying to map the parameters of this new Wei Ying. He is much the same, of course, even without hearing the hollow scraping whistle of a bamboo flute butchering the one song he has kept close to his heart for years, Lan Wangji thinks that he would have been able to place Wei Ying before long, through his mannerisms, through the cadence and easy drip of his words.

But something seems looser, in this new Wei Ying. The boy he had fallen in love with so long ago had always been a creature of action and reaction, all whim-chasing wrapped around an unbending moral core. But then, that boy was gone and in his place was a man unyielding and exhausted, and Lan Wangji had almost forgotten what it was like to hear a clear laugh dancing about him.

But apparently lying dead for 16 years and coming back had done something to Wei Ying, and he seems all at once more carefree and young than he has ever seemed, and also still, wise, in a way that he never seemed to achieve before.

He no longer cares about the gaze of others, truly does not mind them instead of the knowing-and-defying that Wei Ying had been known for. Lan Wangji had admired him for that before, but now, knowing about the censure and the tightrope dance Wei Ying had had to do within the bounds of what was socially acceptable, Lan Wangji feels something flutter in his chest, some tight tension from before melting away, bit by bit.

Wei Ying buys rouge with his money, and he knows that this is probably part of a plan to catch him out, to obfuscate his true identity (as though Lan Zhan has ever been so unobservant as to miss all the tells that make up the creature that is Wei Ying.), but even after Lan Wangji reveals what he knows, Wei Ying continues to play with the pigment. He ends up buying this new Wei Ying a box of lip paper, and watches curiously as Wei Ying opens the box, fishes out a sheet of vermillion delicately, and places it between his lips. A press, holding it there for a while, then his mouth parts, and oh, he is beautiful.

Wei Ying has always been beautiful to Lan Wangji, and it was no secret that his old body had many admirers. But even now, in the fine-boned features of Mo Xuanyu, it has always been the light in those eyes and unbreakable spirit that Lan Wangji had been drawn to. But the truth of the matter is - and of course, lying to oneself is also forbidden - that Wei Ying, returned after 16 long years in a new body, with wide guileless eyes and lips stained the same red of his underrobes- Wei Ying is lovely, and Lan Wangji wants nothing more than to dart forward and taste, to see if that sweet smelling paper also would impart flavour, or if Wei Ying’s lips would be the only thing to discover.

“Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! I don’t have a mirror, so you’ll just have to tell me, does it look good? I know you think I’m shameless, but what do you think?”

Lan Wangji reaches forward, plucks the box out of Wei Ying’s hands and stows it away in their shared travel bag. He pauses for a moment, glancing at the graceful bow of those lips, then back at those wide, happy eyes.

“Wei Ying has always looked good in red,” he murmurs.

Wei Ying blinks for a moment, surprised, before breaking out into a smile, wide and soft and sweet, vermillion stained.

After gathering the juniors like ducklings, they head into town, and Wei Wuxian keeps tugging them aside to look at stalls in the marketplace, nagging at them to eat more food and buy souvenirs for their friends and families.

“Why are you so frivolous!! You’re so embarrassing!” Jin Ling huffs, red faced and embarrassed that Wei Wuxian is currently trying to shove some tanghulu into his hands.

“Aah, Jin Ling, that’s where you’re wrong!” Wei Wuxian says, brandishing a stick of tanghulu at him. “It’s not frivolous to slow down and enjoy things! It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, there are snacks to eat. You should listen to me! I’m very wise!”

He laughs at the disbelieving looks on all their young faces, and turns to Lan Zhan, who is regarding him with his usual steady stare. He poffers the tanghulu, and Lan Zhan pauses for a moment, before accepting the offering, biting delicately into the candied hawthorn before pulling it off the skewer. He chews thoughtfully, and swallows, and the sight of that pink tongue darting out to lick the remaining sugar off distracts Wei Wuxian into silence.

Lan Zhan hands the skewer back, flicks his gaze up at him, before murmuring, “ Be strict with yourself .”

Wei Wuxian blinks, and vaguely registers Lan Jingyi nodding in agreement with Lan Zhan. But he laughs, and counters airily, “‘ Embrace the entirety of the world ’, Lan Zhan! That was always my favourite rule, you know. After all, how can you fault me! I’ve died once, and am fortunate enough to be here to eat candy and play around.” He smiles, feeling his eyes crinkle, and pops another candied berry into his mouth.

He drinks slowly, now, luxuriating in the feel of smooth liquor on his tongue, the slide of it down his throat. He stops asking Lan Zhan to join him, after the first few times had left his heart pounding and desire pooling in his belly. No, it wouldn’t do to act when Lan Zhan was vulnerable, when he would not remember anything.

He feels like honey, thick and slow-moving. Lan Zhan is a steady presence across the table. He wants-- well, he wants many things. He sits with those feelings for a while, sifting through them like pebbles covered in mud, washing them clean until they are smooth in his hands.

He weighs each desire, thinks about their cost, and whether his heart can take the cost. He thinks of his battered heart, weighed against the steady golden gaze looking at him, always looking at him, and thinks he knows which way the scales tip.

He sets aside the jar, ceramic clinking onto the polished wood of the table. Leans forward, far enough to smell sandalwood and jasmine. He moves slowly, eyes never leaving Lan Zhan, telegraphing his movement enough such that Lan Zhan could easily back up, move away, give his answer therien. But Lan Zhan is still as a rock under a waterfall, worn smooth with patience and time. He looks at him, lips slightly parted and cheeks dusting pink.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathes, the syllables sweet on his tongue.

“Wei Ying.”

Had the sound of his name ever sounded so sweet, so fragile and tender? There is nothing different about the way Lan Zhan says it, Lan Zhan has called his name like this for years, but only now, with his mind clear of resentful energy, clever of all the trappings of his past life, can Wei Wuxian hear the tender regard and warmth that Lan Zhan imbues into the characters of his name. The way his lips catch on Wei , the deep breath at the back of his throat- Ying , I love you , it says, soft and tender. I love you without ever asking for anything back , it says to him.

He finally reaches his destination, hands landing on Lan Zhan to balance himself; the left on his shoulder, the right on his knee. He is warm under his palms, but he does not move, save to shift a little to place his hand near Wei Ying’s right, fingers ghosting the side of his wrist. A steadying presence.

He presses forward, brushes his lips against Lan Zhan’s own, swallows the slight hitch-exhale from him, lips pressing together in earnest now. Lan Zhan’s lips are soft, plush, yielding. Wei Wuxian licks into his mouth, taste joining smell-touch-sight-hearing , five senses to catalogue the entirety of Lan Wangji, mapping out the start and end of his being.

Lan Zhan makes a rough, wounded noise under him, and they shift against each other, finding purchase on the seat, Wei Ying crawling into that firm lap as he pushes himself close.

“Wei Ying,” he gasps, broken and in disarray, fragile hope in his eyes as he glances at him, darting, taking in is eyes, his mouth, looking like he wants to drown in Wei Wuxian.

“Shhh,” he soothes. “I’m here now, I’m alive, I’m alive.”

He repeats that phrase, whispering it into Lan Zhan’s hair, into his skin, into his lips again, an affirmation, confirmation of the impossible made fact. There is proof, evidence, all five senses and the events of this puzzle falling around them to prove that Wei Wuxian is here , cradled in the lap of someone who he lives, who loves him.

Wei Wuxian kisses him, his Lan Zhan, his zhiji, his beloved, and feels like he has come into the world anew, born again for the third time, the fibre of his being pulled apart and knit together into a new configuration that wraps around another.

#mdzs #wangxian #wwx #lwj #fanfic #mdzs fanfiction #cw alcohol

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years

Text

Stay Safe Part Five: Dark Past

Fandom: The Mandalorian [Star Wars]

Pairing: Eventual Mandalorian [Din Djarin]/Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: At last, broskis! We have come to what is arguably my favorite episode thus far. I hope this installment is to your satisfaction. Enjoy!

Tag List: @huliabitch @wrestlingfae @toxiicpop @helplessly-nonstop @culturalrebel @literal-fand0m-trash @sinnamon-bunn @fioccodineveautunnale @hxldmxdxwn @lizajane3 @thewaythisis @nellyneko @absurdthirst

Part One: Should Have Known Better

Part Two: Tranquil Turmoil

Part Three: Vibroblade Mettle

Part Four: Reaching Out

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains allusions to PTSD, and vividly vague mentions of past trauma. Stay safe!]

"The worst possible thing has finally happened." You announced, thumping your head against the empty shelf. "We're all out of the nutrient paste. Y'know, the good one." You glanced over at the armored man, who was currently sorting through another one of his many crates. "This is the end. I'll have to go back to aurelac mining just to eke out a living." You continued, dramatically slumping to the floor.

You were only half-joking, of course. The variety of food was waning, but at least there was still sustenance to be had. The real issue was credits, or the lack thereof. Nutrient paste wouldn't buy repairs.

"No. No mining. I need all my appendages." The Mandalorian mumbled, his mind clearly elsewhere. He roused himself after a moment, looking over at you. "It's not that bad, we still have some reserves." He said, gesturing vaguely at the small pile of dented cans and faded-looking tubes beside him on the deck. "I'll...I'll get in touch with someone."

"It's too late for us, my metalline companion. You must...take the child…"

"You keep these antics up and I'll sell you to the Hutts." The Mandalorian teased, reaching out to squeeze your chin playfully. "Bet they'd offer me good credits for you, what with your strong back and skills with the younglings." You could hear his smile and your heart tripped a little.

"You would sell me?!" You gasped, pretending to reel with shock. "This betrayal will not stand. Avenge me, child!" You flung a hand out towards the baby, who stared at it for several seconds wide-eyed before proceeding to gnaw gently on your index. "There, you see that? They are swearing a blood oath to free me from your cruelty."

"Uh huh." The Mandalorian didn't sound particularly convinced, his hand still cupping your chin. For whatever reason, you got the impression that he was mulling something over in his mind. Something a little heavier than your lighthearted joking with the child.

"Are you alright?" You asked softly after a minute, putting your hand over his own.

He started at the sound of your voice, jerking his gauntlet away like your touch had burned him. You tried not to let it get to you. It might be that he just didn't like being touched; it was entirely within his right to shy away.

"I'm...yeah." He assured you, grabbing the lip of the crate to haul himself upright with a grunt. "There's just--it's complicated. I've got an idea, I don't know…" he trailed off.

"What's the problem? Talk to me, maybe I can help."

Instead of answering, the man headed up the ladder into the cockpit. You dusted your knees off and hoisted the child, clambering up the ladder one-handed in pursuit of the armored man.

The Mandalorian had apparently begun calculating new coordinates, the sextant whirring to life as he cycled through the charts. "We're going to see an old friend of mine." He announced from his position in the pilot's seat.

"Why do I feel like you don't mean an actual friend?" The armored man yet again didn't deign to answer you immediately and you groaned, setting the child down on the co-pilot seat and stretching your arms out over your head.

"He owes me a favor."

"Mm, what kind?"

"The kind that I can get payment out of." The Mandalorian said curtly.

"You don't seem to be too excited to visit this friend of yours."

"Things have changed since the last time we worked together." His words were quiet, contemplative. "There were...a lot of jobs I did back then that I wouldn't touch now."

It hadn't occurred to you that he had fallen into bounty hunting as a cleaner occupation. What could he have been involved in that made collecting dangerous, often violent criminals for a living seem like the better career path? Maker, you wanted to ask, the curiosity burned at you. But if you had learned anything about the stoic man in the time that you had spent traveling together, it was that he only spoke when he saw fit to.

"I want you and the kid in the bunk for the duration of these negotiations." He muttered after several minutes of silence. "These are rough people and I don't need any distractions."

He didn't mention Calican by name and you were grateful for that much. It stung a little that he still considered you a distraction after that tense standoff. Nuisance. You nodded all the same, focused on the floor plating. "I understand."

You could say that you did, anyway.

Fake it 'til you make it, I guess.

...

You got the feeling that something may have gone a bit funny in the negotiations. The Mandalorian hadn't mentioned anything about having to use his own ship for the job.

You could hear muffled voices on the other side of the bunk's shutter, and you had departed the station ages ago. Where were you headed?

There was a sudden, hollow rattle from the outside. Beskar. He had moved quickly, for whatever reason. It was a strange comfort to know that he wasn't in the cockpit, but here in the hold keeping an eye on the individuals he was working with. Though that begged the question of who might be piloting the craft.

Something large struck the wall beside the shutter with a dull boom, the impact making you jump. What were they doing out there? You moved your eyes from the wall back down to the child, who had just rolled their ball to you yet again.

Another impact, and this time there was a loud beep! That was the lock for the retractor on the bunk hatch, which meant--

The bunk shutter slid up into the ceiling, revealing yourself and the baby sitting on the bed. You paused mid-motion, raising an imperious eyebrow at the motley crew of characters that filled the hold.

An eternal second passed where a bald human man, a Twi'lek woman, a large Devaronian and the Mandalorian just...gawked at you.

"Sweetheart, you didn't tell me we were having guests!" You exclaimed in feigned surprise, doing your best to appear like you weren't scrambling to figure out a solution to this problem. "I would have picked the place up if I had known!"

Fake it 'til you make it, right?

The Mandalorian stayed stock-still as you climbed out of the bunk, the child secure in your arms. "I'm so sorry about the state of the hold, everyone." You apologized profusely with a bow, "it's difficult to keep everything tidy. Little ones, you know how they are!" The hulking Devaronian who was half-in, half-out of the refresher appeared downright flummoxed when you brushed past him to stand by the Mandalorian, while the bald man across the way quickly adopted a calculating look.

"Is this yours, Mando? Did you two make this?" He asked, grinning broadly as he got to his feet. "Look at you! Look at those ears!" He chuckled, moving in to fawn over said ears on the child. "Can I hold him?"

"I'd really rather you-" In a clean jerk of movement, he swept the baby out of your arms. "-Didn't." You finished, less scared and more irritated now. Just who did this guy think he was?!

The Twi'lek woman, who had been silent up until this point, started to giggle quietly to herself. The noise set your teeth on edge, to say nothing of the openly hostile look she was giving the Mandalorian. "I didn't take you for the type, Mando." She crooned, a small knife winding its way back and forth between her deft fingers. "Maybe that code of yours has made you soft." You knew an insult when you heard it, and you wondered what history the Mandalorian might share with her to warrant such a caustic reaction.

You could feel the tension rolling off of the Mandalorian in waves while the bald man toyed with the child. You took in the bracer of pistols he wore and your stomach twisted with nerves. The last thing you needed was more blasters near the child. "Me, I could never really get into the idea of havin' kids. Didn't have the temperament for it." The man remarked, "patience, y'know."

The baby's face scrunched up threateningly, heralding a deafening wail of distress. "Oh, quick, let me see him, he's going to pitch a fit." You said hurriedly.

No sooner had you stepped forward to take the child back (possibly by force) than an unfamiliar mechanical voice announced, "dropping out of hyperspace...now."

You barely managed to snatch the baby away from the bald man before everyone in the hold was thrown off their feet, the whole ship rolling under the strain of the abrupt change in navigation.

"Commencing final approach...now."

You stayed where you landed and clutched the child tight to your chest, ducking your head in case some of the cargo pulled loose. The ship banked hard and your body slid sideways on the floor.

"Cloaking signal...now."

Metal hit the deck on either side of you with a stereo clang!, making the child start to bawl but preventing you from sliding any further. An armored thigh plowed roughly between your legs and your eyes sprang open on reflex, sighing in relief when you were greeted with the familiar sight of the Mandalorian's visor. "Don't move." He muttered as the ship continued to pitch and sway.

You nodded, more than content to stay exactly where you were. His body caged in your own, solidly-armored form providing shelter for both you and the child. "Thank you." You breathed.

He merely shrugged in reply.

"Engaging coupling...now." The voice intoned overhead. The Crest plummeted and the Mandalorian swore under his breath, bracing himself on his forearms as his body was pushed down against your own from the force of the drop. The ship finally came to a stop with a rough shudder that made your teeth rattle in your skull.

"Coupling confirmed. We are down. And relax. Commence extraction now."

The Mandalorian propped himself up with one arm, curling his other protectively around you and the squalling child. "Everyone alright?" He rasped after a few seconds had passed. "Status report."

"That useless droid didn't even give us a proper countdown!" The Twi'lek spat, getting shakily to her feet.

"It's a droid, Xi'an. Y' expect too much. Now, are you two gonna' be able to be friends during this or am I gonna' have to put you in time out?" The bald man inquired, gesturing between the Mandalorian and the Devaronian. "Remember Burg, Mando let us use his ship."

"Al-right Mayfeld." The large man groused, struggling to extract himself from the refresher. "But you had better shut up that baby before I make it into a snack."

Your body tensed at his threat and you heard the Mandalorian chamber a round for his flamethrower, the click deafeningly loud in the relative quiet of the hold.

"Easy, easy. Burg, you gotta' be respectful." The bald man stressed the word, shooting you an apologetic grimace. "Flyin' makes him anxious."

"Making me anxious too." You managed to get out, using the hem of your tunic to mop some of the tears off of the kid's face. They had faded into sniffling and snorting, worn out from the scare and subsequent bumpy ride. You moved to sit up and the Mandalorian shifted back onto his haunches, one hand on your shoulder. You patted his hand and he squeezed gently before he rose to stand once more.

Mayfeld called up the ladder, "Z, are you sure they can't see us?"

"The Razor Crest is scrambling our signature, and I am inside the prison system. It's impressive that this gunship had survived the Empire without being impounded." The automated voice replied from the cockpit.

"Alright we got a job to do. Mando! You're up." The bald man ordered, gesturing at the floor port.

You saw the brief hesitation where the Mandalorian considered not obeying, but then he heaved a sigh and started rummaging around for something in one of the many crates.

"So, he never takes that thing off?" Mayfeld asked curiously as the Mandalorian crouched to work on the hatch encryption.

"Never. And I wouldn't ask him to." You replied firmly, bouncing the still-whimpering child on your hip.

"You don't know his name or what he looks like, and you're bumpin' uglies with him?" Mayfeld's incredulous tone made you wish the ground would swallow you. "That's nuts."

"I know him. That's really what's important in a relationship, isn't it?" You posited cooly, spying the Mandalorian squaring his shoulders underneath his cloak. Whether he did it consciously or not, it was a little humorous to see someone as stoic as he was blatantly preening. "Knowing a person has always been about way more than just knowing their name or what they look like. Knowing a person is…" You paused thoughtfully, keenly aware of the daggers Xi'an was glaring at you. "Well, there's just more to it that a lot of people don't seem to understand."

"Oh you'll fit right in with their merry little band of Creed-followers." The Twi'lek woman murmured, her tone sarcastic as she enquired, "I suppose you'll be getting your helmet fitted shortly?"

"Why do you think I'm doing this job in the first place?" The Mandalorian growled. No one was caught more off-guard than you, and you barely managed to stop yourself from shooting Xi'an a smug smile. "Beskar isn't cheap." He continued, free hand reaching back to wrap carefully around your ankle. "Plus, I'd have to surrender a piece of my beskar to be smelted in with their new helmet's beskar." He tapped his scored breastplate with the crypto device, which carried on beeping. "Need a lot more wear and tear than this before I can justify that level of commitment."

It was a legitimate struggle to keep from laughing out loud at Mayfeld's continued expression of bewilderment. "You Mandalorian guys are even more ridiculous than I thought." He muttered as the crypto pinged.

The hatch slid open with a soft click, and the Mandalorian got back to his feet to coil and stow the cabled device.

After some light bickering amongst the group, Mayfeld graciously agreed to go first. "You better hang onto this one, Mando." He joked, whacking a hand into the armored man's pauldron and then gesturing up and down at you. "Otherwise, I may just steal 'em for myself. If they're crazy enough to get freaky with you, maybe they'll settle for a guy who's a little more...normal." The smile he directed at you didn't reach his eyes, all teeth like a hungry animal.

You chose to heroically ignore his attempt at teasing you or inciting wrath in your 'partner'. "Stay safe, love." You crooned sweetly, deliberately attempting to be as saccharine as possible while you perched up on your tiptoes to touch your forehead to the Mandalorian's helm.

His hand found your own, fingers twining clumsily together. "You too," he hesitated before gruffly mumbling, "love."

Xi'an followed after Mayfeld (making a gagging noise at the Mandalorian as she went), and then Burg dropped like a brick into the ship below. That was the last of his team departed through the hatch and yet he still stood there, just staring down at you.

"Was that too mu-" you began to whisper, only to have him cut you off by shoving you bodily against the wall. You started to stammer out another apology but ended up falling silent when he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. One large hand cradled the back of your neck while the other gripped your tunic at the small of your back, and he leaned down to touch his helm to the top of the child's head.

The embrace reeked of a strangely-poignant possessiveness that had your heart aching, causing you to almost mourn the loss of him when his hold loosened. "I'm so damn sorry." He muttered, releasing you fully and turning towards the hatch.

You caught his hand before he could leave. "H-Hey, I meant what I said." You mumbled, half-hoping he didn't hear you. His head jerked to the side to look at you and your confidence waned considerably under his expressionless gaze, making you drop your eyes to the floor. "Y'know, um, stay safe." You chickened out. Really, how could you have thought you would get away with telling him something like that? Seconds before he headed off to do something he had clear reservations about doing?

He was still for several seconds before he shook his head and swung himself down to the ladder. "Stay in the bunk." He instructed, and then he too was gone.

…

Time passed at a slow crawl while you were sequestered in the bunk space. You did your best to keep the child occupied and quiet, astonishing them via a cat's cradle made from your boot laces.

You thanked the stars again and again that the kid hadn't been hurt when the ship landed, your hip still aching from how rough it had been for you. At the same time you staunchly avoided musing on the Mandalorian's body over your own, how quickly he had moved to protect you. It didn't bear thinking about. Just like his embrace before he had left, solid beskar molding to the curves of your body.

Didn't mean anything. He was making certain the child was safe. If you were safe as well, it was strictly by proxy.

You shook your head at your silly thoughts, then stopped abruptly when you heard footsteps above you. You hushed the baby, moving them a little further back in the bunk as those footsteps shifted to impacts on the metal ladder.

Stay in the bunk. The Mandalorian's words echoed in your ears and you swallowed hard. Stay in the bunk, but what if someone comes for me while you're gone? What then?

You heard someone fumbling with the keypad and you held your breath, hoping against hope that whoever was on the other side of the door wouldn't be able to figure out the combination. Please, please, just this once. But despite your fervent prayers, you saw the shutter begin to rise for the second time that day.

It was a compound-eyed droid. The aforementioned Z, if you had to guess. They stood in front of you, head cocked slightly to the side as if to study you. "Curious." They mused flatly. Then, they raised their rifle.

Frantically, you scrambled for a plan. You weren't fast enough to outmaneuver a droid in a shootout. You didn't even have a blaster! Your knife was still strapped to your leg, precious little good it did you there.

Cold reality dawned on you, that this...this could be it. The baby whined warily and you shifted your body, bracing your arm on the wall and doing your best to be a human shield for the child. "It'll be alright, sweetheart." You whispered to them, swallowing your panic to reassure them as best as you could. "I won't let them hurt you."

You heard a whir of servos and you squeezed your eyes shut in anticipation, unable to keep from cringing at the harsh report of the rifle. It sounded even louder in the cramped space. You waited for the pain, even though you had felt no blaster bolt impact. You assumed you were already in shock, ears ringing with the echoes of the gun.

Instead, a leather-gloved hand seized your arm, dragging you and the child out of the bunk space. You covered the baby's head, tucking them into the crook of your arm in an effort to protect them from the next attack. "No!" You cried, trying to struggle out of the person's grip so you could grab your knife. "No! Let me go, or I'll-!"

Metal met your shoulder and you heard a ragged exhale of, "shit." At the familiar sound of that modulated voice, you dared to open your eyes.

The droid was on the floor, a hole blown in its headgear. Most of your field of vision was taken up by a large form clad in beskar, whose forehead was resting on your shoulder.

"Oh." You said softly, concerned when you felt him sag against you. His other forearm hit the wall above your head, taking some of his not-insubstantial weight off of you.

There was a wound between his breastplate and pauldron, still slowly trickling blood onto his flight suit. "I don't have much time." He said hoarsely. "Have to get that Twi' back so I get paid. Qin."

"Tell me what you need from me." Bold offer, when your legs still felt like gelatin. The fingers of your free hand grappled the sleeve of his flight suit, holding it tightly. Maker, you had thought you were dead.

Relief and dread rushed through you in equal parts when he said, "Qin's out cold for the time being. Need you to stay in the bunk until I come get you." He hesitated, swallowing hard. "Please."

"When this is all over, I'm not going anywhere near that bunk ever again." You threatened weakly.

"That's fine." He nodded against your shoulder. "Just a little while longer. Qin is getting me triple from Ran."

"We'll see about that." You huffed. He straightened up, then leaned in to press his helmet to your forehead. You closed your eyes, not able to handle being studied at that moment. "I-I thought it was going to kill the-"

"I know." The Mandalorian breathed. "I'm sorry."

"I was so scared." You admitted, your voice cracking. The hold you had on his suit tightened even further. "M' sorry, you're the one who's hurt but I can't seem to get myself together." You shook your head with a sad little laugh, moving to pull away.

The armored man kept you where you were though, his hands framing your shoulders. "I promise. We'll be safe once I deliver that Twi' to Ran, at least for a little while." He drew his thumb down the center of his breastplate, then tapped the chin of his helm with two fingers. "Promise."

"I'll hold you to it." His helmet hung mere inches from your face, and you stood on your tiptoes to press your forehead to his once more. "Do what you need to do. We'll be here." You promised, mustering up a smile. "Stay safe."

His hand wrapped around your wrist, squeezing for a second. "Wait for me. This won't take long."

…

In spite of your trepidation you ended up dozing off with the words to the lullaby on your lips, thoroughly worn out from your trying day. The child was glued to your side, snoring quietly even as you drifted in and out of consciousness.

Thinking back, all you could recall was hearing the ramp hiss open, the hollow echo of voices in a large hangar space. After that, just the smooth hum of hyperspace travel.

When the Mandalorian finally came to retrieve you, even the unflappably stoic bounty hunter seemed like he had gone through the wringer. His steps were unsure, and he clung to a cargo net despite the level deck. "Need your help." He said thickly once you had swung your legs out of the bunk space.

Instantly awake at those words, you left the child to nap peacefully and followed the armored man back up the ladder to the cockpit. There, he all but fell into the pilot seat.

"Something's wrong." He muttered. "It's just a cut, but something…" He trailed off, shaking himself after a moment. "Can't focus."

"What do you need me to do?" You asked.

"Hands aren't steady. Need...need to get the beskar off. Peel the suit. Fix the damage." He sounded breathless, like he was rushing to force the words out.

"You have to walk me through this, okay? I won't touch anywhere you don't want me to touch, but I need your help."

"Just-" He cut himself off with a low groan. "Gods, my head. That rancor-sized bastard broke every knob in that stupid control room off with my helmet."

"Hey." You murmured, placing a careful hand on top of his own. "Stay with me."

"Right. Important." His helmet rolled back for a moment. "Dammit, come on." He snapped in frustration, shaking his head. Fumbling fingers unlatched his beskar breastplate, the metal clicking softly as he pulled it from its gription mount.

Next came the mount straps for his pauldrons, and here was where he really needed some help. The latches were worn to a smooth bronze patina, sliding out from beneath his shaky hands again and again. You carefully placed your fingers around his own, guiding him through undoing the simple fasteners before you tugged his pauldrons free. The harness slowly flopped forward, then landed on the floor with a muffled clunk.

He exhaled hard and started dragging at the upper zippers of his flight suit, quickly getting them caught for his trouble. "Sweetheart, hang on." The endearment slipped out automatically, your mind already focused on this next insurmountable task. "Let me do this for you, okay?"

He lolled his head against his shoulder silently, dropping his hands to rest on his thighs. You stepped closer in between his legs and then slowly worked free the jam he had created for himself.

One of the Mandalorian's hands suddenly flew up, grabbing your sleeve. "Didn't kill anyone." He slurred, almost panicky. "I swear. It was all droids, and the one guy...Xi'an killed him, not me, I t-tried to talk him down, and Xi'an..."

"I believe you." You assured him, gently patting his hand. "It's over now, okay?"

"Xi'an killed him, I just…" He trailed off, his head falling forward to rest on his chest. He might have been watching you fight with the zipper. "Told Mayfeld to ask about Alzoc Three, that bitch." He muttered, "like it was a joke. Like it was a joke. Alzoc Three was a nightmare, Ran almost died, I couldn't get the klesir...the smell…" He actually retched, "Burning, and I did what I had to but…they all had so many eyes, and it was so dark--"

"Whoa, hey. What are you even talking about?" You interrupted him, more than a little concerned. It wasn't like him to rattle off on such a wild tangent, frantic.

"Mines, we were sent into the mines blind. They didn't tell us about the T-Talz." He rambled on like you hadn't said anything, gesturing with one hand. "Dark. Cold. Talz, enslaved, mining...their whole lives, dying in those pits and it reeked like hatred."

Your hands went still on his zipper when his voice cracked. He sounded seconds from weeping, his next words punching indelicate through the modulator.

"Imps shove the young ones into the pits. Say their fur will cushion the fall. I landed in a pile of bodies." He breathed. "So many little ones. Tiny, tiny...tiny bodies, and the klesir, the death-rot, I-I--"

You abandoned the fight with his zipper to shift forward, mindful of his wound as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. His helmet dug into your collarbone and you laid your cheek on top of it, feeling his shoulders tremble slightly. "You're not there anymore." You whispered, cradling the back of his helmet like you did for the child's head.

"It's s-so dark…" He mumbled brokenly into your tunic. "Came at me with a rock crusher and I couldn't--I couldn't...oh gods..."

"Shh, sweetheart." You shifted your hand lower, resting your fingers tentatively against the exposed skin on the back of his neck. He felt fever-hot, the area clammy and damp with sweat. "It's alright now. You're here with me. Breathe, okay? Just keep your face there and focus on breathing. We'll get through this together."

"Did that bitch poison me?" The Mandalorian half-sobbed, grasping desperately at your arms. "I can't keep my eyes open. Can't...can't keep them open...g-gods, it's so dark…"

"Love, look at me." You coaxed him, holding the sides of his helmet steady. "You're on your ship. The child is safe. You're safe."

"Are you sure?" He asked, the uncertainty in his voice breaking your heart.

Fake it 'til you make it.

"I promise."

"The kid-"

"They're asleep in the bunk right now. Do you want me to get them?"

"No, no." He waved the suggestion off, nearly hitting you with the haphazard motion. "S'okay. I believe you." His hands dropped to rest on your tunic over your hips, fingers clenching tight in the fabric as if he was trying to ground himself with your presence.

With a little creative positioning and more than a few swears, you managed to get the flight suit peeled down to his elbows without dislodging his helmet. The liner shirt you resorted to shoving up until it was out of the way, finally getting a good look at the damage.

He was littered in bruises. The angry contusion from that sniper bolt had mercifully faded, but in its place bloomed a veritable forest of new, smaller marks. Rounding out all these fresh acquisitions was the stab wound. It wasn't particularly large, though it sank deep into the tissue that connected his shoulder to his chest. If it didn't heal properly, it might impede his movement.

A strange, bluish residue darkened the dried blood at the edges of the wound. Your eyes narrowed. "Do you have an anti-tox kit? There's some crud here I don't like the look of."

"Blue?" When you nodded he reached for his belt, finally tugging free a small vial from a side loop. "Bathe area with half." He instructed, his breathing ragged again. The minute effort had clearly worn him out, which was incredibly worrisome.

You nodded, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. "I need you to lie down, okay? Otherwise this will just run off."

The bleary Mandalorian gamely left the chair and dropped onto the floor, his normally-smooth motions reduced to something resembling clumsy puppeteering. You rummaged through the rear compartments for one of your clean rags and a bacta patch. This was no simple mark from a gaudy belt buckle, after all.

"I can't b-believe she poisoned me." He remarked faintly, sounding indignant. "What the hell did I ever do t' her?"

"Maybe you were just too devastatingly handsome. She couldn't take it when you left." You suggested dryly, carefully tipping half of the vial's neon purple contents onto the open wound.

The Mandalorian hissed out a pained laugh, his whole body tensing briefly before relaxing again. "Shit, that mus' be it." He slurred. "Crazy Twi' was always stabbin' me. Wanted t' get m...me outta' th' beskar." He brushed his knuckles against your cheek. "Not like you. Y' always tellin' me t...to...to stay safe. Like you'd be sad 'f I got hurt."

You longed for a beskar steel helmet at that moment, mentally cursing your cheeks for flushing as hot as they did. This wasn't the time! He was still soaked with sweat, his shoulder jumping erratically under your touch. It was difficult not to notice the way his chest was heaving, the rise and fall of battered olive skin almost hypnotic. This was only the second time you had seen him in such a state of undress and, despite how terrible the current situation was, you still treasured this display of the trust that he placed in you. Just to ask for your help in general-! "Of course I'd be sad." You said quietly, trying to focus on smoothing the patch over the edges of the wound.

His thumb traced your jawline. "Really?" He asked, sounding somewhere between incredulous and seconds from passing out. "S'nice. You're nice. Nice t' look at, too. Mesh'la. Xi'an was jealous." He mumbled. You could hear his smile; he was gloating, the smug bastard. Leave it to a man who had been poisoned to gloat about an old flame being petty! "Jeal-o-us…" He tapped your nose, and then his hand flopped to the floor.

You had to sit back on your haunches, exhaling hard once you heard his breathing even out. This day was just getting stranger and stranger! Nice to look at, he had said. Xi'an was jealous. Maker, were you still blushing?!

You shook your head, for once not bothering to fight back your fond smile. "She sure was, wasn't she." You whispered sadly, daring to caress the side of his helmet.

You didn't want to leave him alone while he 'sweat out' the poison in case something went wrong, so you chose to curl up in the secondary co-pilot chair and keep him under observation. After several minutes, a hand fumbled up to grab your own. "H-ey." He breathed. "St…Stay here. Don' leave, okay?"

"I'm right here with you. I'm not going anywhere." You assured him, gently rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

"Can you...sing me th...that song. The one--the one...th' one the kid likes?" He turned his head slowly to look up at you, the side of his helm hitting the floor with a solid thud. "Keeps the dark...keeps th' dark outta' my helmet."

"Yeah, absolutely. Whatever you need." He squeezed your hand, which you assumed was his way of saying thank you. You then slid off of the seat and back onto the floor, carefully lifting his head so you could lay it in your lap.

He groaned at the motion and you apologized softly, stroking your fingers down the front of his helm like you did for the kid. You got a quiet sigh out of that. His hand shifted over to pet your thigh, and you felt his shoulders relax ever so slightly.

"Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you, sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you…" you sang, deliberately keeping your volume as low as you could manage.

The Mandalorian hummed along with the tune off-key and the sound made your fond smile return, despite your best efforts.

"But in your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me…"

…

You were uncertain of when you had fallen asleep, only knowing that your own dreams were far from restful. Fraught with images of dark pits and frenzied clawing through the void, the muted horror of an undefinable stench clinging to your body as you searched for him...

"My f-f-friend, if you are receiving this..."

The staticky voice startled you from your nightmares and you gazed blearily up at the Mandalorian's back. Somehow you had ended up back in the co-pilot chair. When…?

He appeared to be listening to a message, his form hunched over slightly so you couldn't see the individual's holo on the control panel. "...means you are alive. You may be surprised to hear this, but I am alive too. I guess we can call it even."

Your brow furrowed as the Mandalorian scoffed, shaking his head.

"...lot has happened since we last saw each other. The man who hired you is still here, and his ranks of ex-Imperial guards have grown."

Ex-Imperial? You were wide awake now. You tucked your legs beneath the blanket covering you, huddling yourself up tight before you realized that it was actually his cape. He must have draped it over you after he woke up from his post-poison fainting spell.

The message rattled on, "They have imposed despotic rule over my city, which has impeded the livelihood of the Guild. We consider him an enemy but we cannot get close enough to take him out."

"Osi'kyr." The Mandalorian hissed through his teeth, scooping his gription harness up off the floor and settling it back on his shoulders. "Of course not, of course." The grit in his words was unfamiliar, violent. You remembered what he had said about not touching certain jobs anymore; frantic, guilty rambling about Alzoc Three, dark pits. What else had he done before bounty hunting?

"If you would consider one last commission, I would very much make it worth your while. You have been successful so far in staving off their hunters, but they will not stop until they have their prize." His shoulders snapped tight. "So here is my proposition: return to Nevarro. Bring the child as bait. I will arrange an exchange and provide loyal Guild members for protection. Once we get near the client, you kill him, and we both get what we want."

The Mandalorian was shaking his head again, knuckles rhythmically striking the edge of the control panel. He was angry. His presence seemed to fill the cockpit, robbing the space of everything except the silent fury he radiated. Like when he had been staring down Calican, the mudhorn about to charge.

"If you succeed, you keep the child and I will have your name cleared with the Guild. For a man of honor should not be forced to live in exile." Weirdly, the Mandalorian went dead still at that. The wording obviously had some kind of heavy impact on him. "I await your arrival with optimism."

"I'll bet you fucking do, you-" The Mandalorian seethed, reaching for his breastplate and then pausing when he saw you were awake. He continued the motion after a moment, clearing his throat. "We're headed back to Sorgan." He enunciated calmly, affixing the plate to his harness.

"Why?" You inquired, a little wary. Gone was the slur in his voice, the clumsy movements he had displayed only a few hours back. Also gone was his rage. He was somehow even more closed off than before, his body language bordering on unreadable.

"I'm going to need backup."

Part Six

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #eventual romance #slow burn #God I'm bad at this #i apologize #with that said #please enjoy!

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cicada-bones · 4 years

Text

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 26: Death and Dreams

This was a fun one! Please forgive me for the angst at the beginning lol

I spent some time this week outlining the rest of the fic, and I found out that we are exactly two thirds of the way through what I have planned! Right now, I think we are going to end up with 38 or 39 chapters, so ive got at least twelve more to go. Crazy to think that there's still so much left in this story to tell!

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rowan sat up quickly, a gasp already trapped in his throat. It was early morning, and the small window was white with frozen mist, preventing him from seeing much of the fortress’ surroundings. Regardless, he could tell that dawn was still far off – Mala’s golden light distracted by the waking of far off lands – and neglecting theirs.

Rowan rubbed at his eyes, seeking a way to wipe away the images that still danced behind his lids. He had been ripped from sleep by a dream, by the same dream that had been torturing him all week.

A nightmare that was not a vision, but a memory. A memory of the night he had spent two centuries trying to forget, and now was running like a cold river through his mind, relentless and inescapable:

The wind was reluctant beneath his wing feathers, tossing and tumbling and chafing against his magic’s inescapable pull. It was cold, bitingly cold. But Rowan didn’t feel it, not through his already icy chest. Frozen not with cold, but with fear. With panic.

The familiar land of home teased at the edges of his vision, but the picturesque mountain vista was distorted, marred by black clouds and the smell of smoke. The ice coating Rowan’s heart began to crack, shattering glass exploding in his torso. Piercing and slicing as it went.

Rowan dove, his wings straining, his breaths sharp in his lungs as he rounded a corner and their hilltop rose before his eyes. And then his heart dropped completely out of his chest.

Their home was gone.

Destroyed. Eradicated. Burnt to dust and ashes.

Nothing was left. Not the cottage, nor the stables or pens. Their animals were slaughtered and left in the snow to rot. And the garden, Lyria’s precious, treasured blooms, had been trampled into the earth. Already withering.

The surrounding trees were alight with a forest fire that could have been burning for hours. Days, even. The ground was dusted with snow, but the thin coating hadn’t proved a hindrance to the flames that danced from branch to branch, wild and harsh and utterly indifferent.

Rowan’s feet pounded into the earth as he approached the ground, shifting in less than a second. And he was running.

Twigs snapped over his skin, ripping into his face. Beads of blood dripped down his cheeks, replacing the tears that could not come. One moment he was running, and the next, he was home.

Their cottage was a pile of ash and burnt wood. A pyre. But Rowan ran for it anyways, his hands digging into the remains desperately, ignoring the heat of the still-burning embers. Ignoring the truth that was staring him baldly in the face: nothing that had been in the cottage when it burned would have survived.

All of a sudden, Rowan collapsed. His knees gave way and he was sitting in the dirt. Sitting in the grave of his only home.

Her name bubbled up through him, burning and itching as it went. But his throat tightened, trapping the cry in his chest where is writhed and twitched. Pressing against his heart and lungs and throat until they ached.

It felt as though hours passed, but it must have only been seconds. Drops of blood appeared before his eyes, and it was a while before he realized that they were real, before he recognized their smell.

His eyes slowly began to focus through the haze, and they traced the pools of red over the ground, through the trampled snow, up to the crest of the hill and –

Rowan tore up the hill, a desperate hope clawing its way up his throat. His hands reached for the body curled atop the cliff face, his fingers trembling. But then her scent reached him. Her cold, empty, lifeless scent.

And Rowan felt his very essence leaking away, melting into the snow as what was left of the mating bond guttered, and fizzled out.

He was alone.

Rowan reached out tentatively, his fingers seeking to cradle Lyria’s face, to stroke her hair, one last time.

But then a frown crossed over his mouth, his face tightening. Lyria’s hair was brown, not gold. And her scent was a mixture of silk and ferns and rabbits’ fur – not this strange, bright, citrusy spice.

Confusion washed over the agony in his chest. Dulling it, and distracting him. The mountains began to fall away, darkening and disappearing in his periphery. The falling snow seemed to stall in mid-air, sparkling like captured stars. Caution slowed Rowan’s fingertips as they stretched that final inch to brush across the female’s face and turn her head towards him.

Aelin Galathynius’ cold blue eyes looked back at him, their golden core frozen solid. A hollow void. Wild no more.

The princess’ blood stained his hands, and it sunk into his skin like acid. Filling him with an infinite, boundless guilt. Aelin was dead, and it was his fault.

He’d brought her to Maeve, and she killed her. And Rowan watched.

But no – she was here, right before his eyes. Her hair was a ripple of golden silk on the pillow, each breath a wisp of delicate white fog into the cold air of the stone room. Aelin was alive and well.

But not for long, a cold voice in the back of his head interrupted. Not for long.

And Rowan couldn’t find any disagreement within himself.

For even if she survived her looming encounter with Maeve, afterwards, she would leave. Back to Adarlan, or Terrasen, or Eyllwe. Onto other dangers. And he probably would never see her again.

Rowan stood up from the bed, and the princess sighed and turned over, her arm spreading out into the empty space he left behind. He lit a fire in the hearth, opened the window, and launched himself into the night sky – seeking answers from the wind that he knew it could not give him.

It was almost as though the dream had been crafted specifically to torture him, to make every part of him writhe in discomfort.

Rowan was used to dreaming of Lyria, was accustomed to closing his eyes each evening and being tortured with her scent, her bloodstained fingers, her broken body. Her screams. But this, this…lack, was almost even worse.

He was supposed to dream of her, his lost love. Was supposed to feel that pain for every day, every second, until he was returned to her in the Afterworld. For that pain to be taken away, for it to be turned on its head in such a way, was a violation of that unwritten contract. Of the agreement he’d made with himself when he gave his life over to Maeve. And so the guilt gnawed at him, a hungry animal.

But then seeing Aelin’s face in death, and knowing it was his fault –

Rowan shuddered, choking on the image and swerving in midair as he temporarily lost his balance. Even just imagining that guilt was beyond his capabilities. He couldn’t be the death of her. He refused to be.

But that meeting was creeping up on them, drawing ever closer. Each day Aelin improved by leaps and bounds. She was a natural fighter, taking everything he threw at her in stride, and then some. Even Fenrys and Connall couldn’t compare to her.

Even so, Aelin had not even come close to reaching her full potential. The iron bars locked around her power had not weakened, Aelin had only gotten better at navigating around them. She now knew how to access small amounts of her gift, and could control and manipulate those small portions, but the vast majority remained inaccessible to her. Held under lock and key.

But it almost didn’t even matter. Aelin was powerful enough that even without access to her entire gift, she was nearly ready to meet Maeve. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Rowan cursed inwardly, and made to turn back to the fortress, the blackened sky only just beginning to pale into a navy blue.

He could feel the days pressing in on him, the end of his time with Aelin looming close. There was a part of him that wanted to make the most of that time, that tasted the remnants of her blood on his tongue and wanted to damn the consequences to hell. Aelin had claimed him as a friend – was there a chance that she wanted him in that other way as well?

But it was only a very small part. There was still that male- no, man, across the sea. The love that had sent her away. A steel-cotton-and-birchwood trace in her blood. And though his mark had been fading in her scent of late, the amethyst ring remained on her finger, a clear sign of her feelings.

No, she didn’t want him the way he wanted her. But that was fine. In actuality, it was probably for the best. Rowan didn’t know what he would do if she had decided to pursue him for anything more than friendship. Aelin was relentless when she wanted something, and Rowan’s self-control was far from faultless. And there were more significant things to separate them than a captain across the sea.

Rowan sailed through the window of their rooms, shifted, and settled into the chair before the worktable. He removed the blades from their concealed places in his vambraces, and studiously began to clean them. There was still at least an hour before the sun truly dawned, but there was no chance of Rowan going back to sleep.

He reached beneath the work table, his hand stretching into the compartment hidden just underneath, searching for his sharpening set. But then his fingers brushed past an unexpected object – something he hadn’t thought about in weeks.

Rowan pulled out the bundle and unrolled it on top of the table surface, revealing the knives he had confiscated from Aelin all those months ago. Most of them were in piss-poor condition, having been neglected for so long (and not having been of particularly great quality to begin with). But there was one that stood out.

It was silver, and though it was burnished with dirt, the metal was of good make. The edge was strong, though dull, and the handle was wrapped in a sturdy leather thong. It was a good, solid weapon. One that could remain useful years after weaker tools had succumbed to the pressure of time.

Rowan discarded the other blades, grabbed his felt cloth and sharpening rod, and set to work.

···

Soon, Aelin awoke and headed down to the kitchens to help with breakfast. Rowan went with her, thinking to grab some food before the kitchens filled with demi-Fae. On his way back up to his rooms however, Malakai found him.

The old male got right to the point. “Another body’s been found.” Rowan’s jaw locked, and a stone dropped into his stomach. “And there’s been a letter for you – it came with the courier this morning. She arrived just as I was about to go find you, so I thought I would deliver it for her.”

Malakai handed Rowan the letter, his eyes cold and hard, but Rowan knew that the aggression wasn’t directed towards him. This was the second body they had discovered this week, the other having been found three days earlier by Bas on his usual circuit. Rowan had forced Aelin to remain at Mistward that day to practice while he flew to the site to confirm Bas’ report, and to dispose of the body. But this time, he doubted he would be able to convince her to stay.

Rowan sighed and took the letter, recognizing the writing as Vaughn’s, but instead of opening it in the hallway he tucked it into a pocket in his tunic and turned his eyes back towards Malakai.

Without any further prompting, he launched into a description of the body’s location. It had been found by a sentry who belonged to a neighboring fortress to the south, far beyond any of the other sites. It had been spotted thirty-two miles directly southwest, just off the coast. Once the sentry returned, the commander at that fortress informed Malakai of the discovery.

Rowan only nodded at the male, who then jerked his head tersely in return and retreated back to the sentry station atop the battlement wall.

Each time Malakai arrived bearing news that yet another demi-Fae had been murdered it got harder. And now, it was the second time this very week. How many more would die before Rowan could figure out what the hell he was missing?

Rowan returned to his rooms in a daze, distractedly tearing open the report from Vaughn. It was short and to the point, as all Vaughn’s reports were. Apparently, Remelle, Benson, and Essar had arrived, and were now settling into the southwestern court to play diplomat and to spy for their queen – meaning that Vaughn was now on his way back to Doranelle.

Rowan set down the letter and sighed. Then began to gather up his many blades, and ready himself for a lengthy morning run.

···

Aelin had gotten even faster. Thirty-two miles – the farthest she had ever run. She had to push her Fae body to the limit, and yet they still made great time – it was still mid-morning when they arrived at the sea cliffs, where the body of the unknown demi-Fae was waiting for them.

Aelin stripped off her tunic, her chest heaving, forcing the white band she wrapped around her breasts to stretch and contract with each breath. Rowan averted his eyes, unbuttoning his own jacket while a delicate heat kissed his cheeks. He silently cursed at himself.

After they caught their breath, Rowan sent out a few feelers of wind, and they brought back impressions of pine and mist and birdsong…and a scent trail leading towards the shoreline. He and Aelin carefully approached the site, now close enough that Rowan didn’t even need his wind to scent the rotting corpse.

“Well, I can certainly smell him this time,” Aelin said wryly.

“This body has been rotting here longer than the demi-Fae from three days ago.” Rowan mused aloud. But then he regretted it when a spike of irritation struck him in Aelin’s scent. She definitely hadn’t forgiven him for leaving her behind earlier this week.

Rowan fully expected a sharp retort from the princess, scolding him for his protectiveness, but then the body of the demi-Fae came into view.

The ground around the body was torn up, the pine carpet full of gouges and hollows. There was a small stream just ahead, and even over its rushing, Rowan could clearly hear the buzzing of thousands of busy flies. All of which were hovering just above what appeared to be a heap of clothing piled behind a small boulder.

He approached the contorted form, swearing viciously as the smell began to overwhelm him. He leaned over to examine the male, forced to cover his mouth and nose with a forearm.

The demi-Fae’s face was twisted in horror, the obligatory dried blood oozing from the mouth, nostrils, and ears. The skin was wrinkled and dried as usual, but the clothes were perhaps more torn-up than others had been.

Aelin took a step forwards, her face twisted in disgust. “It has our attention and it knows it,” she said. “It’s targeting demi-Fae – either to send a message, or because they…taste good. But – ” Her voice cut off, her face becoming contemplative. “What if there’s more than one?”

Rowan’s brows raised in surprise. There had been moments where he had considered it, had though that the creature’s scent varied slightly between bodies. But he’d never been sure. And it had seemed even more unlikely that there were multiple overlooked and undetected creatures stalking the countryside.

Aelin moved to stand behind him, her scent filling with a nauseated horror. But as always, she didn’t let it overwhelm her.

“You’re old as hell,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “You must have considered that we’re dealing with a few of them, given how vast the territory is. What if the one we saw in the barrows wasn’t even the creature responsible for these bodies?”

Rowan narrowed his eyes, and gave her a shallow nod. She could very well be right – most land-locked predators didn’t have a hunting range beyond fifteen square miles, and the creature had killed over an area far closer to a hundred.

“Rowan,” Aelin’s worried tone pulled him from his train of thought. “Rowan, tell me you see what I’m seeing.” She swatted at the flies uselessly, her gaze fixed on the male’s hands, where you could just see –

Rowan cursed, crouching to get a closer look. There were small cuts along the palms, as if he had dug in his fingernails. Rowan used the tip of a blade to push back a bit of clothing torn at the collar. “This male – ”

“Fought.” Aelin interrupted. “He fought back against it. None of the others did, according to the reports.” She squatted beside him, holding out a hand for Rowan’s dagger.

He hesitated for a moment, but then her eyes met his, and he pressed the hilt into her open palm. Only for the afternoon.

Her lips twitched as she grabbed the dagger, seeming to tease him right back. I know, I know. I haven’t earned my weapons back yet. Don’t get your feathers ruffled.

Her gaze left his before he could respond, prematurely cutting off their silent conversation. Rowan snarled at her. He only got a quiet amusement in response.

Aelin carefully advanced towards the rotting forearm, gently running the tip of the dagger underneath the male’s cracked nails, and then smearing the contents on the back of her own hand.

A stain of oily black.

“What the hell is that?” Rowan demanded, leaning over her outstretched hand and sniffing the strange substance. He jerked back automatically, snarling. The smell…it was as though the stench coating the bodies had been distilled, condensed into solid form. And it was fouler than anything Rowan had ever smelled before. “That’s not dirt.”

Possibilities raced through his mind, each seeming less likely than the last. But that night-black oil…it couldn’t be blood.

“This isn’t possible.” Aelin jerked to her feet, her hands shaking slightly as she started to pace, all of a sudden filled with a manic energy. “This – this – this – ” her words came out in a stutter, and Rowan found himself rising slowly and carefully, forcing himself to press down on the panic that filled his own body at the sight of Aelin so frantic.

“I’m wrong. I have to be wrong.” The words didn’t seem to be directed at him, and instead Aelin was wrapped up in her own thoughts. No – her memories.

“Tell me,” Rowan growled, unable to wait any longer.

Aelin raised her eyes to meet his, her face tight. She moved to rub her eyes, but then seemed to remember the black oil still marking her skin, and went to wipe them on her shirt. Only then remembering that she wasn’t wearing one – only the breast band.

Her face twisted, and she crouched and ran her fingers in the stream, then rose and provided Rowan with an explanation. What she told him, astounded him.

Aelin had been holding out even more than he had suspected.

She told him of a creature, discovered in the catacombs beneath a library, within the very palace where she had been held captive for so many months. A beast with black blood and talons and a mutilated face – a demon with a human heart. Created, and held, beneath a clock tower made of Wyrdstone.

She told him of Wyrdmarks, of learning a language by firelight with the help of a friend, Nehemia, each word aching with the pain of her loss. Of how she had used the marks to contain the demon while she had killed it, cutting it to pieces right before the eyes of the crown prince.

She told him of the Wyrdkeys. And of the information that Maeve was holding hostage. Information that was necessary to stop a king who already possessed at least one of these keys, and was using it to create these demons. Targeting those with magic in their blood to be their hosts.

“The demon beneath the clock tower had been left there because of some defect, some flaw.” Aelin said, “But what if there were others, a new version that had been perfected?”

She shook with cold, her eyes cast to the ground, and Rowan sent a warm breeze her way. Wrapping the air around her like a silken ribbon, and erasing the gooseflesh that coasted her arms and stomach.

Rowan’s thoughts were twisting and contorting, but he held his face steady. This was the information he’d been missing. The connection that allowed the pieces to fall into place. He remembered the man Namonora had shown him, the man with the tale of a lethal darkness emerging from across the sea…

“How did it get here?” he asked.

Aelin shook her head. “I don’t know. I hope I’m wrong. But that smell – I’ll never forget that smell as long as I live. Like it had rotted from the inside out, its very essence ruined.”

Rowan began to pace. “But it retained some cognitive abilities. And whatever this is, it must have them, too, if it’s dumping the bodies.”

“Demi-Fae…they would make perfect hosts, with so many of them able to use magic and no one in Wendlyn or Doranelle caring if they live or die. But these corpses – if he wanted to kidnap them, why kill them?”

“Unless they weren’t compatible,” Rowan said. “And if they weren’t compatible, then what better use for them than to drain them dry?”

“But what’s the point of leaving the bodies where we can find them? To drum up fear?”

Rowan ground his jaw, stalking through the torn-up earth as if the ground would provide them with the answers they sought. But the dirt was only dirt.

“Burn the body, Aelin,” Rowan said, removing the sheath and belt that had housed the dagger still dangling from her hand and tossing them to her. She caught them easily. “We’re going hunting.”

···

Even when Rowan shifted into his other form, and circled high above, they found nothing. No trace of the creature, or of anyone at all, for that matter. This area wasn’t very densely habited – most of the local farmers inhabited an area farther down the coast.

As the light grew dim, they climbed up into the biggest, densest tree Rowan could find with several square miles, and they squeezed together onto a massive branch, huddled against the cold. Rowan hadn’t brought supplies for an overnight trip, and even with the coverage provided by the thick pine boughs, any fire would be seen for miles.

Aelin complained, petitioning to be allowed to summon even just a flicker of flame. But Rowan only pointed out that there was no moon that night, and as they had just proven – worse things than skinwalkers prowled these woods.

Instead of giving her space to grumble any further, Rowan asked her to explain more about the creature she’d encountered in the library, for her to detail its every strength and weakness. She told him readily, but nothing much stood out.

The creatures were strong, difficult to kill. Without the weaknesses of mortals, and with many of the benefits of immortal ones. As she spoke, Rowan pulled out one of the longer of his knives and began to clean it, more out of a desire to use the task to focus his own attention, than out of actual necessity.

“Do you think I was mistaken?” Aelin asked softly, “About the creature, I mean.”

Rowan turned away from her in order to pull his shirt over his head, and access the blades strapped to the skin beneath. He almost felt as though he could feel Aelin’s attention on him, could feel the slight pressure of her gaze on his back.

But when he turned back to face her, her eyes were fixed to his face. Still, the ghost of a smile marked his expression as he said, “We’re dealing with a cunning, lethal predator, regardless of where it originated and how many there are.” He grasped the small dagger that had been strapped over his left pectoral, and began to thoroughly wipe it down. “If you were mistaken, I’d consider it a blessing.”

Aelin leaned back against the tree trunk, her scent filling with exhaustion and dejection as she fell into her own thoughts.

Rowan let her be, instead turning to the familiar ritual of preparation. He systematically worked his way through his collection of blades, and then used the water skin to rinse his hands, neck, and chest, cleaning them of sweat and grime. Every now and again, feeling that faint pressure of Aelin’s watchful eyes.

He told himself that it didn’t mean anything, that she was looking at him simply because he was something to look at – an object in her field of vision. Her scent told him nothing, and so he dismissed those unwanted voices in his mind that thought that maybe, she was watching him for a different reason.

But still, the pressure felt…nice. It felt good to be looked at by her. To be seen.

Rowan pulled his shirt back on and settled his body against the trunk, his side pressing comfortably into Aelin’s. They sat in the dark quietly for a while until Aelin said, “You once told me that when you find your mate, you can’t stomach the idea of hurting them physically. Once you’re mated, you’d sooner harm yourself.”

Rowan turned to face her, the gold in her eyes glinting softly in the faint light. Her expression was unreadable. “Yes; why?”

“I tried to kill him. I mauled his face, then held a dagger over his heart because I thought he was responsible for Nehemia’s death. I would have done it if someone hadn’t stopped me. If Chaol – ” her voice broke off. “If he’d truly been my mate, I wouldn’t have been able to do that, would I?”

Rowan hesitated. He wanted to say no, that he didn’t think that Chaol was her mate. The man’s scent was fading from her blood, each day growing fainter and fainter. And it didn’t sit in that deep, essential place where Fae carried the scents of their mates.

No, the captain was a passing note in Aelin’s life, small and irrelevant. But the amethyst ring still glittered on Aelin’s finger, a reminder of the man who still held her heart. And Rowan wasn’t sure that Aelin wanted to hear that the man wasn’t hers to claim. Love could be a hard thing to let go of, regardless of how blatantly its falseness stared you in the face.

So instead Rowan said, “You hadn’t been in your Fae form for ten years, so perhaps your instincts weren’t even able to take hold. Sometimes, mates can be together intimately before the actual bond snaps into place.”

“It’s a useless hope to cling to, anyway.”

“…Do you want the truth?”

Aelin only tucked her chin into her tunic and closed her eyes. “Not tonight.”

···

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#the warrior and the embers #tog #throne of glass #rowaelin #rowan pov

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ayamari-no-goshi · 3 years

Text

Eidolon 12 | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary: AU: What started off as the result of a simple act of rebellion ends up causing his life to spin out of control. How will young Danny cope with the results as well as a past that has a strange habit of coming back to haunt him.

Warnings: rated T for violence, mentions of death, kidnapping, and various other things

Chapter warnings: Forced feeding of a drink

Parings: hints of Danny/Sam much later on

Notes: originally uploaded to Ff.net. Cross-posted to AO3 and tumblr

Chapter 12: Entrapment

It was difficult to tell how much time had passed since he had been in the room. There was no apparent clock, even if he could swear he could hear the soft, steady ticking of one, and he didn't carry a watch or phone he could check. Danny's eyes wondered to one of the white walls for a moment as he tried to imagine it with a non-frosted window. Even a glance outside would be better than nothing. At least then he could tell for certain if it was day or night.

Heck, even watching the scenery for a while would be an improvement over his current activity of lying face up on the eerily pristine bed and staring at the ceiling. He had already checked the entire room (including under the bed) six times for anything he could use to at least get out of the room, and he could only do that so many times before it started to get to him. The exhaustion didn't help. While he was searching, his limbs had decidingly refused to remain normal for more than a few minutes at a time. From the time the strange occurrences began, he had experienced a few bad days, but nothing compared to this particular one. It was almost as if simply being in the room was making it worse.

The ceiling held no answers or a hidden plan of escape, but he continued to stare at it anyways. He knew he should be trying to escape while worrying about Winston and his friends, but he was unable to summon the effort. It was almost as if an odd hollowness had replaced his heart. He slowly sat up as he considered the strangeness of it. Maybe it was just that exhausted, or maybe the room was getting to him more than he thought.

.....

A sweet smell caught his attention as he opened his eyes. Groggy and confused, he slowly sat up and stared for a moment as his brain tried to process what he was seeing. While he had been asleep, someone had placed a silver tray which held a small pastry and an unknown drink with a strangely appealing color on the floor. He was rather surprised he could see it from his location, but perhaps whoever had put it there had placed it there on purpose.

Curious, he slowly crawled off the bed and moved over to it. The pastry didn't seem like anything special, but he was starting to feel hungry and allowed himself to try it. The drink was different. He noted that whatever was in it was thicker than water and gave off a strong yet attractively sweet smell. It was also an unusual green color, which was what made him wary of it. The drink looked a little too much like the antifreeze he had occasionally helped Winston put into his car. He was probably being paranoid, but he was locked in room without any apparent way for him to escape. It wouldn't be a stretch to say that whoever put him there was going to eventually kill him. Isn't that what usually happened to kidnapped kids?

His eyes widened as the weight of his previous thought hit him. When a child went missing, didn't the news usually mention it was nearly impossible to find the child alive if the child couldn't be found within twenty four hours? And didn't adolescents fall into the same category when it came to the statistics? Panic welled up in his chest as he stared at his hands. Exactly how long had he been in the room? If anything, he was probably didn't have much time left. Well, he wasn't going to give up without a fight!

A guttural yell escaped him as he charged the only door in the room. The wood quivered for a moment as he bounced off of it and landed painfully on the floor. Undeterred and filled with resolve, he rushed it again and again with similar results. His whole body began to ache from the effort, but it wasn't enough to make him stop. He didn't want to die. He couldn't die! Not while his friends didn't know where he was (if they even knew he was missing), nor while Winston was still in the hospital. He just had to escape!

But he couldn't do anything if he was exhausted. After bouncing off the door about ten more times, he allowed himself to relax and rest against the side of the bed for a little before he tried again. His right shoulder was throbbing and his butt was sore from hitting the ground so many times, but he tried to ignore the pain as he examined the door. What was it made of? Steel? There didn't seem to be any sign of damage on it, but he had to have done something to it. When he recovered more, a closer look would be in order. Aiming for a weak spot would be far more beneficial than continuing to blindly run at it.

A though occurred to him as he looked at the door. Maybe he could pull the pins out of the hinges… It was so simplistic, it could actually work. Curious as to why he didn't think of it earlier, he slowly stood up and limped over. Wow, ramming it had taken more out of him than he thought.

He ran his fingers along the frame as he tried to find some sign of the hinges, but quickly realized it was futile. This door opened from the other side… There went that idea. Well, while he was there he might as well check the door for any signs of damage. There wasn't much to find, but there was some near the stubbornly locked doorknob. It wasn't as much as he had hoped but a few more hits to the right side of the door should be enough to at least get him out of the room. From there… he would have to wing it. He just hoped there weren't any other doors like the one currently keeping him captive out there. This one was bad enough.

Deciding it was not the best of ideas to attack the door again in his current state, he headed back towards the bed and laid down. He stole a quick look at the platter of food before he buried his face in the pillow. He was starting to get a bit hungry, but there was no way he was going to eat poisoned food. A growl combined with a gnawing feeling in his stomach entertained him as he drifted back into sleep.

…

"Why… won't… this thing…. Break?" Danny yelled as he kicked the door. After waking up, he had resumed his task of running at the door, but after no further progress, frustration had taken hold of him. He sighed as he banged his head off the door. If he couldn't get past something as simple as a door, how was he going to escape?

A clicking sound caught his attention. Glancing down at the doorknob, he noticed movement. Suspicious, he backed away and waited. The doorknob continued to rattle for a moment before a hard yank pulled the door completely open. The man who was revealed glanced at the door carefully before looking at Danny and smiling. "What exactly have you been getting yourself into? Hmm?"

"Y-you!" Danny stammered as recognition hit him. Vlad Masters had done well on his promise. Somehow the man had managed to take him from the police station and put him in this prison of a room. This was a worst case scenario… well, maybe not the worst. At least this man didn't particularly want to kill him, he hoped. "Where am I? What do you want from me?"

Vlad shook his pointer finger as if he was telling off a young child. "All in due time, my boy. But first, I must ask, how are you feeling?"

A blank stare was the only response Danny could give as he tried to process the question. This man kidnapped him and then turned around and asked about his condition. Was it him or did something just not add up?

Vlad took a couple steps into the room and glanced around. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the untouched tray of food Danny had carefully moved out of the way. "I see that you didn't touch your snack. I had a servant place it there in case you got hungry… It's been a couple days since I placed you here. You really should eat something…. Or at the very least, have a drink."

A couple days? He had been here for a couple days? Jeez… this room really did steal all sense of time. He shook his head. He would have to deal with it later; there were more important problems… like getting away from the madman in front of him. "Sorry, but that's been the last thing on my mind," he snapped.

Danny watched carefully as Vlad pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. From the limited interactions he had previously had with the man, he had learned enough to know Vlad was slightly annoyed. "Come now, Daniel," Vlad's tone almost matched the vary one Winston had used in the past when he was trying to convince him to do his chores. "Believe it or not, I do have your best interests at heart. Starving yourself isn't going to accomplish anything and neither is repeated throwing yourself against the door. You'll just be doing more damage to yourself than to it."

"Says the man who kidnapped me."

"I don't expect you to understand the reasons for my actions… at least not yet…" The older man moved to the tray to retrieve its lone cup before turning back to him. "But I assure you, everything was done for your benefit."

"Sorry if I don't believe you…"

"I assumed you wouldn't listen. We'll discuss this later once you've calmed down."

"'Calmed down'? Calm down! You've fricken kidnapped me! How the hell am I supposed to calm down?" His fists were balled and his shoulders tense as he spoke. It was taking almost all of his will power to not punch him in the face. Actually, that might not be a bad idea. Vlad didn't look all that strong, and he was a business man (they don't have time to work out)…. One good punch to the face should knock him out. And with the door finally being open, he could make his escape.

Without another thought, he charged Vlad. The older man looked surprised as Danny's fist came close in on its target. Danny smirked as he had a clean shot, but stumbled in horror as he landed. Instead of hitting a wall of flesh, his fist along with his body just passed through the man. Unsure exactly what happened, he slowly backed away. Glancing to his side, he realized he had a clear shot to the door and made a break for it.

Before he could even get through the opening, a strong pair of hands grabbed him from behind. He fought, flailed, and yelled in an attempt to break free, but whomever had him had a grasp like a vice. Apparently tired of his antics, his captor spun him around , let him go for a brief confusing moment, before using one arm to pin him against his body and to grab his chin with the other.

Being unable to move his head, Danny had no idea who was keeping him from escaping. Or, for that matter, where he had come from since it seemed like only Vlad had come alone. However, the person holding him felt unusually cold, almost as if he had been standing in a walk-in freezer just prior to him grabbing hold of him. Whoever this person was, he was a major obstacle in his goal to escape.

"Hold him still," Vlad commanded of his unknown aid as he approached the pair. Danny felt a little more than unnerved as he watched. There were no traces of kindness on his face, just a cold, calculating, business-like stare which sent shivers down his spine. "Daniel, I was hoping you weren't going to force me to do this, but as you've been rather uncooperative, you leave me little choice."

"W-what are you doing?" he stammered as Vlad held out the cup of the strange green liquid to him.

"It's simple really. You're body is already in the middle of realizing what it really is. This can take some time, but I know of a way of… let's just phrase it as 'speeding up the process'."

"I don't want any!" Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was a very childish thing to say, but he was absolutely terrified of whatever the drink or Vlad was going to do to him. "Get away!"

"You're in no position to give orders boy," the person holding him hissed into his ear and adjusted his grip so he could open his mouth by putting pressure on his cheeks.

Danny tried to break out of his captor's grasp, but he was far too strong. He barely managed a wiggle when Vlad poured the liquid into his open mouth. Unable to move, he was forced to drink the entire glass. Despite its sweet odor, it had a terribly bitter taste which was coupled with a burning sensation. It was enough to make him gag, and his stomach didn't appreciate it any better than his taste buds. The man who was holding him decided to let go of him, allowing him to drop to the floor, just in time to allow him to retch.

It seemed to take several long moments for him to regain control of his stomach. Once he did, he stole a look at Vlad, who seemed had a cold air of amusement around him. However, his attention was quickly taken by the figure besides the billionaire. It appeared to have a masculine shape, but it was clearly not human. Its skin had a sickly blue sheen, and its eyes were a sickening familiar soulless glowing red. An ethereal glow surrounded it as it floated a few inches off of the floor. Danny felt unnerved as recognition hit him; even though he had never seen it clearly before, this figure was the very same creature that had cornered him in the graveyard.

Vlad caught Danny's gaze and smiled. "I see you've previously met my associate, Plasmius."

Plasmius…? Why did that name sound so familiar to him? Wait… Winston had mentioned a person by a similar name when… His eyes widened as recognition hit him. "I d-don't understand…. W-why do you know it?"

"Whatever do you mean, my boy?"

"Winston… Winston said that he… it… attacked my parents. It's the reason why they're gone!" He weakly tried to stand, but his previous injuries from hitting the door suddenly seemed amplified making it incredibly difficult. "I don't understand. He said you were friends with them! Why… Why would you work with the thing that took them away?"

"It's rather simple, Daniel," the creature, Plasmius, told him with a wave of the hand. Without wasting another minute, it drove straight into Vlad. Horrified, Danny stayed rooted to the spot as Vlad's eyes glowed red for a moment. As they faded, a black ring which cackled with slight discharges of energy appeared around the man's waist. It then split into two and each one passed over one have of the body: one towards the feet, the other, the head. As they passed, Vlad's being was quickly replaced with that of Plasmius'. When the rings disappeared, Vlad Masters was gone; only Plasmius remained.

There was no way he had just witnessed what he did. It had to be a dream! There was no way a man could turn into a monster! It just wasn't possible!

"Can you really not believe what you just witnessed?" Plasmius asked as it floated closer to him. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to run, but he couldn't. His fear had rooted him to the spot, and he was about to pay for it dearly. "Vlad Masters and Vlad Plasmius are truly one in the same even if one appears human while the other, a ghost." And, as to prove its point, it summoned the black rings again. Once they disappeared, Vlad Masters carefully dropped to the floor while continuing to move. "You asked me why I attacked your family. There are several reasons, but I suppose the primary one involves you."

"W-what do you mean…? Ugh!" As he spoke, a wave of pain raced through his body, dropping him down to his knees. He tried to steady himself by using one of his hands, but it refused by slipping through the floor instead of offering support. Danny stared at his arm in horror as the translucent appearance of his hand began to spread upwards towards his shoulder.

A chuckle escaped Vlad as he watched Danny's predicament with a sickening satisfaction. "Isn't it obvious? You're a lot more like me than you realize." He paused for a moment before continuing. "Do you believe in curses, Daniel? Even if you don't, you should as you're living proof of one. Legend states a family once delved too far into their work of studying the afterlife. To make sure their secrets would never be known, several powerful spirits cursed the family. Fifteen generations would pass before a male child would be born to them who neither completely belonged to the material or spirit realms…"

"Though this boy would appear human for his first fifteen years of life, he would come into his monstrous inheritance on his date of birth and forever after walk as a symbol of chaos." Vlad then knelt down and grabbed the boy's shoulder to make it easier for him to stare into his eyes. "Do you get it now? Everything I've done was to get a hold of you and the power you will soon possess."

"Y-you're lying! There's no way…! I can't be anything like you! You're a ghost… Th-they're dead! I'm not… I'm not…!" Danny pushed the older man away from his as he scooted backwards towards the wall. None of what he… no, it, said made any sense. Curse? Spirits? Did it mean it was going to turn him into a ghost too? He shook his head to try and clear away the thought. Vlad had said he wasn't going to hurt him… but that was before he showed him what he really was. What was he going to do?

A creepy laugh rang through the room. Vlad sneered at him as his laugh died. "Whoever said you had to die to become a ghost? But, you'll find out what I mean soon. It appears that the concentrated ectoplasm I gave you is finally starting to take effect." A satisfied look crossed his face while moving towards the door. "I'll be back to check on you in a few hours. I'm sure you'll be a lot more cooperative when I return."

Danny barely noticed when Vlad slammed the door closed. His body was starting to feel like it was on fire burning, yet freezing him as it began to consume him. He convulsed as his body tried to reject the unnatural feeling, but it was to no avail. Time which was already slow within the room seemed to come to a crawl as the pain took precedence over every other thought.

Unsure what drove him to move, he tried to force himself to the bed. It wouldn't accomplish much, but its promise of comfort appealed to his wreck of a body. Every step was sheer torture, but the call of the pristine sheets was enough to force him to keep moving.

Another wave of pain rocked his body, sending him to the floor mere inches from his goal. He groaned in agony as he realized it was getting worse. In a last attempt for some stability, he desperately grasped at one of his bed posts as another convulsion coursed through his body. The pain that accompanied it was even more intense than the previous time.

He could barely move as the pain seemed to burn throughout his body. In a desperate attempt for salvation, he reached out his hand in hopes someone or thing would show him mercy and save him all the while wondering what he had done to deserve such a fate…

=========================================================

Notes: A couple of different things here.

1) Danny's thoughts and feelings being affected by the room is not as farfetched as some people might think. Prolonged periods in a purely white room can cause aspects of sensory deprivation (a disconnect with ones senses). Some people use sensory deprivation for reflection or meditation without negative effects, but it has been known to drive people insane. Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia has several examples of this in its history.

2)The statistics of finding a child alive 24 hours after abduction is horrifying nonexistent. While it is true that sometimes a captor will keep the abducted child alive for years, cases like that are so rare that if the police can't find sign of the child within a day, they know they will most likely not find the child alive.

3) Antifreeze does usually have a sweet odor (unless bittering agents have been added as a deterrent), and sadly, ectoplasm sometimes reminds me of it.

4)Do you recognize the last few sentences of this chapter? You should. They're a more stylized version of the opening I have in the 1st chapter.

#Eidolon #danny phantom #dp au #dp #danny phantom au #alternate universe #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #vlad plasmius #vlad masters #supernatural #paranormal #my writing #fanfic #fanfiction #fantasy

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