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tomriddleslove · 3 months

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Omg I have a THEODORE NOTT request for you

Super duper angst hurt comfort

Theo’s dad basically hurts the reader and sends her back to Theo as a warning to stay away from such mudbloods and its just heart wrenching guilt and hurt and tending to her wounds through treat

Song: Half a Man by dean lewis perhaps?

I already have.

✩Theodore Nott x Reader (request)

Summary: The one where Theo has the one person he loves the most hurt by his worst nightmare. Alternatively: He thinks he’d rather die than see you in pain.

A/N: I DID MANAGE TO DO IT BY TODAY!!! I’ll be responding to the next few requests soon. You said comfort but didn’t specify a happy ending 😺

Warnings: Mentions of Abuse, blood.

Theodore Nott never expected to fall in love.

It seemed rather bleak for him, to be honest. He didn’t have the time to think about love when he was too busy wrapped up in navigating the life he had ahead of him.

One couldn't blame him though. With his family as the only example of what love could be, he certainly didn't have a good impression.

Theodore couldn’t recall a single time when he had seen his father treat his mother with kindness or respect.

Let alone love? A truly laughable notion.

Theodore's father had not shown a single ounce of love to his wife, or Theodore. Even on that godforsaken day when Theodore had witnessed his mother die, his father had simply delivered a swift strike to his face and told him to ‘man up.’

So to put it simply, The absence of love in his family cast a shadow over his perception of relationships, making it difficult for him to fathom the idea of falling in love himself.

Then you came.

You came, and god, Theodore doesn't remember how he lived without you. It wasn’t a whirlwind love, a sort of fell fast and hard, rather you entered his life like a slow and steady rain, seeping through the foundations of Theodore's life till you had consumed them completely, crumbling them down against his own will.

It rained, and you became the quiet storm, soft yet unyielding.

Love came like the easiest thing when he met you. It wasn't foreign, or a distant concept; instead, it felt like the most natural and effortless occurrence in Theodore's life. Love with you was as simple and uncomplicated as breathing, a seamless rhythm that he hadn't known was missing until you came along.

You were more than shocked when Theodore admitted he didn’t think he could ever fall in love. The boy, who loved you as though he was born to (he argues he was), who would so tenderly kiss your forehead and hold your hand, not capable of love? The one who would leave his coat for you during the winter months and bring a spare scarf because, he knew you were stubborn, and he was worried you'd get sick, not deserving of love?

You kissed him deeply and made him swear he'd never think of that ever again.

You reminisced on Theodore like some sort of lovesick fool separated by war from their lover, though it was merely only the summer holidays. Whilst Theodore would want nothing more than to come with you, his father demanded his presence back at home. You knew little about Theodore's mother, and even less about his father. Anything leading up to a conversation about them would simply result in Theodore immediately redirecting the conversation, becoming a tad more guarded for the next day or so.

It’s not that he didn’t trust you, because he wholeheartedly did. He would place his beating heart in your hands even if you had a knife in the other, for he trusted you that much.

No, in fact, it was the very opposite. Theodore knew you, and he refused to let you ever get involved in that part of his life. He swore he would never let his father even lay his eyes on you.

He would have loved for his mother to have met you. He doesn't remember her that well, but he's sure, some sort of instinctive feeling within him, that she would have loved you.

You had been back in Hogsmeade a mere 2 days before school had started, to stockpile on some supplies for school.

Students were permitted to start returning to Hogwarts three days before school began, and you would always go back early, valuing having the near-empty castle. It meant you could settle back into a school routine comfortably, and have some time alone before school resumes.

It also gave you time to do stuff for Theodore. You didn't know much about what went on at his house, but assuming from the way he’d come back absolutely exhausted with bags under his eyes, you figured it wasn't good.

It seemed to be the same routine almost every time you'd come back - he comes over to your dorm (luckily for you, all your dormmates essentially lived in their boyfriend's dorms, as they were all friends with one another, so you had it all to yourself 99% of the time). He’d kiss you hello and wordlessly take off his shoes and jacket. You’d lie on your bed and he’d come lie on top of you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He would rest his head on your chest, the sound of your heartbeat soothing him, as he listened to you talk about your holidays till he fell asleep, feeling safe for the first time, unburdened by his worries.

He’d sleep, and you'd trace the furrow of his brow. You ached for the ability to just, alivieate him of everything he carried so close to him. But you knew that healing was a long journey, and you'd be there for him on the way.

You wander around a little bookstore, finding a book for you and Theodore to read. You paid for the copy, turning to leave the shop when you bump into a man.

You quickly offered a polite apology, even though his cold gaze and disdainful demeanour sent a chill down your spine.

Those eyes. They were oh so familiar to the very striking eyes of the boy you so loved. Come to think of it, the hair was the same too. Was this…..

"Watch where you're going, girl," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain

You clenched your jaw, swallowing the anger that threatened to surface. Keeping your composure, you replied evenly, "I apologize if I inconvenienced you, sir."

His eyes then flickered to the books in your hands, a sceptical look crossing his face. "You are a student at Hogwarts? What year?" he sneered.

You took a deep breath before responding, "Final year, sir."

Seeing an opportunity to shift the dynamics, you gestured towards Theodore's family resemblance. "You must be Theodore's father. The resemblance is striking."

His eyes narrowed, and he asked with an air of suspicion, "How do you know Theodore?"

You hesitated for a moment but decided to be honest. "We're dating."

Theodore's father raised an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and derision on his face. "Dating, are you?" he scoffed. "Tell me, girl, who are your parents? Perhaps I've heard of them."

A small smile tugs at your lips as you shake your head, responding. "I doubt you would know them. They're Muggles."

His expression darkened, and a look of pure contempt appeared on his face. "Muggles? Muggles?" He snarls, taking a step closer to you.

Theodore's father's face contorted with disgust, and his voice dripped with venom as he continued, "You, a pathetic Muggle, dare to pollute my son's bloodline? You're nothing but filth, tarnishing the Nott family name with your presence."

You felt a surge of anger and fear. This is what Theodore was trying to keep from you. That his family were prejudiced against your very existence.

Without warning, he roughly grabbed your arm, his grip tightening painfully. The pain shot through you, and you winced.

"Listen closely, Mudblood," he hissed, tightening his hold. "You're nothing more than a passing fancy for my son. If you have any sense, you'll sever ties with him before you bring further shame upon yourself."

Without a second to let you answer, he releases his grip on you, spinning on his heel as he storms out of the store. It takes you a second to recuperate and process what the fuck had just gone on before you turn and quickly dash out of the store, trying to catch a glimpse of his father. Sure enough, you spot him disappearing down a narrow alley.

Before you can stop to think, you chase after him, shouting as you do.

“Hey!” You snap, closing in on the distance.

Theodore was correct in one thing. He knew you well. And he knew that if you ever knew of his father, you’d get involved.

His father’s long black cloak billowed behind him, disappearing down a narrow alleyway that seemed to swallow his wrath. Fueled by a mixture of hurt and anger, you hurried after him, determined to address the injustice he had just unleashed.

Desperation laced your anger-fuelled shouts as you closed the distance. His brisk pace showed no signs of slowing, and as you reached out to grab his arm, the narrowness of the alley made it easy for him to turn around swiftly.

"How dare you touch me, you wretched Mudblood!" he hissed, his eyes ablaze with hatred.

Before you could react, he unleashed a hex.

It hit you with an intensity that sent a shockwave of pain radiating through your body. The force of the curse flung you backwards, and you collided with the cold stone wall, gasping for breath. A searing pain radiates throughout your body, and you cough, looking down. It was akin to some sort of slash, as though he had hit you with an invisible thing, a clean cut on your thigh, and arm. You see a drop of blood drip down onto your skirt and, dazed, bring your hand up to your face. You feel something wet, and when you pull your hand back it has a crimson red glistening on your fingertips, and-

oh.

There was a cut on your face too.

As you steadied yourself, you felt the searing pain intensify, a burning sensation spreading from the point of impact on your arm. Theodore's father approached with a malevolent satisfaction etched across his face. He looms over you, glaring down at you.

"You'd do well to heed my warning, Mudblood," he sneers, his voice low and menacing. "Stay away from my son, or next time, the consequences will be even more severe."

He cast a disdainful glance at your injured form before straightening up, his dark cloak billowing as he walked away without a second thought.

You took a deep breath, shuddering as you braced your palms against the cobblestone floor of the alleyway. You push yourself up, wincing as you try to ignore the throbbing pain in your body as you gingerly get up.

You gather your scattered belongings and look around, seeing nothing but the near-empty village. Summoning every ounce of strength, you began to limp back towards the castle, the weight of humiliation pressing down on your shoulders.

You felt exposed. The idea that Theodore had hidden such a massive thing from you, made you feel all the more humiliated.

You keep your head down and soon enough appear at Hogwarts. It doesn't give you the happiness it usually does, rather you just want to go back to your room and change, and sleep.

It was at this moment that you were rather glad that you decided to come back early, for you can only imagine the looks you'd get if it was packed full of students.

Exhausted, and simply just over it, you make your way up to the dorm. There are only two other students you spotted on the way, but they were far too busy snogging the daylights out of one another to notice you.

It reminded you of…

Theodore.

How would you face Theodore? Did you want to face Theodore?

No, you resolved, you didn’t. You couldn't comprehend keeping such a key detail from someone, let alone the person you loved. Why he did that to you, you’d never understand.

You unlock your dorm room door, dropping your bag at the door, You look up and to your utter confusion, see Theodore sitting on your bed. He looks up at you, the smile on his face very quickly replaced with a deep frown.

He gets up, and-

oh.

Never mind.

You did want to be near him.

You really wanted to be near him.

It was stupid really. You didn’t feel like crying at all, but the second you saw Theodore, that feeling very quickly resolved into the urge to bury your face into your chest, and not stop.

So you did.

Theodore's arms envelop you, and he holds you impossibly tight. He swears every sob that comes from you chips away at his being and he soothes you, rubbing your back as he holds you.

Theodore can count the number of times he's felt pure anger on one hand. Sheer rage. The type that consumes you from the inside out. Once when he was 8, and his mother passed away. He remembers hearing his father disregard the whole thing with such cruel indifference he felt as though a fire was blazing him from the inside out. As with many young wizards his age, he did not know how to control this magic.

He ended up setting fire to the library that day.

The second time, in 1st year, when Alicia Thornsby had made a cruel remark about Theodore’s home life.

“Well, my mother said that Theodore must have a horrible holiday. What, with his father being-” She starts, but she didn’t get to finish.

The teachers couldn’t comprehend under what vindication a child learnt a stinging hex strong enough to permanently mar the skin of the girl, but it was the first and last time anyone dared utter a word against Theodore.

That was the 2nd, and last time Theodore had felt unbridled rage, in his 18 years of life.

That was, until today.

Because, the sight of you, with blood on your cheek, sobbing into his chest, was enough to reignite that dormant flame of anger within Theodore.

“Who?” He manages to utter, voice strained.

You remain quiet, the silence punctuated by the occasional sniffle as you remain hidden in his chest.

He pulls back, lifting your chin. Your eyes are fixated on where the once-dried blood had washed onto his shirt, and he is fixated on you.

“Who?” He emphasises again, his eyes flickering down to the cut on your face. He runs his finger gently along the cut, and when he watches you wince he pauses, a flicker of pain crossing his face. The sight of you wincing, even at his gentle touch, shatters something within Theodore.

You hesitate before you speak, but ultimately, the words slip out of your mouth.

“Your father.”

The weight of those two words, "Your father," hung in the air, and for a moment, Theodore felt as if the very ground beneath him had crumbled.

His eyes widen momentarily, and he can't speak.

No, because there's a horrible feeling of fear, guilt, regret, perhaps a combination of all three, and it's lodged in his throat. It’s almost suffocating him, he can barely breathe, and it's constricting his airways.

The image of you, the person he held dearest, broken and bloodied, collided with the nightmare he had feared for years. He couldn't comprehend the cruelty his own flesh and blood had inflicted upon you, someone he cherished beyond measure. He speaks, and his voice is so heartbreakingly soft, a mere whisper weighed down by the burden of the truth that unfolded before him.

“I'm so, so sorry.” He utters, as though he prompted the hand that came down to hit you.

He believed he did. Because it was only by association, that you had been hurt by his father. That was why you were hurt, right?

His fault. All his fault. All his fault.

He has to take a deep breath and force himself to calm down and think.

Think.

His first priority was you. Always you. He leads you down to your bed and forces you to take a seat on the edge. You watch him as he disappears into the bathroom, reemerging with a damp washcloth in his hand. He kneels down in front of you, hesitating as he slowly lifts the hem of your skirt upwards slightly. He catches a glimpse of the gash on your thigh and that horrible feeling remerges again.

He gently wipes the cloth over the cut, leaning down to press a kiss on your skin. He mutters a few words, and with a small sharp pinch, the skin on your thigh begins to stitch up slightly. Not enough to fully heal, but to ensure it would in the future.

You don’t question how he knows exactly how to heal these wounds.

You know.

He does the same for your arm. Every second he stares at the cut, he feels his resolve shatter further and further, till he can tell whether he wants to cry or ensure the murder of his father with his own hands.

His hands come up to your face, and he lets out a shaky breath. He is ashamed to even look you in the face,

His own reflection of guilt and regret is etched into his features. He keeps his eyes focused on the task at hand, tending to the wounds inflicted upon you by the person who Theodore swore would never even set his gaze on you.

The room is filled with an anguished silence as Theodore continues his ministrations.

As he tends to your injuries, Theodore's mind is a battleground of self-recrimination. The echoes of your sobbing, the memory of your blood on his shirt, haunt him like a relentless ghost. "I'm so, so sorry," he whispers again, the words heavy with remorse as if he could somehow atone for the sins of his family.

With each stitch on your wounds, he feels the seams of his composure unravelling.

When he finally lifts his gaze to meet yours, the vulnerability in his eyes is palpable. The shame he feels is evident.

You muster a weak smile, a hand coming up to cup his face. Your thumb brushes against his cheek lovingly as you speak, your voice calm.

“It's not your fault,”

He wants to cry.

It is. It is his fault.

Theodore pulls you into an embrace, holding you tightly against his chest. The warmth of his embrace is both comforting and suffocating, a paradox of love and guilt; a conflict that threatens to tear him apart.

As Theodore lies down with you, the weight of his guilt still hangs in the air. He holds you as if trying to shield you from the world. He utters words of apology, repeating the words like a mantra.

“I love you.”

But amidst the soothing cadence of his voice, there's an undercurrent of resolution. The conflict within Theodore reaches its zenith, and a painful decision emerges. He knows he can't risk his father ever hurting you again. The love he feels for you clashes with the harsh reality of his future.

Theodore's grip tightens for a moment as if trying to hold onto the fleeting moments of solace. Yet, with a heavy heart, the decision he has to make is almost clear.

“It isn't your fault. Don't apologise.” You whisper, curled into his arms.

“It is. It's all my fault. I got you involved in this,” He utters, as though the admission is poison on his tongue.

“I’m not a good person. I have a horrible family, and he’ll want me to do horrible things, and I’ll have to do them.” He admits, voice breaking.

“No, you don’t. I’m here. I love you, Theodore. I won’t ever leave, and I swear you won’t deal with that alone.” You repeat, voice laced with conviction.

“I'm beyond help. Don’t give your heart to me.” He croaks.

You lift your head up from where it was resting, eyes gazing directly into his. You remain silent for a beat, then two, before you speak.

“I already have.” You respond.

Theodore should feel relief at those words, but he doesn't. Rather, he feels sick. Because he can’t, he won't risk you getting hurt again. He kisses you and pulls you back in, laying next to one another as he wraps his arms around you and holds you tightly, if only for one last night.

Because there was only one thing Theodore could do to make sure his father would never hurt you again.

He had to leave you.

#slytherin #slytherin boys #harry potter #tom riddle #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #slytherin boys fic #theodore nott #blaise zabini #pansy parkinson #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott angst #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott fic

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tiredcowboyy · 18 days

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I cant stop thinking ab the idea of merlin one day post s5, where they all survived, becoming really secretive and protective of his room and not telling anyone at all whats inside. Not even gaius. He even gets a lock installed and whenever anybody asks he brushes it off with jokes like “its to stop arthur from finding me” or smth.

he also unrelatedly really hates any talk of destiny, going to war, and anytime morgana mentions her fear of her magic turning her merlin slightly freaks out.

That is until one day gaius manages to catch merlin off guard while hes rushing between the main room and his bedroom and walks in.

Only to see a whole bunch of stuff that hes never seen before.

Merlin freaks out, tries to play it off as some weird experiments and stuff hes been collecting but gaius can feel it, somethings different about these items, not wrong but not right. Not really magic either.

It takes 3 weeks of gaius pestering him before merlin breaks and explains to him that he IS A TIME TRAVELER. after the battle of camlan as we know it that lead to arthurs death, merlin did wait, he really did, but in the year 2020 when arthur didnt return for yet another global crisis, merlin broke and did spell upon spell until he figured out how throw himself back in time.

And holy shit did it work well. He managed to come back just at the perfect time to change everything that needed to be done to assure that everyone lives happily and safely, and when he realises hes done it, he decides to stay in this time. See his friends and family grow old as they should have. See arthur rule as he should have. Live the life he has been craving to go back to for centuries now.

Until a month in he realises how old everything is. Sure merlin can survive without his phone and stuff but theres a few things he really misses. Like his slippers, his potato peeler, his favourite hoodie, and especially his favourite tea flavours.

So once in a while he allowed himself to go back to the modern day and bring one thing back. He started with a scented candle, because candles exist in camelot and having one here shouldn’t mess up time right? Then moved onto a herbal tea that he knows if he traveled past the boarders he may be able to find similar ingredients.

Then he brings a new release of his favourite book series because he cant help it and realises small things like that dont change time.

And so thats what he’s been hiding away in his room, all of his modern day stuff. Ranging from trinkets hes collected over his life to his favourite scarf to his stuffed lion that he won at a fair in the 80s. He doesn’t go back often, only when his tea runs out or he really needs something, he tries to limit it he really does.

It takes gaius another 4 weeks to wrap his head around it all. Another 2 weeks after that to touch merlins stuffed lion thinking it may attack him at any moment.

He makes gaius promise to not tell a soul, offering him tea bags as payment. They have a nice system from then on, gaius would try a new flavour of tea everytime merlin returned, once in a while he would also bring a modern day snack (gaius yelled when he first tried salt and vinegar crisps).

A yell which led to leon finding out. And so a cycle began.

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dabiekql · 5 months

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JJK Gojo, Megumi, Itadori, Inumaki, Yuta - When Y/N's Hands are Freezing (Fluff)

-----

Gojo Satoru

Y/n rubbed hands together to create friction in hopes of making them warm.

"Out of all the days, I just had to forget to bring my gloves." Y/n grumbled in annoyance as she continued to rub her hands together.

Gojo came to a stop at her actions and wrapped his hands over hers. "Look! Isn't it warmer now?!"

Y/n's face heated up at the sudden contact that she was glad it was cold today. She had something to blame for her warmed up face.

"Are you an idiot? How are we supposed to walk if you grab my hands like that?!" Y/n grumbled with a fake annoyance to hide her embarrassment.

Y/n quickly removed her hands from his and walked in a fast pace.

'That's cheating, stupid Toru.' Y/n thought to herself as she pulled her scarf higher to her face.

Meanwhile, Gojo made a face of disbelief as he quickly caught up with her. "Huh?! That doesn't mean you get to just remove your hands like that!"

When y/n didn't reply to him, Gojo whined. "Y~~/~~N~~! So?!! You don't wanna hold my hand?? Huh??? Come onnnn!"

Y/n glanced at him briefly before holding his hand. She cleared her throat before saying, "Just because it's warm."

Gojo grinned widely as he hugged her tightly. "You're so adorable!"

"S-Stupid Toru!"

Y/n escaped his grip and quickly walked away from him. Gojo grinned at her before quickly chasing after her. "Y/n!!! So you really won't hold my hand?!"

-----

Fushiguro Megumi

Y/n tends to get cold easily that she always makes sure that she was wrapped up with layers, but she just happened to sleep through her alarm that she really didn't have the time to do so. She rubbed her bare hands together, trying to make it warm. "I can't believe I slept through my alarm..."

Megumi glanced at her briefly before grabbed her hand and pulling it to his pocket. Y/n stared at him in shock since he wasn't really the type to have any physical contact.

"It was annoying..." Megumi mumbled lowly without looking at her.

Y/n smiled at his excuse since she knows he just struggles to be honest with her. She didn't say anything to that and tightened her hold against his.

-----

Itadori Yuji

Itadori was waiting for y/n out the gate when he heard her voice behind him. He smiled at her voice as he turned to look at her, but his face quickly fell in worry when he saw her bare hands. When y/n reached within his arm distance, he wrapped his warm hands against hers. "Where are your gloves?"

Y/n had a sheepish smile as she mumbled that she lost it. At her response, Itadori thought for a moment before removing one of his gloves and putting it on her hand. The warmness spread through y/n's hand that she smiled unconsciously, but she looked at him with concern. "How about you, Yuji?"

She tried to remove his gloves, but Itadori was quick to stop her. He then grabbed her bare hand with his bare hand before grinning at her. "Now we are both warm."

Y/n's face flushed as she nodded her head with a smile.

-----

Inumaki Toge

(I still don't really understand his onigiri language T^T)

Inumaki flinched at the sudden back hug and was about to turn around to check who it was before he heard a familiar laugh. He sighed before mumbling, "Okaka"

"Hehe but it's fun!" y/n smiled before letting go of him.

That was when he saw her bare hands. "Takana?"

At his question, y/n shrugged her shoulders. "I lost it."

Inumaki sighed before giving her a look. "Mentaiko! Takana!"

Y/n covered her ears with her hands as she ran away from him. Inumaki quickly followed after her. When he caught up, he removed his gloves before putting them on her instead.

"But now you'll be cold!"

"Tuna mayo."

In the end, y/n wore his gloves while Inumaki warmed his hands inside his pocket.

-----

Okkotsu Yuta

Yuta was waiting for the bus with y/n and he noticed her keep rubbing her hands together as she blew on them. He reciprocated her actions and when his hands were warm enough, he wrapped his hands around hers. "Is it warm?"

Y/n smiled at his actions and the warmness spreading on her hands. "It's warm!"

Yuta smiled at her before blowing onto her hands to keep it warm. "Is it warmer like this?"

"U-huh!" Y/n nodded her head.

Yuta could see and hear that she was in a good mood that he sighed in relief and continued to keep her hands warm as they waited for the bus.

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levitiquee · 6 months

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Cold outside.

“Levi, whatcha making?”

“Mm.”

It was a question you asked him everyday. Everyday when you caught him back in the couch with his crochet tools, his hands moving as he looped the hook one after another. And it was a question he ignored everyday.

But you watched eagerly. Even without two fingers, how he managed to keep working so effortlessly and flawlessly was mind-blowing to you, because the last time you attempted it, you ended up with only a huge mess of yarn. Yet, he did it as easily as if he’d been doing it for years.

After the war ended, the two of you found yourself with these huge stretched periods of free time that none of you know what to do with. It was specially harder for him, living his whole life constantly working, never taking a second to relax. Work is all he ever knew. Now that it was all over, he was overwhelmed how absurdly long days are. Not that he actually minded, he absolutely loved having more hours to spend with you. But it was the feeling of uselessness that took over him. With his physical state, there wasn’t a lot of physical activities he could do to keep himself busy either.

That’s when you started experimenting. You started trying out things with him, cooking, reading, sewing (He was good at all of them) but surprisingly it was crochet that stuck with him. (Despite his initial protests that it was for old people and how it doesn’t suit him.) So, since then, you often found him sitting on the couch, fiddling with his yarn and hooks and whatsonot. He’s even made a lot of little household things and so, though he gets embarrassed whenever he sees you actually using them. You adored them though, they were beautiful.

It was only recently he started working on a certain something. Something he refused to tell you or even let you see it. And curiosity ate you up from inside, (Because what could it possibly be that he has to hide from you?), but you always gave up after trying for a few minutes, because first of all, the man was absolutely stubborn and pestering Levi usually never ended well.

But you asked the question everyday.

“Are you ever gonna tell me what you’re making?”

“Maybe. If you stop bugging me.”

“Is it for me?’’ You asked, grinning. “Is that why you’re shy?”

He never answered, only shifted his work a little more out of your sight.

You still watched him though. How could you not? It was such an elegant sight, the way he has his eyes all narrowed in concentration, fingers working carefully. Sometimes, he does this thing where he bites down on his lip, and you don’t think he even realizes that, but holy shit, did it get you feeling all gooey.

But then again,everything Levi Ackerman does has you feeling that way.

“What’s taking you so long?” You called out, rubbing your hands together. It was the end of December, it only started snowing since last weekend. To say the weather was freezing would be an understatement, Levi practically had to drag you out of the covers every morning. And even now, all bundled up in jackets and sweaters and gloves and socks, you could still feel the cold poking your skin. You puffed out little foggy breaths, watching them as they faded away.

“You’re shivering, idiot.”

Hand clasped on your shoulder, turning you around. Before you even got to blink, Levi was wrapping something warm around your neck clumsily.

"It's cold outside." He muttered under his breath as an explanation.

You let out a sigh of relief almost immediately, soaking in the bundle of heat. It was so soft, fluffy, warm and…

A scarf?

Your hands reached out to feel it, and it was as you thought.

You looked up and Levi was already turning away, grabbing your hand and tugging you forward.

“Wait!” You stopped him, pulling back your hands.

“What? Weren’t you the one eager to go for a walk?” He turned around, looking at you, confused.

“But..” You trailed off, looking down at the white wool, fingers still feeling the softness. “Did you..did you make this Levi?”

Levi was silent for a few seconds, then gave the slightest nod, his eyes on the ground.

Your jaw dropped.

“No way.”

“...do you not like it?” He glanced up, voice timid. Almost as if he’s scared you’ll say no.

You stared at him in disbelief.

“Are you kidding?” You blinked, you were feeling so many things, you couldn’t even begin to sort them out. “Levi..that’s what you’ve been doing? This is for me?”

“You’re the one wearing it, aren’t you?”

You swallowed, choking on your emotions. Levi showing affection such way was so rare, but when he really did, they were always things you never even thought of. When he did something, he always gave his most.

You brought up one hand to wipe the little tears that formed on your eyes. “Oh wow, I’m crying.” You let out a little laugh. “I might start bawling,.”

“What the–” He frowned, reaching out to you but hand pausing midair, unsure what to do. “I’m…sorry?”

“Oh, Levi, it’s not that.” You let out a half snort. This absolute clueless idiot.

“Well, you’re acting weird. Did you like it or not?”

“I..” You inhaled. “Levi, you fool. I love it.”

And Levi exhaled, his shoulders finally relaxing. “That’s..” He mumbled, glancing at you. “That’s good then.”

And you stared at him for a few seconds, relief washed over his features. His cold gray eyes holding a warmth that was only ever reserved for you. The tips of his ear and nose were red, as it always was when he was flustered or embarrassed. There were flakes of snow on his hair, the night breeze blowing his bangs away from his face, ruining what was always so carefully combed.

He looked like an angel. Something ethereal sent from the heavens above.

It was so surreal, you had to pinch yourself.

“Ow.” You mumbled.

He was quick to grab your hand. “Now, what the hell was that for?” He demanded.

“Huh?” You looked up, still in a daze. “Just..” And your face broke into a stupid, stupid smile. You suddenly felt so unbelievably gleeful. “Just really happy.”

He wasn’t sure what one had to do with the other, but he stared at you. Unpredictable, always so. But it was so easy to make you happy. It makes him feel sometimes as though he doesn't deserve this.

Even after so many years of being with you, your smile had never failed to tug his heart. And suddenly, he felt like that young teenager he was when he first met you, when he couldn’t even greet you casually without stuttering over his words. Just as flustered, just as stupid, just as shy.

Next thing you know, he was pulling you by the very scarf, leaning down to press his lips against yours, trying to tell you all the things he never really had the courage to say out loud. That he was so grateful. And he wants to say thank you, thank you for staying alive, for not leaving, for giving him a chance, for always sticking with him, for giving him a taste of what living feels like.

And he's telling you I love you over and over, he hopes this is enough. Enough for you to convey how his heart feels because his tongue geys tied up everytime he tries. He wishes he could burn the words against your lips. Because he's always so scared that you might never really understand how grateful he is and how important you are.

"I love you."

You pulled away to breathe, stumbling out the words, exhaling out a cloud of fog. You looked up, wide eyes reassuring him you know. Reassuring him that It's okay if he never really says it, but you know.

“I love this and I love you.”

Levi gulped and nodded, hoping to let you know that he felt the same. Except he was a coward and you were not.

It was enough for you though. You shot a bright grin, cheeks all red. Giddily, you grabbed his hand, pulling him along.

“Easy.” He said. “You’ll slip.”

You hummed, waving away his words. “I’m never taking it off by the way.”

“Yeah sure.”

“I’m serious. And I’m going to show it off to everyone.”

“Uh-huh.”

And then you blabbered some more nonsense things that he couldn’t really focus on as he was more busy watching you and the way your eyes shone.

“I love you,” He whispers quietly to himself.

Maybe one day, he’ll finally be able to say that out loud.

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poisonlove · 3 months

Text

Apocalypse | Jenna Ortega

Author: Yesterday, I watched World War Z… that movie inspired me.

"There it is, you can do it," I whisper to myself, tightly gripping the iron baseball bat in my hands. The awareness of the darkness outside the abandoned house begins to set in. I can no longer ignore the need to face the imminent danger: zombies.

It feels surreal to think that I have to confront creatures that once existed only in video games and movies. Who would have ever imagined that reality would take such an unexpected turn? The pistol in my pocket, the pump-action shotgun behind my back, and the kitchen knife taped to my leg become my improvised allies in this fight for survival. I step out of the house, ready to face what once seemed impossible but is now the harsh reality.

I had to go and find something to eat.

The door opens slowly under my hand, the iron bat raised menacingly as I carefully survey the surroundings. My eyes move from left to right, inspecting every corner, from top to bottom, searching for any sign of imminent threat. The silence is interrupted by guttural groans of an approaching zombie.

Freezing in place, my heart pounds as the creature gets closer. Without making a sound, I take refuge behind a wrecked car, holding my breath. I watch as the zombie—a woman of perhaps thirty—limps slowly down the street. Her eyes are white, the sign of a bite still visible on her neck. The movements are uncoordinated, and the teeth clatter together, producing a horrible sound.

The female zombie starts banging against the wall. Zombies that have nothing left to bite go into a state of absolute rest. Crawling to avoid stepping on debris, I cautiously circle the car. A horrible noise emanates from the zombie's mouth, her head turning to the left for no apparent reason.

I stay still.

The zombie turns her head the other way. I check my agitation and quickly cross the street, sighing in relief at having overcome the obstacle. The tension persists, but my determination to survive in this chaotic world strengthens.

I pick up the pace, eyes still vigilant on the surroundings, and sneak into the abandoned grocery store. Through the empty shelves, I hope to find at least some preserved food that survived the chaos of the past few days.

Footsteps make me slow down, and quickly, I hide behind the liquor aisle, clutching the bat tightly. I watch carefully as I turn the corner and see no one.

Closing my eyes, I hear fast steps approaching from behind. "Damn," I whisper before turning and raising the bat toward the noise. Before me stands another armed girl. The tension eases slightly, but I remain vigilant, aware that in this new world, every encounter can be risky.

"What the hell," I say with surprise.

The girl lowers the scarf from her face. Two brown eyes stare at me with confusion. The gun continues to point at me.

"Are you a zombie?" she asks seriously, the gun barrel shaking briefly along my body.

"What? No!" I say incredulously, lowering the weapon. "Do I look like zombies talk?" I say obviously.

"You never know," she exclaims, raising an eyebrow with confusion. "Maybe you're infected," she says, smirking mockingly.

"I could say the same," I roll my eyes at her comment. "Can we avoid humans fighting each other?" I ask kindly, and the girl analyzes my words before slowly lowering the weapon.

"Do you also want to drink to forget this shit situation?" she asks, changing the subject. She turns to the shelf, looking for something to drink, shaking off the tension. She takes half-empty whiskey and shakes her backpack, opens it, and puts the drink inside.

"Actually, I would have used it in case of emergency... to disinfect some wounds," I say, grabbing bourbon.

The girl takes a sip of tequila and squints her eyes at the strong taste. "Everyone does as they please," she says, smiling broadly.

My eyes curiously observe the girl: deer-like eyes, full lips, and a radiant smile. A dimple on her cheek when she smiles.

"Do you only need alcohol?" she asks curiously.

"Food," I say simply, and the girl nods.

"Come, I'll take you to the canned food aisle," she says, smiling broadly.

My eyes catch the tag on her shirt: Jenna Ortega. Most likely, she was an employee of this supermarket before chaos erupted.

I walk cautiously behind the girl, ready to defend myself from any potential ambush. Zombies were horrible, but hungry and scared humans were just as dangerous.

"Here we are," she says kindly.

I watch the girl, now knowing her name is Jenna, thinking that maybe she's too kind for this world now falling apart.

"Take it," before walking towards the canned food aisle, I grab walkie-talkies from the box, tear off the packaging, and throw one to Jenna.

"For any eventuality," I say with a small smile on my lips.

I walk towards the shelf and kneel on the floor. I open the backpack and start putting various cans of canned meat, fruits, tomatoes, and any long-lasting food inside.

My walkie-talkie makes a sound.

Confused, I press the button to hear what Jenna had to say. "What's your name? Over and out," I smile in surprise.

"Y/n," I reply.

"Jenna," she chuckles softly. "If you come to aisle 5, corridor 2, there's water. Over and out," she whispers, and I cautiously get up from the floor.

I walk towards her indication and put 3 water bottles inside and two more in the respective backpack pockets.

I reach Jenna, who was waiting leaning against a wall. My head turns towards the supermarket checkout, and I widen my eyes seeing two zombies: One of them has blood on the face, while the other emits guttural sounds from the throat.

Jenna is about to open her mouth, but I quickly walk towards her and put my hand on her mouth. She looks at me with confusion, her breath hitting my hand. Small freckles surround her face; the girl is relatively attractive.

With my head, I indicate where to look, and Jenna slowly obeys. I remove my hand from her face, and she raises her hand with the gun.

"Too much noise," I whisper, and Jenna puts the gun in her pocket.

"Where do we get out?" I say with concern, noticing other zombies near the rear exit.

"Storage," Jenna whispers, pointing to a door behind the checkout.

We walk slowly and cautiously towards our goal, avoiding attracting the attention of the zombies near the entrance just two meters from the checkout.

We reach the storage door, but as soon as we open it, a horrible creaking attracts the attention of the zombies.

"Run!" I say anxiously, seeing how the two zombies chase us, horrible noises coming from their mouths. With a decisive blow, my bat strikes the skull of one zombie as I close the door behind us, trying to stem the flow of invaders. However, the noise has attracted other undead, and the situation becomes more critical.

"Let's go!" Jenna exclaims, taking my hand and dragging me behind her. "We're close to my hideout!" she whispers weakly.

I turn around, and a horde of ten zombies follows us ferociously, running disoriented with annoying noises coming from their wide-open mouths.

We continue to flee, Jenna leading with determination. I hit some zombies that emerge in the alleys, the bat slicing the air with fierceness. Jenna, with agility, climbs the fire escape, seeking temporary refuge from the ever-growing threat.

In the frenzy of the fight, I grab the knife and accurately strike another zombie straight in the eye, trying to clear our path. Meanwhile, Jenna (who was behind me as she kicked a zombie's jaw) quickly climbs the stairs, pulling it up behind her, preventing the zombies from following us.

The fight continues; I shoot some zombies, trying to contain the horde that becomes more numerous. "Be careful, Jenna!" I shout as the bat moves fiercely, the knife sinking into rotten flesh. Jenna, with a concentrated look, replies, "We're making our way, hang on!"

New undead join the chaos; their moans and screams fill the air. "These don't give up easily!" Jenna shouts behind a gunshot, the deafening sound in the tight hunt in the apocalypse.

We reach the top of the building; the situation becomes critical. "We have to jump!" Jenna yells, the instructions clear in the tension of the moment. "WHAT?" I reply, my bat still stained with zombie blood. Jenna guides the jump with skill, and in the adrenaline of the moment, I follow her indication.

The fall is controlled but full of adrenaline.

I quickly turn towards the horde of zombies behind us and sigh with relief as one by one, they fall from the building, crashing into the street.

"We're safe," Jenna says, smiling broadly. "Safe? How can you smile in this situation?" I say incredulously.

Jenna opens a window and briefly checks the inside before entering. I follow her, scrutinizing the surrounding environment with a mix of anxiety and curiosity. The tension in our journey through the zombie apocalypse seems to momentarily ease, but the weight of reality persists, anchored in our gazes and the visible traces of uncertain survival.

"Well, there's no one," Jenna says after inspecting every corner of the apartment, locking the entrance as a precaution.

"Well," I say, sighing tiredly. "Don't turn on too many lights," I suggest, and Jenna smiles.

Jenna sits on the couch, holding a bottle of whisky in her hands. We settle, and Jenna takes a sip. "Tell me, Y/n... what awaits you at home?" she encourages.

I begin to speak, sharing the weight of my experience during the apocalypse. "No one... I lost sight of my family," I confess, my gaze turning to the uncertain horizon. "I sincerely hope they are still alive."

Jenna listens attentively, her eyes reflecting empathy. Then, it's her turn to share. She recounts losing everything, friends who died in front of her eyes after a car accident during the apocalypse. Sadness permeates the room as our stories intertwine in a context of devastation and loss.

So here we are, two souls seeking a bit of comfort in this ruined world, sharing the burden of our stories in a dialogue of sadness and hope.

Jenna rests her head on my shoulder, taking another sip of whiskey. Her shoulders tremble as the brunette starts to sob.

I feel her palpable pain, like an echo of the tragedies we both have endured. Instinctively, I try to comfort her. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, attempting to convey a sense of closeness and understanding. "We're here together, Jenna," I whisper gently, hoping my words can offer some relief in the darkness surrounding us. "We'll find a solution," I add, trying to infuse hope. "I'm sure they'll rescue us," I say as I run a hand along her shoulder.

Jenna clears her throat and lifts her head to look at me intently, her breath infused with alcohol mingling with mine. The brunette leans in slowly. I shyly turn my face the other way, burying my head in the hollow of her neck.

I wrap my arms around her waist, trying to convey a sense of calm and mutual understanding. Jenna timidly reciprocates the hug.

"Now is not the time to kiss... you're drunk, and we just met today," I say, smiling slightly.

"I'm not drunk... I need to distract myself... that's all," she says simply, revealing a fragment of vulnerability beneath the surface of the apocalypse.

Jenna looks up and gazes at me attentively, her eyes moving from the bottom to the top of my face. Jenna straddles my legs, the brunette leaning hesitantly towards my face, wanting to avoid a potential rejection. I can understand what she wants... Jenna simply desires to forget for a moment the hell that is burning through the streets of our city. The brunette raises a hand and places it on my cheek, wiping away soot with her thumb.

"And besides... even in clubs, you meet someone that night... before having fun..." she whispers and smiles broadly. I roll my eyes at her comment and melt shyly when I feel Jenna's lips gently pressing against mine.

I place my hands on her hips and reciprocate the kiss.

Jenna breaks the kiss and pulls her shirt over her head, looking at me with eyes that are beginning to widen due to the heated atmosphere. "I can't believe you want to have sex right now," I chuckle as Jenna unbuttons my camouflage jeans, her lips making contact with my skin.

"Don't blame me," she says, smiling on my neck.

My hands roam over her body, the skin tingling with shivers. Jenna joins our lips again in a swift movement, and I sigh against hers.

I think I can let go I think to myself, smiling unconsciously during the kiss.

(...)

"Damn," the exhausted brunette whispers. Jenna flops onto the opposite side of the bed, smiling as she catches her breath.

"Did you enjoy it?" I ask with genuine interest while sitting on the bed to retrieve the pants strewn on the floor. I put on a T-shirt and slip the jacket between my arms.

My eyes glance at my weapons lying on the floor.

"Yeah... but there was no need to dress up," I smile and turn my head in her direction. Jenna looks at me with a smile plastered on her lips, her body completely free from clothes.

I bite my lip mischievously.

"Do you still have energy?" I inquire, and Jenna chuckles softly. "No, I'm exhausted... out of steam," she states, and I laugh at her comment.

I lace up my boots and crouch on the floor, remaining at the same eye level as Jenna. "I'm really sorry... I don't want to seem like a girl who uses you," I brush a strand of hair from her face. "But I can't rest until we're safe and sound," I say, and Jenna genuinely smiles.

"I understand." Jenna brushes my nose with hers and gives me a small kiss on the lips. "Good," I smile and place my lips on her forehead.

I get up and leave the room, sliding into the silence of the deserted structure. While exploring the apartment for something useful, my eyes fall on a radio on one of the shelves. I decide to tune it, and amidst the static, the words of a national announcement emerge.

"Survivors, we invite you to reach the top of the MCI Center. A rescue operation is underway. We await you. The operation will take 3 days, and we will pick up any survivors at dawn."

I return to the room with Jenna, my heart pounding. "We have a chance," I announce, trying to convey the news cautiously. "They've organized a rescue operation. We just have to reach the top of a building five blocks away. Let's get ready for the journey."

Jenna genuinely smiles and gets up from the bed, starting to dress with determination. The atmosphere in the room oscillates between tension and hope. As Jenna puts on her clothes, her gaze meets mine, reflecting a mix of emotions.

"Three days to prepare," Jenna says, clenching her jaw with determination. "We have to make sure we have everything we need. Weapons, food, and anything that might be useful for the journey."

I nod in agreement. "Right. We need to be ready to face anything along the way. We don't know what awaits us out there."

We lock eyes, aware that time is running out. The rescue operation represents our hope to leave behind the nightmare of the zombies and find a safe haven. It's time to prepare for the journey that will determine our fate.

Three days later

"Damn! Help me!" I lean against the door, trying to prevent the zombies from getting in.

Yesterday, during our slow and challenging journey, Jenna and I encountered three-quarters of the Mayers family on the street: Martin, Emma, and Percy. We faced a myriad of zombies, and the run never let up. We were on the 28th floor of the redemption building just 10 minutes from extraction. Jenna was covered in sweat and had just finished the bullets. Percy had an axe, and Martin had a nice hunting rifle.

But ammunition was scarce.

I had long lost the knife I had thrown at a zombie trying to bite Jenna, and the pistol was completely empty. I only had the pump-action shotgun left.

"I got this," Percy, out of breath, hands me the axe, and I use it as a lock to block the door.

I look down, and my blood freezes seeing a scratch on my leg... was it a zombie? Just a scratch? Did I fall? But while I was trying to block the door, a couple of arms tried to touch me to get in.

"Go!" I say breathlessly. Emma looks at me confused and starts running up the stairs with her father. Jenna looks at me with a raised eyebrow as she approaches me, offering her hand. I look at her fearfully.

"Go..." I say hesitantly and slightly scared. Percy gives me a quick glance before following the family up the stairs.

"Don't play the hero and come with me," Jenna smiles genuinely, and I look at my leg. The brunette follows my line of sight, and her eyes immediately lose their brightness. "It's just a scratch." Jenna approaches without fear and looks at me with a small smile on her lips.

The zombie screams continue, and the door was about to give way despite having the axe.

"It could also be a zombie..." I say seriously, and Jenna sighs loudly.

The brunette places her hands around my face and forces me to look her in the eyes. "I don't want to lose you either," she confesses, and my heart flutters thanks to her words. "You're all I have left..." she says softly and leans towards my face, joining our lips in a swift motion.

I close my eyes during the kiss and let myself be carried away by the emotion.

"If I turn, shoot me, okay?" I quickly say, and Jenna nods sadly.

Jenna reaches out, and this time, I grab her hand without thinking twice. As soon as we reach the second flight of stairs, the door breaks, and the zombies run towards us. I kick one zombie, and we run even faster up the stairs.

"Help me with this!" I grab the wardrobe leaning against the stairs, and Jenna quickly understands my intentions.

The brunette leans, and together we throw the wardrobe, slowing down the zombies.

Jenna runs up the stairs, and finally, the door leading to the roof is visible. Emma was at the door, urging us to move. Emma points the rifle I had given her before coming here and shoots some zombies, blowing their heads off.

"Let's go!" Jenna yells and takes my hand again.

A huge smile appears on our lips as we see the helicopter flying over the building from above; some soldiers descend from the vehicle with AK-47s.

"Get in!" one of them shouts. "Girl, get out of there!" he adds, and Emma quickly turns around, running behind us. A horde of zombies exits through the door, the soldiers shoot at the horde and meanwhile retreat.

I throw myself onto the helicopter, Jenna behind me. "We made it!" Jenna yells to Martin and Percy. I smile broadly.

Emma gets in, and the soldiers jump on the helicopter, which starts to move away quickly from the building.

"We made it," I say, smiling slightly, and Jenna nods at my words. The brunette takes my face and kisses me passionately in front of everyone.

"Together," Jenna whispers, resting her forehead against mine, and I unconsciously smile at her gesture.

"We were there too," Percy intervenes, and we all burst into laughter. The atmosphere was completely different now, and I am truly grateful to avoid any confrontation with the zombies now... I just wanted to sleep peacefully and wake up next to Jenna.

The brunette rests her head on my shoulder and closes her eyes to relax a bit.

I think we can enjoy this moment of peace.

#jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x fem!reader #wednesday addams x reader #miércoles addams #wednesday addams x you #wednesday x you #zombie apocalypse

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homunculus-argument · 10 months

Text

Random worldbuilding:

You're walking through an otherwise completely ordinary modern city, but there are countless varying flags hung on the walls of the buildings - on peoples' balconies, windows, rows of little tilted flagpoles on the walls of apartment buildings, one per apartment apparently - each one having a flag. No two flags appear to be the same. You hear yelling from the window of one apartment somewhere above, and turn around just in time to see a couple unfurl yet another flag, hanging it from their own respective pole.

Your local guide remarks that they must have just moved in. Most people lay claim to the apartment as soon as they get the keys and the contract has been signed, and only throw a housewarming party and celebrate moving in a month later, once the apartment has been successfully "claimed". By the look on your face, your host concludes that you have no idea what they're talking about, or what it has to do with the flags.

Your host begins explaining: several centuries ago the land was devastated by a deadly plague - many houses, homesteads, even whole villages were wiped out, the buildings left standing empty. And survivors with nothing to stay for in the places where they were born were roaming about, trying to find a new place to live. To solve both problems, a decree was made: If a wandering party finds an abandoned homestead and raises their own flag on top of the building and manages to stay there for a whole month without the house's original owner showing up to protest, the one who hoisted the flag is now the lawful resident.

So historically this decree made countless of people who were formerly serfs into not only free citizens but landowners with family names and their own flags. Many had a wry sense of humour about theirs, and some of the now oldest and proudest family flags depict things like a broken plough or a pig in a crown - one of them is abstract and seemingly modern, famously born as the ancestors of that particular family had nothing else to use for a flag than one foremother's patterned scarf.

And while these days there's far more laws and regulations on the old traditions of claiming a house, the tradition of flag-raising and keeping an official housewarming party only a month after the move have remained. Many young couples moving in together don't just choose which one's family flag to use, but getting your own, unique mutual flag commissioned for you is a fairly common wedding gift. Immigrants coming from somewhere else who have adopted the house flag traditions have made their own designs, using elements of their own old homeland like historical symbols, colours, and birds that are not native here.

You pass by a flag with a figure that looks conspicuously like Garfield, and your host confirms that yeah, while there is a registry of flags and you can't make a flag that's exactly the same as that of someone else, the flags are explicitly excempt of regular copyright law. This decree was set after someone jokingly included a Mickey on theirs, the government sided with them, and Disney came to the conclusion that going into actual, literal war with a small nation with a trained army would be bad for PR.

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bunni-v1 · 5 months

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idk if this counts as a story idea but may I request Lillia x child human reader. It was during the fae and human war and you were his kid but got ripped away by the humans from the war and years later you reunite.

Stay safe pls!! <33

Lost and Found

TW: War Trauma!; Lilia does stalking again but only a little; You look like Lilia

Info: Lilia x Reader (familial); Angst with a happy(?) ending; Not cannon compliant; Not my finest piece my bad guys

🍓I LOVE writing Lilia. I started writing him for Cureé and I realized how silly he is. I was a bit lost on how to go about writing this since canonically Lilia didn’t know how to (or didn’t know he could) love until Malleus. But… tbh making shit up is what fanfic is for lol.

Fae can only be born through love. That was a fact that all Fairies knew. You could not produce a child unless there was mutual love. So, it was quite a surprise when General Lilia found himself stuck with a child who looked a little too much like him for it to be a coincidence.

He was not capable of love, at least… he didn’t think he was. He had no clue who could’ve mothered you — he had no idea who he loved, except the princess of course, but she did not love him back… Without your mother, what was he supposed to do? He was a General and he was in the midst of a war — how could he have time to raise a child?

He would’ve dropped you off on someone else’s doorstep, making you another unsuspecting person's responsibility. When he looked into your big red eyes, he knew he couldn't. You didn’t ask to be born just like he didn’t ask for you. Whether he liked it or not, you were his responsibility and he was just going to have to live with that fact.

So after drills and horrific blood-filled battles where he lost hundreds of soldiers, he would return home to you.

You were old enough to be walking and talking, and boy did you walk and talk. You wandered around his small quarters and babbled on and on about things he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. It was annoying, at first. He was used to silence when he was alone — he treasured it. You did not.

Still, he put up with it because he didn’t have a choice.

He would make you little meals — none of which looked all that… delectable, but you scarfed them down like they were the best things you’d ever had. Maybe they were.

Eventually, he began talking to you — about his troubles, about his day, about his workload. It didn’t matter, because you would sit there and listen attentively to everything he had to say and respond with the best sentence you could muster for your age.

He hated to admit it, but he came to care about you. He liked spending time with you after his long day, and worried about you while he was gone. Each milestone you crossed filled him with a sense of pride he’d never gotten on the battlefield. He adored each hair on your head, even when your little hands were tugging too hard on his own while you tried to practice braids.

He even began to teach you magic and loved how your face would light up when you got a spell right.

The both of you would go for runs together in the forest, and your long black hair — so much like his — would flow in the wind.

When it would storm, you would cry until he wrapped you up in a blanket and held you tight in his arms.

He would’ve been happy with this little life he had with you. He could’ve lived his days out like this and been satisfied.

War tears families apart, though. War does not have favorites. War doesn’t discriminate.

He should’ve known better, he should’ve been more careful, he should’ve moved you as soon as he knew humans were in the area. He didn’t, though. He left you there and promised you that he would be right back. He promised you that he’d keep you safe.

He rarely failed his missions, but this one he had. He came back to his home ransacked and you gone.

He searched for hours: Nothing.

He screamed your name until his throat was raw: Nothing.

He begged his men and friends to look: Nothing.

It was one of the few times in his life he cried. It was one of the only times that he could not stop. The little family portraits you’d made served as cold reminders of what he had lost. He could hardly handle looking at anything that belonged to you, so he locked it away in a little box and hadn’t opened it since.

That was centuries ago, and Lilia had long since moved on from his loss. He only hoped that the humans did not kill you — that they had enough humanity to let a child survive, even if you were his. That, maybe, you were still happy and alive out there.

He used what he learned from you to raise his boys — who were his pride and joy. Still, he missed you every time that Malleus would proudly show him a drawing of their little family. Or when Silver looked at him in excitement after finally perfecting a spell.

You would’ve loved your younger brothers, he was sure of it. If only you could be there to see what they’ve all achieved.

Still, they grew and time passed until eventually Malleus and Silver were both attending NRC. Lilia joined them — half to keep Malleus safe, half because it seemed like a fun idea. He had seen most things in his life, so there were few surprises left that could actually surprise him.

Seeing Malleus chatting with a near-carbon copy of himself, however, did quite the number on his old heart.

You were short — still taller than him, unfortunately — and had grown your hair out so you could put it up in a ponytail. Long like his used to be. Your red eyes seemed to sparkle in such a familiar way. His heart and his head couldn’t take the shock, so he slipped away before he could be spotted.

He continued to observe from a distance, trying to convince himself that he was wrong. That it could not be you after all these years. Everything proved him wrong. The way you talked, your mannerisms, and your love for art. Especially your keen eye.

When you cornered him in between classes was when he really knew it was you. You had a scowl on your face that could scare off any trained soldier. It was his scowl.

“Are you going to explain why you’ve been following me all this time, or am I gonna have to use force,” you said, just as he might’ve so many years ago.

He didn’t have much of a defense, so he improvised, “I like your art, watching you draw is interesting.”

“That's…” He was busted, “a bit creepy… If you liked my art you could’ve just talked to me, I know I’m a little scary looking but I don’t bite.”

Thus began the ruse of art-loving Lilia. The two of you would meet up around campus and he would watch you sketch these elaborate drawings like it was nothing. He always knew you would be a talented artist.

He got to know you again. Got to see what you liked, and what you didn’t like, and learned that you couldn’t taste — which explains why you ate his cooking so happily. He found out that you were saved by a loving human family who not only adopted you but did their best to let you learn about your origins. He knew you were loved in the way that you were meant to be — in the way he never would’ve been able to during that time.

It helped heal his heart enough that he was able to go through that little box of your stuff that he had kept for so long. He had missed looking at the little drawing of you and him you’d given him for his birthday.

Truthfully, he thinks you forgot all about him, and he was okay with that. Less pain for you to suffer through. Then, one day, that changes.

The pair of you were in his room because he had this cool piece of architecture you were dying to sketch out in person. He had left the room for only a few moments, but when he came back you were focused on his desk, and he realized that he did not put things back into the box like he usually did the night prior. You were staring at one thing in particular, the picture you drew all those years ago.

“I apologize for the mess,” he sounded behind you, but you didn’t react.

Instead, you picked up the little picture yourself to examine it closer. The silence as you observed the piece made Lilia’s skin crawl.

Finally, you turned to him with an awkward smile, “This is gonna sound crazy, 'cause we’re both college students, but… did you ever have kids — like, your own kids?”

Unsure of how to respond, he muttered, “Once.”

“Were they taken by humans,” you followed up.

“A long, long time ago.”

“This is probably a stretch, but, do you think that maybe you could be my dad…?”

He didn’t respond for a long moment, face going stiff as if he was once again that young soldier who found you crying on his doorstep after your mother abandoned you. You bit your lip nervously, unsure of what to do yourself when he was looking at you like that.

“It was just a stupid question, I’m sorry,” he didn’t respond, “I’ll go. Sorry.”

As you began to walk out, his mind came back to him and he kicked into full gear, “Wait, no, I’m not upset. Please… sit, let’s talk.”

Talk you did. About him and his life. How you disappeared and how he searched for you for so long. Then about his boys, and how much he loved them and how badly he wished that he could tell all of you the truth. You cried as hard as you could, and he swaddled you up as best as possible and wrapped you up in his arms — like he always used to do. He cried too, the hardest he had in his entire life. Because you were safe, and because you were reunited with him.

At some point, you asked, “Did you miss me?”

He could only respond, “Every single day.”

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #x reader #bunni's treats 🧁#lilia vanrouge x reader #lilia vanrouge

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elmundodeflor · 1 year

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Attack On Titan is a Work of Love

Something I'm always in awe of, is how love is depicted in Attack On Titan. Mostly, because it feels realistic and relatable. Love isn't always the big, over-the-top Romeo and Juliet type.

Love is Eren wrapping a scarf around Mikasa.

Armin regularly going to see Annie.

Love is Levi and Hanji knowing each other so well, they’re able to communicate without the need for words.

Historia trusting Ymir so much, that she was the first one she revealed her real name to.

Love isn’t always flowers and big confessions like the ones we see in movies or media. Daily, human love lays in the detail. It’s in consistency, in those little day-to-day gestures a person can have with another. it's in waiting for your partner with a nice meal at home, in sharing a moment of comfort, in understanding eachother by just looking into one another's eyes. it's in protecting and caring and nurturing and motivating.

And it’s why love in Attack On Titan will always feel real. Palpable. Beautifully subtle.

To me, it will always be grounbreaking how, in a world so full of hatred, Isayama managed to create so many unbreakable bonds of the most imperfectly pure love, and how he was able to explore love in all of its different phases and colors.

Love between brothers/family:

Love between friends:

Idolatry (the tpye of love that makes you go blind)

Unrequited love:

Grief (the loss of someone you loved):

New-found love:

It will always be close to my heart, how Attack On Titan shows love at every corner, in every frame: in words of hope, in helping somebody who struggles, in the will to protect somebody at the highest of costs, in the joking and teasing in affectionate ways. It’s all there, in the small, in what the eye doesn’t always see. It’s always been.

So, even when Attack On Titan can be seen as a work of war and life and death and how the evil parts of the human world work, to me, it will forever be a work I remember for being overflowed with love, too.

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unfriedough · 8 months

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Hi there!! Can I get a Zuko x water tribe reader! Where it’s set in LOK and he’s all old and stuff sadly reader passed from old age. And Like Bolin or Asami are friends with his grandkid or something And they ask about him and his s/o and how they were in the past when training or something thank you!!

An: ahaha. Sorry. THIS SUCKS BUT ATLEAST IT’S SOMETHING RIGHT??? 🥲🥲🥲🥲 I love u and I’m sorry 😢

Warnings: blood, injury, main character death (not specified how but I mean you are dead in this), old zuko.

COMIC SPOILERS MAYBE!!

The crease by his eyes deepened as his mouth pulled into a smile only elicited by your name.

“Yn?” He couldn’t help the chuckle, the bittersweet sound of your name rubbing salt in the still-fresh wound. “What about her?”

“What was she like back then?” Bolin asked.

Mako, his brother, poked him in the rib, shooting him a look of disapproval.

Promptly, the older man shook his head, white hair shaking along. poked the earthbender in the ribs, worried his question came off as too probing on a topic that may just still be sensitive. Zuko stuck his hand out carefully, shaking his head. He felt that familiar feeling rising in his throat as he tried to suppress those awful feelings. And still, the old man couldn’t resist a moment to bring up your absolute beauty.

“She was amazing,” that’s… all he could say.

“Oh. Umm, maybe I wasn’t specific enough… what was she like as a person?”

“Amazing.”

“As a fighter?”

“You won’t guess it.”

“Amazing?”

“No, why would you say that? She was intense and yet somehow super level headed," Zuko smiled at his trick on Bolin. Truth be told, he stole that joke from you, as with most of his jokes. Yours were just… funnier.

“What do you mean by level headed?”

“Quick on her feet, but not irrational. Like she was sharp and-and just this, this weapon,” he choked up, catching sight of a dainty little scar on his wrist. Zuko could almost feel your fingers graze his skin.

Mako put a hand on the man’s shoulder, offering him a comforting look.

“Was she good with weapons?” The young avatar asked, trying to get him back from his thoughts.

“Oh absolutely, if I had a coin for every time she almost killed me for scaring her, I’d be the richest man alive,”

“I love working with knives!” Asami commented, Zuko shook his head.

“Not just knives, swords, batons, literal sticks, that thing with the metal ball on it. Toph made that one for her.”

“For what occasion?”

“…war,”

“My bad,” Bolin laughed.

Zuko rubbed his hands together, he sat in front of Katara’s house, perched on the stairs. This time around, the water tribe weather was violent. The cold nipped at his fingertips and nose, the coats and gloves he layered maniacally providing some sort of warmth, but never enough. Never like your warmth. Your scarf was engraved with your name, a custom design you’d purchased a long long time ago. It’s a shame the smell wore off, he felt like he’d lost a piece of him that day.

He tilted his head downwards to stuff it more into the fabric, cheeks tinting pink from the furious ice.

“One time,” his voice was muffled, barely heard, “She almost killed a man without any bending or weapons, whereas he had both that, and maybe twice her skill because of fire nation training,”

“And how’d she beat him?”

The man smiled reminiscently, bringing his shakey finger up to his head, pointing at his forehead.

“She outsmarted him?”

“Yeah, the fire folks were uneducated at that time, instead of teaching them how to think with their heads, they thought with their fists. She won the second she saw his armour.”

“If he had weapons how didn’t he-“

“He did, she was badly injured, the rest of us were asleep and she was guarding the camp. She took three of them down with a nasty wound from the first guy,”

“They must've been terrified,”

“I think we were the most scared though, I woke up to her covered in blood with this unhinged smile.” He paused, “She took pride in her work,”

“Riiiiiggghhhtt,”

“Yn tied them up around a tree, like really well. I wonder if they ever escaped…”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Hopefully, somewhere far far away. Imagine your job asking you to attack a bunch of teenagers,” he scoffed.

“Toph wouldn’t like to hear that,” he flashed to remembrance of her earth bending academy, if she had heard him, she would’ve wiped the floor with his head.

He laughed, shaking his head, “No she wouldn’t,”

“Do you miss her,” Asami eased herself down, a few steps away from Zuko.

“Every single day of my life,” and every single second of it too.

“Sir, on a scale of one to ten,” Korra paused, “how likely was she to be able to beat me in a fight?”

There’s that avatar attitude, Zuko thought.

He stared at their intrigued faces, the avatar was powerful by all means. Strong, determined and brave. Could you have really been able to deal with her? Could you have actua-

“Ten.”

An: I tried to be super vague about what bending you’re supposed to have. Idk if that worked out.

#atla #atla zuko #avatar the last airbender #avatar zuko #fluff #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader #zuko #zuko angst #zuko atla #zuko x reader #zuko x fem!reader #firelord zuko

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crazylittlejester · 2 months

Text

Day 573 without Warriors’s scarf.

That’s one and a half years. One and a half years since the beloved blue scarf left us.

Life has not been the same.

When will it return 😔

art cred @linkeduniverse !!

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu warriors #lu wars #warriors lu #linked universe wars #warriors linked universe #jes talks #days without wars’s scarf

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xxsycamore · 2 months

Note

and my last request:

can i have ieyasu (ikesen) + 👔? thank you so much again, mo 💓

You're welcome! I loved your requests 🥺

[👔] 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙸𝚎𝚢𝚊𝚜𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢…

IEYASU:

"...Just when I wondered where my scarf went."

A small noise of exclamation leaves you as you turn over in the futon to see Ieyasu entering the room. Not even the cozy nap you were in the middle of could dull your lively reaction to seeing the one you missed the most come back by your side early. Lately being away from Ieyasu has been hell. Hence the scarf. As good as the yellow-orange accessory looks on your beloved, he could go one day without it as revenge for making you lonely. Not that he had a choice...

"And why would you do that?"

He kneels by your side examining how you snuggle with his scarf tucked right under your chin, but he receives no reply. The more he looks at you, the more blush appears on his face. He sighs deeply and rises to his feet.

"Give me a minute to change and you'll get to embrace more than just that scarf. Everything as long as you don't resort to stealing more of my clothes, else I won't be able to show at War Council at all. Well... I suppose that's what you want."

∎Steal My Heart!! - xxsycamore’s 1500 followers celebration event| 💌 event masterlist

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikemen sengoku ieyasu #ikesen ieyasu #ikemen ieyasu #ikemen sengoku tokugawa ieyasu #steal my heart!! xxsycamore's 1500 followers celebration event

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bokettochild · 3 months

Note

What about Wars and Wind for day 6??

Sure thing, luv!

I hope you enjoy this one!

Wordcount: 8,780

Rating: Teen

Summary: Warriors has a mission from Impa and the princess, one that is "military business" and thus not the responsibility of the Chain of Links. Even so, every time the captain's gone off without a brother, as far as Wind can remember, something goes wrong, so can he really let warriors leave without backup?

It’s hard to miss when Warriors is gearing up for a mission.

Thers’s this certain air about the man, a lack of the warmth and ease with which he treats the group. Instead of twinkling eyes and warm smiles, there’s a distance behind bright blue, a guarded way that he holds himself, a certain set to his jaw and stillness to his hands, like he’s steeling himself to walk out into hell yet again and face the flames. Wind had seen it a lot during the war, and while he doesn’t see it often anymore now that the Chain of Links has gathered, he still knows it in the blink of an eye.

So, when the group of them land in the captain’s era, once again, and their second night there sees the captain adopting that air, it’s a sure sign, to him at least, that there is some task needing completion. He’s not the only one who sees it either. When Warriors returns from his meeting with the princess, eyes hard and with not even a word of greeting for the rest of them before he moves for his things, most of them look up.

“Everything alright?” It's sort of strange that it’s Legend who asks that, sitting up from the couch and his book to stare at the captain, his own shoulders stiffening, ears pricking forwards, but then again, the vet is highly attuned to nearly everything, or so it seems.

The captain hums somewhat but doesn’t verbalize an answer. No, instead, a blue streak of light buzzes out from his scarf to do that for him, startling most of them but all too familiar to the sailor and their leader. “Link has a mission tonight and will not be able to stay with you all,” Proxi announces.

The rest of them move to get up but the captain turns from where he was gathering his things, one hand raised to the rest of them. “No need to get up. You’re all staying here.”

The vet’s brows raise.

“This isn’t monster related,” Warriors tells them, belting his sword over one shoulder rather than at his hip as he wears it about the castle. “Just military work.”

That seems to be enough for the rest of them, and even though Legend does give the man a brief once over, he follows the lead of the rest in settling back in their places. None of them really go back to what they were doing though, instead watching the captain curiously. Well, except for Wind.

“I’m coming with,” he announces, standing up and moving to stand at the captain’s side, his normal place since meeting the man. During the war, he and Mask had been the captain’s shadows, on his tail and watching his back no matter where it took them, even if that meant following him into the most terrible of battles. There were times, of course, where they had orders to attend to issues on other parts of the field, inside the fort or tending something in camp, but the idea of Warriors going out into anything without having one of his two charges aiding him somehow is unthinkable.

Not so for the captain it would seem, a heavy hand settling on the sailor’s shoulder as distant eyes fix on him. “No, not this time, kiddo.”

“What?”

The soldier’s stare is heavy, hand heavier as it claps his shoulder once before lifting, the heavy scarf the other wears being pulled free and set aside in favor of a cloak and hood that the man pulls on, fabric hanging low over his face. “This isn’t a mission you can help with.”

“But-”

“No, sailor.” Warriors’ voice is hard, but not harsh. “I need you to stay here, can you do that?”

The expression on his face must betray frustration, maybe his confusion too; Warriors hardly ever tells him to stay behind, not ever so directly and never without some other order or responsibility: take care of Mask, protect Marin, watch the prisoners, keep lookout. Being left with nothing is new, and he doesn't like it. Warriors must see that, because he drops to kneeling, which honestly feels a little degrading because Wind isn’t that short anymore, but when heavy hands find his shoulders, his focus is fixed on blue eyes, flickering briefly to the faint scars that still crisscross over them.

“This isn’t something you can help with, and I wouldn’t feel right dragging you into this.”

“What is it?” he demands, not liking the tone or the situation.

Warriors just smiles, not a real smile, but a guarded little thing that says he knows what the sailor is up to, and that he won’t be tricked into sharing anything more than he intends to about what his job will be entailing this time. “I need you to stay here and stay out of trouble, can you do that for me?”

Staying out of trouble isn’t doing anything though.

“Link,” he doesn’t realize his face has dropped until one callused finger is hooking under his chin and lifting it to meet the captain’s stare. The man’s bangs are a mess, and already they’re starting to slip over his eyes. “Promise me you’ll wait here?” Saying no to that earnest look is nearly impossible, not when Warriors has dropped the soldier stance, has dropped the grace and strength and is just staring, hopeful and worried and so, so tired, up at him.

“Okay.”

“Promise?” The stare shifts, guarded, wary, knowing how often he’d be tricked by some wordplay from their little fairy-boy.

“Promise,” he agrees, hating the word even as it slips out of him. Still, it earns that thankful little smile as the captain pulls himself up to stand again, reaching briefly to the side for a shield, not his usual one, but a darker colored one like the royal guard uses.

“I’ll be back,” he can see the captain’s walls raising, guard slipping up again and sharp eyes going cold as responsibility settles over broad shoulders like a heavy cloak, “probably.” The little smile does nothing for his worry.

“I’ll be here,” he sighs, watching and useless as the other moves for the door.

A raised hand is the farewell for the rest of them, and well wishes sound from the rest of their brothers, all worried and tense, but equally unable to do anything as the captain bids them a goodnight and then leaves. He hates it. He hates watching the older man leave, heading out to face things he has no clue about. Meanwhile, they will sit here in the castle, in the rooms the princess had appointed for them, comfortable and warm, safely resting in soft beds and enjoying warm meals while the captain is out there, alone. It makes his stomach turn.

Despite all that though, the others return to their own matters, speaking softly with each other in worry or letting their books and hobbies distract them. Wind can’t though. Instead, he finds himself watching the door until Time’s hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy but not the same steady, firm grip as the captain uses, draws his eyes up to the man looking down at him. “You alright?”

He shrugs it off, heading away to the room he’s sharing with Four and Hyrule. “’m fine.”

He doesn’t doubt that they don’t believe him, not anymore than he actually believes those faked smiles and confidence from the captain.

He tries to sleep that night, he really does.

It was past dinner when the captain had set off, and they’d all already shed their gear and weapons for the day as they’d prepared to wind down, hence why Warriors leaving at such an hour came as that much of a surprise. Warriors works by day, in the open, in the light, guiding his men and leading the way for Hyrule as a whole; their beacon of hope and strength. Matters of the night, of the shadows, fall under Impa’s purview, the Sheikah being the ones to creep about and tend to matters out of the sight of the kingdom, quiet and un-noticed, unheard, unseen.

He doesn’t understand why Warriors would have to set out at such a late hour, but it bugs him. Even after Sky has come to check and make sure that they’re all settled for bed, even after Hyrule and Four have both long since dozed off, he’s left lying awake, staring out the window into the dark sky. It’s overcast, although not raining, nor will it rain anytime soon, he thinks. Still, there's no sight of the stars, and the moon drifts in and out from behind the heavy clouds, making shadows flicker and fall, only to spring to life again over the bedspread, the floor, the walls.

He knows Warriors is capable. He knows the captain had faced his adventure with all the strength a hero must, and that, unlike himself, the older man was chosen by the Triforce of Courage, hand-picked by the goddesses to wield the Blade of Evil’s Bane. Still, even with that, he feels uneasy, knowing the captain is out there somewhere right now, without any of them to back him up and doing Nayru only knows what.

He rolls over. Staring at the dark room makes it worse.

When the war was over, Warriors had let both he and ask sleep with him, as none of them felt easy about sleeping alone after everything, and it was no secret that Link didn’t sleep easy if he didn’t have someone to watch his back. The dark circles under his eyes most of the time told anyone who saw that the man hardly slept as was, but having his two charges close, safe, where he only needed to wake up to see them, seemed to help. Mask’s uncannily good hearing made up for their loss of hearing from cannons lasting off beside them, and at the smallest hint of danger, the youngest would be up and hissing at them to wake up too, like a little guard dog.

He’d suggested Link get a dog, when it came time for them to leave, but he doesn’t know if anything ever came of that. He hadn’t asked.

Regardless, trying to sleep in the big bed, Four beside him and Hyrule curled up at the bottom (where neither of them are likely to touch him), isn’t the same as curling up, safe, in the captain’s strong arms, or even with Mask in his own. It feels wrong, being in the castle without Link, and staring at the fading and returning shadows, the silent room, the grand furniture and thick rug, it sets him ill at ease.

Link could be in danger right now, and he’s lying safely in bed, unable to do anything about it.

He promised, but his mind flickers back to all the times he hadn’t been at the man’s side. The time a camp doctor had tried to put an end to the war by killing his own patient, leaving Warriors blind for the next week until Lana had been able to heal him. The time the fort on the far side of Hyrule Field had fallen, and the next he’d seen either the captain or Mask, it was with Link clutching ahold of the dust covered youngest hero, shaking and too relieved to speak after the walls had nearly crushed the kid. There was the time he’d charged off ahead, confident he could take on Cia, and the next time either of them had seen him, Link had been listless, wary, and flinched at the slightest of touches.

Everyone refused to explain to him what happened, and even now the older man won’t speak of it, not to him at least. He knows it was bad though, because the man he so admired, looked up to, and even saw as a father had never been the same since.

There were other times; battles, missions, scouting expeditions. He’s long since learned every scar that traces the other’s skin, so used to helping patch him up, but half of them happened when he wasn't there, couldn’t help. He'd hated it, standing back and watching the captain sew himself back together, no longer willing to risk visiting a doctor or proper medic, and not knowing what had happened, not being told because Link didn't want to burden him. He’d promised himself if he could stop it, he would, but he’d never had the chance.

Now though, lying in the dark, the thought hits him that he can. He can go out there, and the captain wouldn't ever have to know. He could creep out and track them down, watch from a distance and, if needed, take out an enemy or two. He could watch their backs, cover their steps, make sure whatever mission has taken the man away from him doesn't return him in yet more shattered pieces.

Warriors would never have to know.

Mind set, he slips out of bed, shifting a pillow to fill the abandoned place he leaves behind, just in case Four reaches out in his sleep, like he does, seeking another person to cuddle with. He tucks the blankets too, so no draft will sneak beneath, and then he’s padding softly to the chair he’d set his things. He doesn't have a heavy cloak, not like the captain or the others, but the scarf left hanging by the door works as well as one to hide him, and while the color stands out more than the cloak it was traded for, it’s a lot better than the pale blue of his own tunic.

Wrapped tight and moving quietly, it doesn't take too much work to sneak past the guards patrolling the halls. He’d only lived in the castle for a short while, but while Link had been tending to papers and reports and meetings, he and Mask had spent their days mapping the little passages and corridors that spiderwebbed through the stone, and he’s able to make it outside without so much as a glance from the staff. Finding the captain is another issue, but he’d paused in the man’s office, picking the lock briefly and turning his attention to the papers left on the man’s desk.

Reports of activity amongst a rebel cell that’s established itself in the city had been on the top of the pile. He can’t read all of it, but he understands enough to know that, likely as not, the captain has gone out to meet with planted spies to gather information, as well as potentially intercept a messenger, whom, based off the file, Impa seems rather eager to get ahold of. He doesn’t read much more than that, just scans the papers for any hint of a location, a time, anything at all, before sneaking out and heading down the streets.

It being a city, Castle Town doesn’t sleep at night. Most honest folk have gone off to bed, but pub regulars are out at their chosen haunts or cast out into the streets, and travelers headed in or out of town, returning patrols of soldiers, and the occasional merchant headed home still populate the streets. Kids sneaking out from their homes, working girls, petty thieves and the occasional sheikah lurk in the shadows, but his size marks him neither threat nor target to them, and he’s left alone as he heads towards the rougher side of town.

Pidgeon Row, officially known as the south gate district but nicknamed what it is for the jailbirds that live there, is quiet at this time of night. If anyone is out, they keep their heads down and shuffle between houses and establishments. The exceptions are the occasional drunk, but again, he goes unseen, flitting about on top of roof-tops as he does.

Link told him and Mask once, back before things took a turn for the worse, how he and his friends would sneak around this part of town when they were kids. Gassun would whisper about the antics and Bav would shudder while describing the residents back in their day, but Link would be all mischief and grins as he’d share about roof hopping and “spying missions”. The stories were more about what they got up too, but he’d picked up bits and pieces from the three of them about how to navigate the town, how to watch your step and calculate a leap between roofs. They used to argue about technique mid-way through the stories, and he thinks he’d learned more about how to creep about unseen from those tales then he actually did about the captain’s childhood.

It’s only those stories that allow him to recognize the captain though, the man’s lanky frame jumping across an alley just to his left, slipping down with all the ease of a cat into the street. If not for the dark cloak he remembers seeing Link don before leaving, or the briefest flash of messy blonde, he wouldn’t know the man, but as he closes in, he sees the faintest flash of blue eyes, and though the manner, stance and general air of the other is nothing like the noble captain he knows, the voice that speaks into the darkness is definitely his.

“Oy, pidge, ‘s me.” The heavy accent he only ever hears hints of it fully on display, masking the voice the rest of the world would know, blending the captain in with his surroundings as much as the old clothes and guarded, defensive stance does.

Another man slips out of the shadows, far more bulky and less agile looking, but if planted by the sheikah, Wind doesn’t doubt their skill or speed. “Chess,” he greets.

“Wheesht!” The captain hisses, glancing around fervently like he’s afraid of something, but to anyone who knows him, it’s clearly an act, one to make him blend in with the other street rats and jailbirds that will be out and about. The captain doesn’t need to look to know if an enemy is there, and he most certainly would not be so obvious about it if he did. “D’ya want all Hyrule hearin’ ya noo? Wut I say ‘boot names?”

The other man twitches, put out, or pretending to be, but drops his voice low enough that Wind’s ears can't catch what’s said between them any longer. That doesn’t matter though, because the captain seems pretty intent on it, and definitely notes down anything of importance. From his rooftop, Wind can see them easily, although he doesn’t dare move closer lest they realize he’s there, but their conversation isn’t the only one of its kind happening in this part of town right now. In fact, he can clearly see another a few alleys over, two men trading something between themselves, looking over their shoulders all the while and speaking in hushed tones. As far as the residents are concerned, the captain is just another low life meeting to buy or sell goods, and not likely to draw attention from anyone who wants to keep their head down. Honestly, Wind would be impressed with the act if he didn’t know the captain grew up around here and thus isn’t acting so much as slipping back into old behaviors and habits in order to blend in.

That said, he’s not sure why the man was so insistent on his staying behind. So far, nothing dangerous seems to have happened, and while there was definitely time between the captain leaving the castle and then arriving here, he seems no worse for wear, or any more strained than he’s pretending to be. Why leave behind his little shadow when Wind is clearly doing a fine job of watching his back and also going unseen? Even by the captain himself?

Needless to say, he’s a bit miffed, but he keeps his head down all the same.

Link pays his contact and slips away, not on the roofs this time (thank goodness, because he’s definitely quicker than Wind) but down the streets, side eyeing anyone who moves too close to him as he hurries along. You’d think, not being a known face, they’d stop him, but Wind supposes new faces are normal now, in this district, what with the city still such a mess as they recover after the war. Regardless, the captain is allowed to pass, and Wind slips after him, watching from the roof-tops but hanging back far enough to not set off the man’s warning bells.

When Link slips into a pub, he lingers for only a moment.

On one hand, Warriors isn’t known for taking it easy with the alcohol, but on the other, this is a mission, he’s probably not even going to actually drink, and if he does, it will be for cover and cover only, and not anything as strong as he usually would go for. Still, letting the man go into a bar doesn’t sit right with him.

Following after is his downfall.

He doesn’t go for the doors, he knows better than that. No one in Castletown lets teens drink, and the only kids allowed in bars are usually the ones whose parents are such regulars that they need help getting home at night. The thought makes him wonder if the barkeep here will recognize the captain as the kid who used to come at closing for his old man, but he dismisses that thought, he has a mission to fulfill after all. Anyways, Warriors lived a bit further out in Tater Town, and if his dad had come to this bar, it wouldn’t have been frequent enough for people here to recognize him or his son.

Door not being an option, the window is the second-best choice. He slips for the one upstairs, less likely to be seen, but of course, of course, the room is occupied. Worse still, it’s very occupied, and the people in it take one look at him, one look at the scarf he’s all bundled up under, and sharp smiles and even sharper knives appear in an instant.

Well, shit.

He immediately moves to drop back out the window again, but one of the men is faster, catching hold of the scarf wrapped around him and somehow, getting the thing enough over his mouth that he can’t even call out for help, can’t make a sound to alert anyone downstairs that something is wrong up here. If anything, the faint groans and shuffling will be disregarded, considering what sort of a bar this is, and not even Link will think to check up here.

“Isn’t this the hero’s scarf?” One man murmurs to another. Even from downstairs, Legend would have caught that, but Legend’s not here and neither are the others. No one can act as the captain’s ears right now, and Wind’s left only able to flail against large hands that catch hold of him and keep him still while the rest stare at him.

“Seems like,” another of the men hums, “wrong size though.”

“’t’s one of his brats,” another figure murmurs, giving Wind a once over. "Why he’s here though...”

“They don’t never leave his side,” a wary glance from one to another of the men in the room, and the breath in his lungs drains all too quickly at their words. Shit, they’ve put it together, haven’t they? Is Link a good enough as an actor to fool these men? He’s shit when put on the spot, even if he can play into parts of himself that already exist, as proved with the street-rat “act”, but will he be able to blend in enough that out of all the potential blondes downstairs, they won’t realize it’s him?

One of the other men frowns though. “That’s as may be, but at that age I wasn’t ‘xactly tied to me da’s belt.” Raised brows and curious stares turn on the man who had spoken, and he quickly explains. “He’s what, fourteen? It’s a pub, mates. Seedy side of town where his da won’t look?”

There’s a snort from the first speaker. “Sneakin’ out, was you?” Dark eyes fix on him, grinning some as he’s given yet another once over. “Yeah, me too at that age.”

And while it’s well and good that they believe he’s just having his rebellious streak (and a small part of him whispers that they’re not wrong), the fact that they’re holding this tight to him, gagging him on the scarf, means that they don’t have the best of intentions either. No one’s first instinct when seeing a kid is to try and stop them getting away, not unless they have ill intent or something seriously wrong with their minds. The fact that the scarf, and the captain, matter so much to them doesn’t mean anything good either.

His thoughts flicker back to that report on Link’s desk. Gods, he hopes these men aren’t part of that rebel cell, or he’s screwed.

It’s official: he’s screwed.

The men had gagged and bound him, stripping away the scarf quickly in order to do so, and then left him in a corner for a good while. Murmured conversation of “not lettin’ the kid hear” had led to most of them leaving the room, but one or two had stayed, carefully not close enough for him to touch and both with their eyes on him while they traded boring stories and terrible jokes in an effort to smother any noise he did manage to make. That, or maybe to stop him hearing the talking in the next room, but it’s not until the bar downstairs goes quiet that the rest come back in.

And then it starts.

Questions, demanding on where Link is, what he’s doing out here, was he alone? The fact that they ungagged him long enough to ask says there's not a chance that anyone not within their group is around anymore, and he doubts the captain lingered any longer than he had to complete his mission.

Link will be long gone, so he’s at least able to be truthful when he says he has no clue where the man is, even when pressed.

“He said he’d be working late,” he tells them, trying to wriggle out of the knots at his wrists but finding very quickly that they’re a lot tighter than he’d like. Still, he plays into the alibi they’d practically handed him. “I thought I could just sneak out for a bit.”

“Really?”

And while they’d come up with it themselves, they still press and push. The questions about the hero’s whereabouts quickly turn into questions on what Link’s been doing, where he’s been, who he’s met with and all sorts of other things. They don’t take his petulant “I don’t know” as an answer either. It seems he’s not the only one fixed on the idea that Link can’t go about without at least one of the others with him, and the more he denies, denies, denies, the harsher they press, the more they threaten, and at last, a knife driving into his leg sends the point home.

“You’ll tell, or we’ll be sending your dear dad a real awful message.”

He’s a bit too busy choking back tears at the pain blossoming in his thigh to even try to answer that.

Luckily, that’s the only instance involving a knife, and while the pain doesn’t exactly stop, one of the men declaress that “he’s just a kid, stabbing isn’t okay” although they say nothing to the occasionall slap or kick, which honestly, what sort of crap standard is that? Not that it matters, because the throbbing pain and the ever harsher slaps are making focusing rather difficult, and eventually his jaw in genuinely swollen enough that they seem to give up on trying to talk to him at all. Instead, they leave him, laying on the filthy floor and move off downstairs.

He doesnt care how old he is, how much of an adult he wants people to see him as, Wind can’t help but cry when they’re gone. It hurts! Its so bad and he can’t even do anything except press one leg over the other and hope it kills the circulation and stems off the blood flow.

Time seems to take forever to tick by, made all the worse by the lack of sunlight even as day definitely breaks. The windows remain unblocked, but the overcast weather from the night before has carried over and there’s not even the faintest hint of sun beams to track the time by as he lies and sobs and gathers himself only to break again later.

It was late when he trailed the captain to the bar, maybe the wee hours of the morning, but his best bet is that it’s noon before he hears anything again. This time though, it’s shouting, harsh and loud and angry. There’s scuffling and what sounds like a clashing of blades, the thudding of feet darting up the stairs and then the door of the blasted room being flung open. It slams against the wall, rattling nearly hard enough that he thinks it might fall off its hinges then and there, but it doesn’t matter because standing in the door frame is a panting and bloodstained Legend, the captain’s heavy cloak hanging loosely off his shoulders.

“Wind,” dark eyes fix on him as the twin blades in the vet’s hands are slipped away to Hylia knows where.

There’s a scream from downstairs, and it makes him wince as booted feet dart to his side, the vet kneeling to inspect him, but Legend doesn’t so much as blink. No, the vet’s eyes are focused on him, and ewen when another set of booted feet pound up the stairs , headed their way, Legend just flicks a wrist to send one of his knives flying towards his persuer.

The moment the gag is out of his mouth, he’s gasping, sobbing still, just a bit, but mostly just numb as Legend shifts him and starts binding up the stab wound in his leg. “Vet?” he wheezes, not so much deselieving as confused.

“Better believe it, kid,” the man’s voice is clipped, distracted, motions just this side of frantic as they stop his bleeding and then cut his bonds. He’s missing most of his gear, only in his under-tunic and boots and Wind knows for a fact that the cloak on his shoulders is the captain’s and not the vet’s own. He hates that that means Legend hadn’t even bothered to dress himself before heading here, that more likely than not the other had been pulled out of bed to come directly here, or at least start looking for him.

How had the others taken waking up and finding him missing? Especially after all of them had witnessed him promising the captain he’d stay behind? Sweet Sages, the sailor winces, they probably think he was kidnapped right out of his bed or some other such thing. Unless they know. Unless they suspect that he would break his promise, as he’d done, and go after the captain anyways, regardless of his word. He's not sure which is worse, them believing him helpless enough to be kidnapped, or them coming to the correct conclusion that he can’t even keep a simple promise. Whatever they think though, none of its clear on the vet’s face as he works, soft, detached words falling from his mouth in what the sailor thinks might be three or four different languages, but all of which sound vaguely assuring. The stream of comforting words doesn’t stop either as the vet finishes his work, violet eyes heavy with lack of sleep turning to at last fix on his face rather than his wound.

“Any other injuries?”

He shakes his head. There’s another scream from down below, steel clashing loudly.

Legend nods, firm, quick, distracted, Long ears keep flicking between him and the stairs, and the vet’s mind clearly isn’t just on him. “We’re gonna get you out, okay? Wars has them busy downstairs.”

Which means all the noise, the raised voices, the clashing steel, the shouts and cries and sounds of battle are because the captain is busy fighting off the men who’ve been keeping him here, and potentially any others. He doesn’t miss that the vet hadn't mentioned the others either. “We need to help him!” His aw is swollen enough that the words slur, but he thinks the point gets through.

“We need to get you out of here.” Legend corrects, pulling him upright but supporting him so there’s no pressure put on his injured leg. “He can handle them.”

“He needs backup-”

“He needs you to listen to orders, kid.”

That shuts him up for the moment. Legend looks like a wreck, tense, nervous, and very, very stressed. He knows better than to push that, but even so there’s still a part of him that detests the idea of letting Warriors face off against enemies alone. The vet doesn’t appear to care though, instead pulling him up over his back and moving for the stairs, teeth sawing faintly as he darts down them as quickly as is safe, each step granting Wind better and better a view of the fighting down below.

It’s a mess. Warriors is caught in the midst of it, sword locked with that of one of the sailor’s captors while several others try and get hits in. There’s blood everywhere, on their clothes, their skin, their faces, and it’s clear as day that skill or no, the captain is outnumbered.

“Got him!” Legend calls out, stopping briefly at the foot of the steps, panting slightly.

Blue eyes dart towards them, all fire and fury and harsh, brilliant light, and the captain nods, dropping his lock with the other blade to fall back to the vet’s side, shield lifting to catch a blow here and there from enemies who strike out at either side.

Faint sparks of magic dance over the room, Legend’s teeth gritting and sawing even louder as Wind feels the hands holding him to the other's back warm with the surge of magic, keeping the enemy at bay if only for a moment as Warriors cuts a path for them through the room. If Legend’s hands were free, Wind has no doubt that blood would be spilling much faster, but they aren’t, and try as he might, the vet won’t let him slip down.

“We should help him!” he insists, as the outside world greets them, still grey, still overcast, and still not raining. “We should go back!”

“I will,” the vet hisses, feet flying through the streets and carrying them ever further away for the pub and the sounds of battle, away from Warriors, “just as soon as you’re safe.”

”He can’t hold that long!”

“You’re my priority.” And try as he might to object, to fight, to squirm free or demand Legend turn back, shouts turning quickly to desperate sobs, the vet doesn’t so much as falter, just cling tightly to him, holding him in place as he moves through the streets, feet thumping and teeth sawing.

People dart out of their way, some shouting in anger, others in fear, some others still in horror. There’s no shortage of blood on the vet, nor himself, and despite Legend’s prowess in battle, his skills with wound-care aren’t the best, and Wind is still very much leaking blood all the way from the pub to the castle gates, where Legend hastily hands him off to the men on duty, voice still that sharp, dangerous whip-crack as it hisses orders to the two men standing there. “Take him inside and alert General Impa that Captain Link requires aid.”

One of the men makes to protest, but the other, one who’s familiar for some reason, nods, gathering Wind’s protesting form up in his arms without sapring him so much as a glance, eyes fixed instead on the vet’s flashing violet ones. “You got it, ma’am.”

He doesn't even have it in him to laugh at Legend being mistaken for a woman, again- he’s too busy trying not to cry at the thought of the captain still left alone in that pub against men twice as big as he is. Legends doesn’t appear to even notice either, instead whipping back around, stumbling only for a moment and then darting off down the street again, the captain’s cape whipping in the wind kicked up by pegasus boots as the vet shoots out of sight, no doubt headed back to the captain’s side.

Holly, the infirmary attendant on hand, bustles him into a bed the moment he’s handed off.

He manages to get ahold of hismelf between the gates and the infirmary, but it doesn’t stop the way worry twists and churns in his stomach enough that it’s a struggle to down the red potion she gives him after cleaning his injuries and checking him over. She tuts and fusses over him like anything al the while, just the same as she has a dozen times before.

She’s one of the few medics Warriors will consent to being treated by. She’s an old neighbor of his from his childhood and someone with nothing to gain from his death or injury. By extension, she’s their usual caretaker too, his and Mask’s, when they’d ended up needing medical care while at the castle. Unlike others, Warriors can talk with her with ease, and even relaxes somewhat, enough that his accent will slip through to match her own, their voices low as they would discuss treatment, severity of injuries and childcare in general. She’s a nice enough lady, but her determination to assure him, sit with him and keep him calm do nothing but get on his nerves.

Her attention stops though when heavy feet and rasping breathes sound outside the door, an hour or so later, and the sight of the vet, this time with Warriors’ arm slung over his shoulder, both of them bloody, both of them panting and neither of them processing his presence, steals her attention away. He only gets a glance in the time it takes the woman to haul ass and get the both off into the private room on one side of the infirmary, intended to be kept for nobles or the princess, but usually used quite frequently by one idiot captain, but one glance is almost too much.

There’s so much blood.

No one answers his questions as attendants surge into the infirmary and dart behind the shut door. Muffled sounds of pain escape from the other side, and its torture in its own right to be confined to a bed, watching the world buzz around him while white clad medics dart in and out, gathering terrifying looking tools and so, so many bottles and herbs and bandages. Gods, there’s so many bandages! He can hear the captain’s voice raised, panicked, he can hear Legend’s own, so much softer than it was the last he’d heard it; soft but clearly shaken as it soothes and assures, hitching here and again. He can’t catch the words, but that’s almost worse.

It feels like it’s hours before the ward is quiet again, the medics trickling out, bloody and tired looking.

Neither Legend nor the captain leave the room. Holly does, but she only spares him a sad look before moving for the door, returning a bit later with water which she offers to him first before slipping back into the captain’s room again.

The clock on the wall ticks down the minutes, hours, and when at last something happens again, it’s the rest of the Chain making their way through the doors. Their eyes fall on him first, and the relief that floods over their faces as Time gathers him in his arms, as Twilight catches his face in both hands and looks him up and down like Granny would, it’s overwhelming.

“Thank Hylia you’re okay!” The rancher gasps, pulling him in for a hug.

“You gave us a real scare,” Four adds, standing far closer than he usually would, eyes trailing over him repeatedly, as though the smithy still isn’t sure he’s actually in one piece.

Sky’s next to pull him into a brief hug, although, unlike the others, his face is still lined with worry as he pulls back, strained around the mouth and distracted as he adds his own say to that of the rest. “Never disappear like that again, understood?”

“Understood.” It feels wrong, falling out of his mouth, but there’s nothing else to be said as his eyes trail to the door he’s tried multiple times by now and still can’t get past.

There’s questions after that, and Hylia above he hates questions so much! He’s not even listening anymore, instead watching as Holly comes into the room again, shaking her head softly as she tuts under her breath, carrying yet another pitcher of water. “Holly!” His voice cuts off that of his brothers and has the medic’s eyes lifting to him, that sad little smile returning once more at the sight of him. It tastes disgustingly like pity. “How is he?”

She hasn't answered any of the other times save with a soft “can’t be sure” but this time she looks over the heroes gathered before her and just finally sighs, gaze falling and head shaking like it’s been doing all afternoon. “T’ain’t pretty, luv.”

“Let me see him?” It’s strained, nearly tearful despite his best efforts, but the image of all that blood, on the vet and the captain both, on the medics in and out of the room, and all over the tools Holly and the rest had been cleaning all afternoon- it makes his heart hurt and his stomach churn with unease.

Unlike the last time, when he’d caught word of Warriors getting stabbed while at the castle, where he’d run here from the inn and been let in without so much as an attempt to stop him, this time the medic pauses, glancing between the closed off room and the sailor boy whose spent all day lurking outside of it. His injuries are basically gone by now, the potion having taken effect no matter how much he’d struggled to keep it down, but leaving just won't sit right with him. Not until he sees Link.

The woman at last sighs, yet again. “I’ll see if yer mum’s alright wi’ it.”

No one has even a chance to ask what she means by that, although based off of previous experience they all already know. He’s not sure if the vet’s been being referred to as ‘Kit Taylor’ all day now or not, has no way of knowing, but it really wouldn’t surprise it if they’re rolling with that again. Regardless, he’s sure the vet is who Holly means, and who she must speak too as she slips into the room again.

The whole group of them wait with bated breath.

When the door swings open yet again, the answer given is slow and hesitant. “Ten minutes.”

He’s up off the bed before she’s even done saying it, the rest of their group at his heels, but Sky by far the fastest, by some trick of magic or another (because there's no way he’s that quick under his own power).

Entering the little room, they’re greeted with the sight of the captain’s still form laid out across the bed. He’s on his side rather than his back, although there’s blood staining the back of the shirt he’s wearing, and while it doesn't appear to be fresh, it’s clearly the cause of his odd positioning. There's a lot of blood all the same though, and even more splatters over the vet, seated at the bedside in a chair that definitely wasn't there the last time Wind visited this room. They can’t see the captain’s face, but Legend looks like a wreck. Hair a mused mess, eyes bruised from lack of sleep and worry both as he sits, stretched out so that one arm rests between his chin and the mattress, the other hand holding one of the captain’s own tightly. Between the two of them, Wind’s not sure who looks worse, and he’s not even seen the captain’s face yet.

It takes longer than he’d like for violet eyes to drag up to them too, and if the weight of the world looks like it’s resting on the vet’s shoulders, well, they all get a taste of it as his eyes fall just as heavy on the group of them.

“Is that the others?” Warriors voice is strained, but it’s his and its alert at least, even if the man hasn't moved at all since they’d entered.

Legend blinks, breathes a moment like even that is a chore, and then glances down to the captain. “Yeah. Guess they’re tired of waiting on us.”

“Told you to go rest.” The captain huffs, but Wind can’t miss the way the man’s hand squeezes the vet’s own smaller one (or the fact that both sets of fingers are still stained with blood).

A scoff makes rosy hair fly just a bit in front of dark eyes. “Yeah, no.” It’s said like they’ve had this conversation a thousand times already. Given how long they've been in here, Wind wouldn't be shocked if it has. Still, Legend’s voice is a good deal less rough than it was this morning, and while it still bleeds stress and strain, there’s an undercurrent of warmth in it that softens the sound against their ears.

In a sharp contrast, the captain’s voice is all tightly strung and strained when it next sounds. “Is Wind here?”

The vet’s eyes lift to them again; falling on him, holding his gaze as every emotion drops out of dark depths with a single heavy breath. “Yeah...”

The captain groans, shifting and lifting one hand. “Help me up.”

“Holly said to keep still,” the vet sits himself up, pushing Warriors back down in the same motion. The emotions flicker back over his face, worry and stress and pain, but the hand lifted, expectant, doesn’t drop.

“Either you help me, or I do it by myself.”

A soft ‘tsk’ sounds, but the hand is taken, clasped tightly as the captain lets Legend take the strain of pulling him somewhat upright, the vet’s other arm wrapping around broad shoulders while, somehow, the smaller man manages to maneuver a pillow or two around to support the other. Wind’s not sure how it’s done though, because his eyes are rather fixed on the captain’s face. Well, what he can see of it.

It’s like being back in the army camp, sitting in the medical tent for the last time in his life and realizing just how much Hyrule resented the man who’d taken him in. The bandages that wrap around the captain’s eyes are positioned differently then that time, covering more, but there’s no doubt in his mind why they’re there, and what’s hiding beneath.

He wants to be sick.

“Tune.”

Reflexively he tries to meet the stare that ought to be being leveled at him, but there’s only white cloth to meet in its place. His own voice feels small as it answers the steel of the captain’s own. “Yes?”

“You lied to me.” It’s worse than the stab wound, than the punches he’d taken earlier in the day. The captain’s harsh tone is worse than anything enemies have ever dealt him, and he flinches back under it. “You promised to stay behind, and then you intentionally snuck out.”

The gazes of the others are on him now, all shocked and surprised, except Legend. No, Legend just looks tired, maybe enough to just keel over then and there, even as he hovers at the captain’s bedside like he’s worried the other is the one that might falter. With how stately Warriors manages to look even while bandaged up and an utter mess, Wind has no clue where that worry is coming from.

“I’m disappointed.”

Wind’s pretty sure his heart stops for a minute.

“I trusted you to obey orders, and you intentionally defied them, risking not only your safety, but mine and that of the rest of our party.” He’s not sure if he should be glad that he can’t see the captain’s eyes or not. The stare he’d be fixed under, if the man still had his vision, is no doubt the same one that’s made men piss themselves in terror. He never thought it would be turned on him, but the anger that bleeds through the captain’s voice betrays the intent, even if his face can do nothing to express it. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

He feels small. So very small. “I’m sorry.”

Warriors twitches, shoulders sinking as though new weight has been added to them. “Me too.” His tone hasn’t softened the slightest bit. “I’m sorry I believed you would actually follow orders.”

Tears prick at his eyes at the words. He’s already cried far too much today, but in comparison, everything that happened earlier feels so trivial and childish beside this. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you mean to tell that to everyone whose neck you risked by jumping in when I told you not to?”

“What else do you want me to say?” It’s half sob, half scream, but somehow it’s still so quiet in the echo of the captain’s own harsh tones.

Silence meets his words, but not a considering one. No, Warriors’ lips are pursed and his shoulders tense, so much so that even when Legend lays a hand on one, a wary look on the vet’s face and no doubt some sort of warning on the man’s lips, the captain doesn’t so much as twitch. “I don’t know. It seems my expectations were miscalculated.”

“I’m sorry!” It feels like the only thing that he can say anymore. “I didn’t mean for this to happen!”

“And yet it did.”

“I was trying to look out for you!”

The next words are a harsh bark worse than anything Time could dream of. “Well look how that turned out!”

“Warriors.” Legend’s voice is strained, a warning as dark eyes lift to fix on the trembling sailor.

The captain hisses a breath, what’s visible of his face contorting in what Wind takes a moment to realize is pain. There’s a breath, the vet’s hands hovering and the captain’s shoulders trembling for a moment before one blood-stained hand lifts as though to rub the bandaged face, only to think twice when it meets soft cloth rather then flesh. “Get out,” it’s strained, but less harsh, just tired. “Just... get out, go back to your room.”

“You’re sending me to my room? I’m not a child!”

“Well, you certainly haven't been acting like an adult!” The captain snarls back, only to pause and turn away, hand twitching towards his face a second time and again pausing at contact with the bandages. “Look, I am too angry and in too much pain to be having this conversation,” heavy breaths color the words, shallow little things that shake through the form of the man he’s spent so log looking up to. “We’ll discuss this when I can control myself.”

He wants to protest, to apologize again, to say anything, but Time’s heavy, too big hand settles on his shoulder, holding him back. “We’ll leave you to rest then.”

“Is there anything you need?” Sky’s voice is warm, soft, sad, but kind all the same as the man glances from Warriors’ shuddering form to Legend’s drooping one.

The vet shakes his head, eyes slipping closed in the motion with a little sigh. Wind wonders, looking at him, if Legend has rested at all since hauling his ass out of that pub, or if the man’s been tending the captain at Holly’s side all the while, regardless of the fact that he looks ready to collapse.

Sky must see it too, because he frowns some, worry bleeding into his voice. “Get some sleep, you two. We’re just a call away.”

“Thanks, Sky.” The smile the vet shoots them is as fake as the captain’s had been last night.

Wind can only stare, helpless as their leader guides him out of the room. He trips over his own feet, but catches the way the vet catches the captain’s hand in one of his own, murmuring something he can’t hear but which has Warriors’ shoulders falling, sinking, a shudder running through the man that looks horrifyingly like a sob.

He screwed up.

#asks and answers #linked universe #linkeduniverse #febuwhump #febuwhump2024 #linked universe fanfic #lu warriors #lu wind #lu legend #because legend decided to play sidekick #so he's here #easter egg challenge #how many of my old fics did i reference?

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lilac-5ky · 11 months

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Roommates from Hell, pt.2 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 2: 2912

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist

A/N: Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed the first part of the story! I'll do my best to update every 1-2 weeks and to keep things interesting. Feedback and suggestions are always welcome, and if anyone wants to be notified for updates, drop your name in the comments and I'll gladly tag your @.

Warning: Flashback, mentions of violence, blood, and sex toys (odd combo, I know)

2…9…1…2

Deft fingers punched in the numbers on the door’s keypad, a practiced crescendo of beeps and bops granting you access to your flat. Hesitant fingers that dropped to the handle, but refused to push forward, instead anchoring you there. Not yet, you mumbled, your eyes squeezing shut as soon as your forehead hit the frame.

Today has been a long day. So long that you barely had a moment to process the line of rapid escalations as it brought you to this very doorstep, with the ghost of your former scarf dangling from your neck. Some people would rather be glued to the little screens of their little phones than discipline their eight-year-old brats who, for some reason, thought playing tug of war with others’ scarves while they busted their gut to make a leaving to be of utmost entertainment.

Some people ought to keep their genes to themselves, you exasperated, untying the fabric from your neck and then balled it inside your bag, zipping the bunny across the seam.

The bunny…

Toji…

It was becoming a habit of yours to follow up his name with a sigh. Sometimes a sigh that meant “What am I going to do with you?” and others coming from a place of deep longing and frustration, meaning “What am I going to do without you?”

He said he’d be home after “snipping some loose ends,” which in his dictionary either referred to him breaking some poor woman’s heart, or quite literally stabbing some equally unfortunate man’s heart out of his body at his job’s demand. Depending on the plausibility of each scenario, you were given a minimum of four and a maximum of six hours to try and make sense of his actions and devise a plan to make this cohabitation work.

You licked your lips for the millionth time that day, gnawing at the chapped flesh with the edge of your teeth. No lip balm could aspire to salvage their sorry-ass state, aggravated by the low temperatures and honed by your continuous munching on them. You’d become so conscious of their existence, that it seemed as if you were trying hard to erase it before he had the chance to realize his goal of kissing them— even when that was a common goal shared by the both of you.

The taste of metal pooled in the hollow of your mouth, your teeth sinking a tad too deep. There wasn’t much reason to keep contemplating that which never happened and that which, perhaps, would never come. You wiped your shoes on the crooked doormat (was it always crooked?) and walked inside, your legs nearly giving out at the sight of two knees dangling from your beloved couch’s armrest.

“Woah, keep it down, won’t ya?”

None other than the voice of Toji reprimanded you as you screamed at the top of your lungs. His body was spilled across your couch, the expanse of muscles barely fitting upon the three azure-colored pillows. A soda —your soda— nested in his palm, while a bag of empty potato chips —your chips— lay on the kotatsu.

“What the hell are you doing here?!?” A trembling hand reached out to where your heart supposedly was, checking whether it was still in its place.

“Watching some travel show about Chikura,” he answered, unfazed and undisturbed. “You like abalone, right? Why don’t we-”

“I’m asking, how the fuck did you get in here?”

“Oh, that,” Toji smirked, lowering the TV’s volume just when the travel host was about to devour a platter full of steaming hot seafood—mouthwatering enough to divert your attention for a second. “Sayaka let me in.”

“Sa-yaka…?”

“Flat hair, narrow eyes— kinda like Izumi Pinko. Walks around with a cane twice her size. Rings a bell?”

“Talking about Ogawa-san?” you asked, a caricature of your crabby landlady taking shape before your very eyes. “She never lets in anyone without a key, though. Last time I forgot mine, she acted as if she didn’t know me and went right past. Had to phone a locksmith,” you sighed, murmuring under your breath about the extravagant sum of money you were forced to pay. “How did you do it? Convince her to open up?”

“How else ya think?” His chin rotated leisurely atop his knuckles.

“You can’t be serious! Y-you fucked her?” Your eyes went wide like saucers, the notion sounding both feasible and surreal.

His smirk sharpened into a sly grin as he stood up, a slight slouch on his shoulders carrying him to your eye level. You couldn’t exactly look away from this proximity, so you began quietly analyzing him. The tight-fitting black tee and baggy training pants that greatly accentuated his hips and shoulders; his work outfit. The overgrown hair that curtained the dark circles of his eyes; evidence of a sleepless night. The absence of scent, not even of dirt, sweat, or struggle. He must’ve actually been working on a bounty, you deduced, your final thought of rationale as he invaded the last bit of personal space you’d left.

“You really think the worst of me, huh?” His tongue circled his lips, prompting yours to do the same as you sheepishly shook your head, the sultry sound of his voice as hypnotizing as his hooded green eyes were.

“You think I go ‘round spreading the legs of everything that moves?” Toji asked again, his tone growing more condescending by the second. “ ‘fraid that ain’t the case, princess. I’m not into goodwill. Don’t do things without merit, either. She asked who I was, got all perky when I said I’m moving in, and then handed me these,” he paused, throwing a bundle of creased envelopes at your feet.

You kneeled awkwardly, seeking the sender’s origin in each logo seal. Water company. Electricity company. Phone company. Insurance company. Even the bills from that one debit card Hinata issued in your name in case of an emergency.

“Could say I paid my way in,” he scoffed, his eyes searching for an inkling of appreciation that he failed to find in your stubborn squint.

“I could’ve handled these myself.”

“Thought you’d say this, that’s why I saved this one,” he tossed another, smaller yellow-tinted paper onto the pile. “Eviction notice. My, you have it quite hard, don’tcha?”

“I don’t need classes on financial handling from someone whose living conditions are entirely dependent on ‘the bimbo of the week’,” you snapped, rising back to your feet with the bills in hand.

Maybe things were a bit tighter these past few months than you’d accounted for, but you weren’t like him. Sooner or later, you paid all expenses through sheer work and effort— a concept foreign to him, who’d rather be thrown into the streets than save a dime.

You weren’t like Toji. Not one bit. You knew that if he hadn’t run into your landlady, you would have definitely paid all your debts off in a month’s time or two, even if that meant devolving your breakfast’s nutritional value to that of instant ramen. You could take care of yourself, just like you’d done for 14 years now. He had no right to interfere because, come next month, you’d—

But the overdue deadlines at the top of each paper spoke louder than your inner thoughts and bravado did. The next month would never come for you. Not in this house, at least.

Defeated, you unfolded the paper, straightening the creases your fingernails had helped create. You hated feeling this way— indebted. The last thing you wanted was for this to turn into just another transactional relationship with an expiration date dependent on the other’s wage.

“Thank you, and,” you mumbled, your stare hiking up his body and stopping at his chest —right about where the difference in your height manifested— “….sorry, I guess. Just thought that with the way you look, and all that-”

“The way I look…?” A winsome smile tugged at his dimples, his left hand weaving through his hair as if he were oblivious to how effortlessly attractive he appeared in his work clothes, every single crevice of his body visible under the little piece of fabric.

“N-never mind.” You tore your eyes away, cheeks flushing bright red at thoughts a friend shouldn’t be having. “How was work?”

“Pretty dead,” he shrugged, using the same hand to rub some of the tension around the crook of his neck. “Don’t see a real challenge rising until that Gojo kid hatches from his egg. Rest die like flies.”

As a regular person with about an average percentage of cursed energy running through your system, you had little understanding of the mystical world of Jujutsu and its sorcerers, all the information you had acquired being bits and pieces that Toji had shared with you over the years. He never went into too much detail about his job but never hid anything either. He killed sorcerers with the same ease he spread butter on his bread.

You really didn’t understand much, and perhaps the keywords “kills for a living” ought to ring an alarm or two, but an outsider like you who didn’t abide by their rules had no right judging those who broke them. Besides, with the way his family had disposed of him as if he were a chewed piece of gum stuck on the back of their sole, things weren’t as black and white as one would assume.

“Gojo, you say,” the name sounding awfully familiar on your tongue. “Is that one of the three big clans?”

Toji nodded, his arms folding over his chest. “Special grade when he ain’t grown any pubes yet,” he scoffed, voice twisting in an unnatural way that could have tricked you into thinking he was jealous of the young boy.

“Are you gonna kill him?”

His brows knitted together, clearly not expecting such bluntness. “Question is, can I? Answer being, for the right price,” the frown he wore subdued into a crooked smile. “maybe. Kid should fetch one good wad of cash. I’m sure many want the six eyes out of the picture.”

Six eyes?

“Just make sure you save some of it,” you mindlessly said, eyes dancing around the room for the first time since you’d entered the house.

There were no real signs of his presence. The duffel bag seemed to be nowhere in sight either. Only his shoes were left by the door right next to yours, a sign you’d completely missed upon entering.

“What happened to your things, by the way? Don’t see ‘em.”

“Took the liberty of sorting them out,” Toji said. “You had a lot more empty space than you made it sound earlier.”

Somehow that statement terrified you— not because you were some overbearing control freak who didn’t want others interfering with their stuff, but because you feared the misplaced items he might have found casually lying around, providing him with all the excuse he needed to tease you to an excruciatingly slow and shameful death.

You went on a parade through the rooms, Toji following in your steps like a well-trained puppy, letting you freely inspect the new “changes”.

In the living room, you spotted a pair of dumbbells lying by the window, heavy enough that when you tried to pick one of them up, it resulted in one loud, unintentional shriek as your feet were nearly crushed, much to Toji’s vile amusement. Then in the bathroom, you found a second toothbrush that shared the exact same color yours did, along with a black fuzzy towel and a men’s deodorant that was missing its lid. You’d have to get another cup for his toothbrush, you noted, and moved along, eventually making it to your apartment’s sole bedroom.

“Where are your clothes?” you asked, Toji nodding in your closet’s direction.

You opened the first door, finding a series of dark-colored shirts, sweaters, and cardigans hanging from the previously vacant racks. You didn’t wear much color yourself, but when comparing the disparity between his almost exclusively black side of the space and the creamier pastels that predominated yours, the clash in taste was indisputable.

Absentmindedly, you run your fingers through his clothes, stopping at the dark blue parka you’d gotten him for his 21st birthday. He wasn’t the type to keep gifts from women, but seeing he’d preserved yours in mint condition filled you with a strange sense of pride.

“Not bad,” you exclaimed, satisfied with how aptly his clothes were displayed until a new worry surfaced. “What about your underwear?”

He glanced toward the bottom drawer, his instep gently kicking against it. You weren’t too sure if that was necessary, and under different circumstances, you’d rather avoid such overt embarrassment, but this was your house first and foremost. Your closet, your drawer, and—

“The bottom drawer…?” The realization struck like a ton of bricks, your pupils widening and then trembling as a breath hitched up your throat, remaining there.

The bottom drawer is where you kept it, perhaps the only thing in this entire household that you’d rather he didn’t see, at the cost of your own life, even. A rabbit, whose little ears tapped in excitement every time it saw you. A rabbit vastly different from the ones that hopped around happily in fields or the one that was weaved through the zipper of your handbag. A rabbit that had kept you company in his place many nights and knew the sound of his name better than Toji himself did.

Sinking to your knees, you felt his shadow loom over you like the shadow of imminent death. You let go of that breath and yanked the drawer open, eyes squinting at the sight of neatly stacked black boxers, their size big enough to make you arch a brow, yet not big enough to completely conceal 6 inches of hot pink. You were safe.

“Looking for this?” A light buzz rang in your ear, your head tilting to meet Toji’s namesake.

“G-give it back!” You dived forward, gracelessly collapsing at his feet when he pulled it out of reach.

“Come and get it,” Toji retorted, wiggling it before your very eyes.

Piecing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, you pounced at him, fingers locking around the silicone and his hand, while he refused to surrender, his thrilled expression revealing just how much he enjoyed the demand in your tone as you bossed him into handing back the vibrator.

“What will I get in return?”

“Wha— why would you get anything?” You gritted your teeth, stumbling forward as he dragged you to him.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he shook his forefinger playfully. “Finders keepers, losers weepers. If ya really want it, better compensate me first. Oh, look, it has multiple speeds, huh….” he said semi-impressed, revving up the rabbit’s switch to its second and third speeds.

“…What do you want?” You practically begged, seeking a way out of this humiliation.

“Now we talking,” Toji smirked, barely restraining himself from ruffling the hair of the ferocious, albeit cute, beast that attacked him. “2912. What do the numbers mean? Tried your birthday first, but seems like you do have a few brain cells in there,” he tapped at your temple with his free hand, frustration pooling in your eyes. “Then your mom’s death anniversary, your sis’ birthday, that brat’s too— even mine, but no good.

“So, what’s 2912 to you? Indulge me, and I’ll let you have it.”

2912, or more accurately, 29/12. It didn’t surprise you that he didn’t remember. After all, it wasn’t an important date, just another winter’s day from many, many years ago. A day that was all but erased under the thick blanket of snow as it engulfed your tender memories.

A heavy sigh parted your lips, and at that moment, you knew you’d already lost.

“You really wanna know?”

It was the 27th of December.

The 27th morning of a month whose sole notable event was the week-long blizzard that’d condemned the entire nation to a period of absolute and unfaltering inertia. Well, as unfaltering as the in-between downpours let it be, snow washing over the streets in a diluted mixture of ice and mud every two days— streets turning into a dangerous minefield, and hospital beds quickly filling up with broken-boned smarty pants who thought wandering out and about in the heart of winter would be as inconsequential as those dull days were.

You were one of those idiots. Not quite, but you were on your way to join their ranks, every step you took across the frozen pavements of Tokyo threatening to leave you with a bad case of a sprained ankle, or worse, a cracked skull. You regretted wearing those worn-out boots today of all days, but then again, your wardrobe choices were limited to whatever clothing you’d grown out of, and the clothes your mother left behind.

This old suede pair was hers, too. A gift from back when your house was still open to crowds and birthday parties— when it wasn’t just an empty carcass of termite-eaten joists and web-infested corners that could barely welcome, let alone host, the final of its residents: yourself.

Returning to the reason why you’d chosen today as the day to stride across Shibuya —a thermos of soothing Butajiru soup gripped tightly between your mitten-clad palms and a backpack full of advertising fliers for your afternoon job attached to your back— and consequentially, the reason why you sported your mother’s beloved shoes: you had a job interview. Your first non-canceled interview in over two months since your personal inertia began when you were suddenly and unjustifiably laid off.

Those were tough times. The entire country was dipped in despair over the biggest economic recession they’d known. Left and right, people had their jobs snatched from within their grasp in the name of meek excuses such as cost reduction, or merging and buyouts, or even staff redundancy, and who could blame those small enterprise owners, really?

In any case, the cost of running your previous employer’s rathole of a convenience store might have been reduced, but your living expenses weren’t, and the supplementary funds the state provided were running dry. No one wanted to hire an inexperienced, uninsured high schooler. It was too much of a gamble, especially when the contenders were overqualified college graduates desperate enough to work menial jobs for the same breadcrumbs a part-timer would.

You were at your wit’s end. Out of luck and starved for something other than vending machine onigiri. Thirsty for a life you’d probably never be able to obtain. But today wasn’t about wallowing in self-pity. No, today was the day you’d take your first step toward normality and dignity. Today, you marched proudly in your mother’s most prized possession, and today you felt her comforting scent linger in the breeze, giving you the much-needed push to achieve what you’d set out to do.

Live. That was the final request that left her lips, and that was exactly what you were planning to do. You’d live. No matter what, against all odds, you would live.

The headlights at the bustling intersection shone a brilliant green as the herd of sharply dressed businessmen and casually dressed students on their day off pushed forward like a troop of toy soldiers, sweeping you past Shibuya River, where the crystallized waters from below its bridge stilled your grimacing reflection.

It’d been so long since the last time you’d genuinely smiled that your facial muscles barely remembered how to. It looked awkward and forced. Foreign. You’d practiced your introduction days ahead, but that damn smile stood in the way. If only there was a “smiles for dummies” playbook, though you doubted it’d help. Those without a reason to smile could only second-guess the happiness of those who were blessed with it.

As if to further test your theory, today’s misfortune came pedaling right in your direction, a hasty biker knocking the thermos off your hands and onto the water with a faint “sorry” echoing in his stead. You ducked over the handrail, spotting the silver shine a couple of meters away from the river’s brink. You sighed in relief, grateful that the impact hadn’t shattered the ice and that you still had about 45 minutes to catch your interview— more than enough time for you to carry out your flask’s impromptu rescue operation.

You walked over to the bridge’s sideline, where, in place of stairs, an overgrown cherry tree cast its shadow. This was far from sensible, but the cliff wasn’t steep enough to dissuade you. You looped your scarf around a leaning branch and began your descent, the non-existent friction between your tattered soles and the slippery cement sending you to meet your maker as you tumbled down the slope and hit the ground. Shit.

Once you were done lamenting your sheer idiocy, your faulty shoes, the tree branch, the weather forecast, and every Shinto deity’s name you could remember off the top of your head, you pushed yourself onto your knees, carefully rotating each ankle around itself. Not broken. Thank those aforementioned gods you cursed, or else you’d never be able to afford the medical bills.

You shook the snow off your clothes and stood up, stretching both arms over your head, only to realize your blunder had become a lonesome spectator’s object of amusement. The man —assuming that the creature behind you was a man and not some wild beast with the way his jacket fluffed over his skull— was bent in half, knees to his chest, and arms coiled around, the sole distinctive trait that of his sparkling green eyes zeroing in on your plainer orbs.

You could have sworn you heard a chuckle, too, but you weren’t about to start a fight with some unhinged bum at the bottom of a bridge— not when you were one missed bill away from sharing his fate.

Deciding to temporarily forsake his presence, you located the now broken branch and attempted to fish your bottle out, moving as close to the ice as you could. Desperate lunges pushed the thermos further in, your hold on the wood relaxing with each failed attempt until you barely had a grip.

“Excuse me!” you turned at your last resort. “Hi, um… could you please help me out here? I dropped this into the water, and it’s really important I get it back, but my arms can’t reach and the ice is so thin and slippery I just might fall.”

An uncomfortable chuckle failed to appease its tough crowd, with the man remaining lost in his thoughts, his eyes blinking slower than traffic lights during rush hours. It seemed like you’d found the worst person to exercise your communication skills with.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Shut up.”

It was your turn to blink in surprise, your jaw dropping at the man’s barking. You were too shocked to be offended and too offended to question if it was you he addressed, but his next sentence left no real room for misunderstanding.

“I said, shut the fuck up and take it elsewhere. You were the one who dropped it. If it was that important to you, then shoulda taken better care of it instead of avalanching your way down here and disturbing my peace.”

Clapping your hands over your agape mouth, you muttered an apology and faced away from him, coming to your senses a minute later when you realized you weren’t in the wrong. Sure, he could be dealing with some lachrymose life-shattering situation you knew nothing about, but that wasn’t an excuse for him to act like a complete jerk to a fellow stranger in need.

You weren’t sure why you held back from flipping him off. Maybe you’d accepted that dealing with douchebags was going to become part of your new reality as a service worker, or maybe it was because you really didn’t want any trouble with a guy who looked this intimidating even while seated. Either way, you whipped out your trusty branch again and neared the brink, this time using it as a cane to help you tread the frozen waters and snatch your thermos.

You didn’t even get a chance at a victorious cheer when you felt the ice shatter beneath your feet, eager to swallow you into the depths of its bottomless abyss. Or that’s what would have happened if the river didn’t cap at 2 meters, and if a hand didn’t yank you by the scruff of your neck, hurling you back to the shore as if you weighed no more than a snowflake.

“The hell you think you are doing? Got a death wish or something?” the brass voice of your savior accused, belonging to a much more pleasant and youthful face than one would have expected.

The boy was more or less your age, about a head taller with broad shoulders and a toned physique his baggy clothes undermined— much stronger than your average high-schooler, judging by the sheer strength he’d flung your body with. Messy raven black hair rained down to his ears, sloppily chopped into shape by their owner himself. Eyes as green as a thousand springs gone by, and as fiery as the blazing fury scorching them. The only discord in his features was that of a scar on the right side of his lips, begrudgingly moving with each profanity he spat.

Your second apology came as a knee-jerk reaction to his outburst, encouraged by the temporal trance his good looks had subjected you to. You wouldn’t say you had a type, and even if you did, you doubted that a no-good, rude bridge inhabitant was it. However, the only way for you to tear your gaze off of him was to physically force yourself away. The guy murmured something under his breath and moved back to his original spot, arms dangling over his spread thighs.

You were unsure of what to do. The time for your interview was closing in, and no one guaranteed he wouldn’t rip the vocal cords off your throat if you tried to verbally thank him. You had a very bad feeling about this guy, and perhaps you should have listened to your gut rather than nullifying the distance with a peace offering.

“Here,” you prodded a spare cup of soup into the empty space between you.

He arched a brow at your gesture, his irritation gradually melting into curiosity and then acceptance as he brought the cup to his lips and took a hesitant sip.

“Hmm,” he hummed, gulping down some more after he’d made sure you weren’t trying to poison him.

You expected something else to follow, but it seemed like his outburst exhausted his vocabulary. You could always ask what he thought of it, but the thought alone was as scary as going for another suicide dive. So you said nothing, and he did the same. Just two strangers who barely tolerated each other sharing a moment of silence in the snowy landscape.

A short while later, the boy shoved the cup toward you and dug his hand in his jacket’s front pocket, dropping about six crumpled ten-thousand yen bills at your feet.

“For the soup,” he explained as if the notion of spending such an extravagant sum on half a cup of pork loin soup made sense.

“Are you outta your mind?” You pushed the bills back at him, lest your greed take over. “How much do you think this cost to make?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, no real hurry to reclaim his cash.

Your initial impression was completely false. No bum would ever wave ten-thousand bills around as if they were nothing. No, this guy ought to at least be some troubled conglomerate heir that’d run away from his five-bedroom mansion.

“I’m sure you don’t know how dangerous this neighborhood is,” you said, placing your hand against your heart. “But as a born and raised local, allow me to say that if you keep flaunting wads of cash in people’s faces so recklessly, it won’t be long before you get mugged. It’s your lucky day you ran into me and not some sleazy money grabber, but trust me, not every day’s lucky, and not everyone’s as nice.”

Something about what you said must have resonated with him, considering his frown cracked into a simper.

“I’d like to see them try,” he spoke in a cocky tone that reeked of confidence. “How much for seconds then?”

“Not for sale,” you answered, throwing the thermos inside your backpack.

His weight shifted in your direction, chin balancing against his elbow. “Why not?”

“You see, I’m on my way to a job interview. Figured if I don’t cut it, then the soup will,” quickly adding, “It’s my trump card.”

“What a dumb plan,” he sneered. “If ya wanna bribe someone, better make an offer they can’t refuse. Couple of these work like a charm.”

He waved the money again, successfully drawing your interest when you noticed tiny splotches of red on one of the bills. Blood.

Picking up on the change in your expression, he hurriedly stuffed the cash inside his pocket, his thumbs sticking out in a relaxed grip so as to hide his discomfort. The air grew heavy once more, albeit for a different reason.

Every guess you’d made regarding this guy’s identity clashed with the next one. He was rude, but he’d jumped to your rescue. He looked unkempt yet strikingly handsome. He’d taken refuge under a bridge but was damn loaded. A walking (more like seated) contradiction of a man that intrigued you in more ways than he repulsed you.

“So, what are you doing out here? Did you also fall from up there?” You chuckled nervously while pointing upward.

He smiled.

“That’s a pretty old-school pickup line, if ya ask me.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Your chest pounded against your fleece jacket, hands quick to dispute him. “Did something happen? Why did you end up here?”

He shook his head.

“Did you run away from home?”

He shook his head again.

“Did you get into a fight with someone?”

He thought about shaking his head a third time, but instead, he opted for a groan and hissed about how he should have let you drown.

Your tongue embarrassed you yet again, as you mumbled an apology and cowered in your corner. For some reason, you couldn’t stop apologizing to him, and if that was enough to frustrate you, then it was definitely enough to annoy him. Maybe the time to leave had come. You’d done your part in thanking him, and it was really none of your business to pry into his sad character backstory.

“Well then. It was nice knowing you, and all. Hope you have a Happy New Year’s and a nice life, and let’s never see each other again for as long as we-”

“What if I told you I just killed someone?”

The blood in your veins froze for a reason separate from the cold. You were left staring at him with wide-open eyes and a wide-open mouth that refused to form anything other than a soundless “What?!”

“Thought so,” he scoffed as if he expected the outcome, sorrow lingering in his voice. “Go away if ya don’t wanna end up the same way. I’m still getting the hang of it, and I’m afraid it’d hurt more than drowning.”

But you didn’t leave. Even when that little voice of reason thrashed and begged for you to seize the opportunity and get the fuck away from this place, your legs refused to take another step. Instead, you settled back upon the snowy blanket and stilled your gaze on his face, watching a glimmer of something tune in the green of his eyes.

“W-Who was it?” You feigned calmness.

“Does it matter?” he shrugged.

“Why did you kill him?”

“Does it really matter?” he sighed, reconsidering his answer. “Dunno. Money, I guess. Not as if I had a personal grudge or anything. Didn’t even know the dude up until three days ago. Took him out with a single bullet to his brain. T’was instant since he didn’t move. Painless, too.” He tried to humanize his actions.

You weren’t entirely sold on his story, but on the off chance he was telling the truth, that made him a murderer and you a witness to his crime. Worse, if you didn’t rat on him, it made you an accomplice, and as far as you were concerned, neither was less illegal than the other.

Your hands cupped your mouth completely as you pretended to blow hot air, the reality being that you didn’t want to spew anything too backhanded before thinking things through. Oddly, it all made sense. The reason he sat down there like a puppy kicked by his owners. His devil-may-care attitude and rude comments that meant to throw you off. The blood on the bills and the stain on the hem of his jacket that you’d previously overlooked.

That was all the incriminating evidence one needed to possibly sentence him, and yet you sensed no real danger in his presence. Only a deep sadness that stemmed from his lifeless eyes, making you believe that his so-called victim was none other than himself. He looked as if he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in God knows how long, the light in his eyes reduced to a murky shade of jade now that everything was laid bare.

There was so much you didn’t know about this boy, his name included. But you knew that look of despair all too well. If it was because of money, then maybe, just this once, you wouldn’t mind giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“How much did you make?” You lowered your palms.

Your question surprised him more than he thought possible, and his stupefied expression was a telltale sign of that. He flipped both pockets inside out and let the money fall onto the snow, revealing twice the amount he’d held before— a total of 120.000 yen.

“Minus a grand. Felt hungry after,” he admitted.

“Must be nice… With that amount of money, I could have rice to last me until the end of the year.”

“You’d kill for rice…?”

Glancing at his face, you couldn’t help yourself from snorting. You were both too deep inside the twilight zone to be questioning each other’s motives.

“Why act surprised? People like us do all sorts of things to get out of our predicaments, don’t we?” you asked, deciding there were more things you had in common than things that divided you. “Is ‘just money’ a better reason than rice?”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “But if I were you, I’d get myself a pair of boots that ain’t a death trap of its own. Gotta be a special kind of idiot to wear crappy shoes in the snow.”

“These were my mother’s!” you objected, and he smirked. “What about you? Where do you plan on spending all that money?”

“Roppongi probably. Or Kabukicho. Heard the right price fetches you the right type of fun there.”

He couldn’t be serious. Those were two of the most renowned bad districts in the history of bad districts. Drugs, gambling, prostitution— you name it.

“How old are you again?”

“Older than you,” he childishly retorted.

“What’s your name?”

“So you can snitch?” His tongue wet the scar below his bottom lip. “Toji.”

“Last name?”

He contemplated his answer for a bit before proudly stating that he didn’t have one —that he didn’t need one— and then he asked you the same.

“Y/N.” You smiled faintly. “I do have a last name, but doubt the one who gave it wants me to have it. Would’ve asked it back if it had any real value.”

“So we are two fuck-ups,” he— Toji, declared.

“I suppose we are.”

The two of you shared a quiet laugh, the kind that wasn’t heard but felt through the eyes of two kindred spirits entirely content with each other’s presence. Ever since your mother passed, you lived in a sphere separate from other people. Your classmates and those who tried to be your friends could afford the luxury of sharing takoyaki on a school day and going karaoke singing the next. They could attend field trips and leave memories on a string of Polaroid frames.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. There wasn’t a single moment in your life when you hadn’t thought about the cost of milk and the value of one-plus-one deals you convinced yourself you didn’t need. Such were the concerns you had at seventeen. Not boys, no friendships, no university entrance exams, no nothing. You couldn’t afford the price tag of a dream, let alone a tomorrow. You lived for today and for making ends meet, so how could someone like you ever aspire to be understood? How could you ever view yourself as something other than the zeros at the bottom of your meager paycheck?

Your self-exile had no room for others, yet somehow, this foul-mouthed stranger had barged his way in and given you a moment that you couldn’t price. A moment that neither loan sharks nor the bank could ever steal. A moment of your youth.

The thick fingers of a calloused hand came to tap at your knee softly, making you wonder whether you’d missed something during your short period of contemplation.

“When’s the interview?” Toji asked.

“Uhm.” You rolled your sleeve to check your watch. “Ten minutes? There’s still time; the place’s right around the corner.”

“Somethin’ tells me getting your ass over there will take longer than that.” Suddenly, the hand that was on your leg hovered above your head, prompting you to grab it as Toji towered over you. “Let’s go.”

“You coming with?”

“You think I’d rather sit down here like some bridge troll that reels in defenseless damsels in distress?”

You were tempted to answer “yes” to see his reaction, but he resumed talking before you could utter a word. “Won’t say it again. Let’s go.”

And with that, you followed Toji to the other end of the bridge, where the stairs you previously failed to locate mocked you with every little squeak your heels produced, until you stood back at the top of civilization, finding it, unsurprisingly, the same as you’d left it. Thoroughly white and eerily quiet.

Just as you thought your ways would part, Toji took your hand in his rather forcefully and picked up a steady gait that you were made to keep up with, your shoes leaving deep imprints in the snow.

He held your hand all the way to the diner, and although you were truly curious as to why he did that, you didn’t dare ask. You walked side by side in silence, occasional fleeting gazes catching his warm breath clashing with the cold. It was then that you realized how warm his palm felt, despite it being all bare. Warm, strong, and certain. So this is what holding a guy’s hand feels like, you giddily mused.

By the time you reached the front door, you were more reluctant to let go than you’d been to grab his hand, thinking that this was the first and last time the two of you were saying goodbye. Sweat made your fingers slippery. You were anxious. You slid your mittens off your fingers and, on a whim, pressed them tight against his palms, making him the recipient of the first gift you’d ever given. He shot the pink-colored wool a funny look —maybe because the prospect of him accepting such a girly-looking accessory puzzled him— and then lingered for a moment or two before he turned around and waved at you over his shoulder.

“Aren’t you gonna wish me good luck?” You asked when the distance between you began to increase.

“You won’t need it,” you heard him say. “The soup will do.”

And with those final words exchanged, you traded the frigid cold for the diner’s artificial heat and the presence of a prospective friend for that of your boss-to-be.

Just like Toji predicted, you didn’t need luck, and you didn’t need that lukewarm soup either. The man hired you almost as fast as he saw you, sternly announcing that you start come Monday. You thanked him from the bottom of your heart and ran back outside, searching through the various white-painted buildings for that stubborn hint of black you’d not too long ago parted with— which you quickly spotted a couple of alleyways ahead.

“I got the job! You hear me, Toji?” You yelled in utter glee, sensibility alone keeping you from springing upward like a jack-in-the-box. “I’m not a fuck-up anymore; I got it! I got the job!”

You weren’t even sure whether that shadow really belonged to him and whether he’d actually made sense of all your frantic cries, but maybe if you’d hushed a little, then you could have heard a distant voice chiming, “I knew you would.”

It was the 27th of December when we first met, but it was on the 29th that I fell in love with you— the scruffy boy with the snow-laced hair and emptied pockets who ordered the cheapest fries off the menu as my company’s fee.

You had your answer locked and loaded— a trigger waiting to be pulled. A clear shot. One bullet was all it’d take to end it. One word, and the farce you called friendship would fizzle right then and there. A sadistic impulse uncoiled deep within your stomach, hitching up your throat like a vile serpent of temptation spurring your chaste tongue to commit the greatest sin imaginable.

I hate being your friend. I don’t want to do this anymore. Do you have any idea how hard it is?

All synonyms for the same emotion. A gut-wrenching, soul-crushing, and above all, self-destructive unrequited love that made your heart clench at the mere sight of him, pound at the sound of his voice, and hammer at the ghost of his touch. If you could reach deep within your chest and cut that useless thing off the strings that held it in its cavity, you certainly would. You’d hand it over to him and gladly watch him stomp on it with the biggest smile contorting the final expression on your face. You wanted to rid yourself of this pointless emotion, but you knew very well that to destroy yourself meant to destroy him.

The 18-year-old Toji that held your hand on a cold winter’s day as if it were the most precious thing to him. The 20-year-old Toji that came along to meet the sister and nephew you didn’t know you had. The 22-year-old Toji that said he was proud of you when you paid off your parents’ house’s mortgage. The 24-year-old Toji that came to your graduation from state college with blood-stained lilies in his hand, again letting slip how proud he was. The 26-year-old Toji that didn’t hesitate to knock the teeth right out of a handsy prick’s jaw, spending his first and last night in a holding cell. The Toji from the last ten years of your life that never strayed too far away from your sight and always managed to return in time for lunch.

Standing in front of the 28-year-old Toji, you felt more apologetic than ever, wishing that you wouldn’t have let your love for him fester into something so selfish and consuming. Because if Toji left, then you’d still have your sister and her family, but if you left, Toji would have none.

And that was why you could never tell him what that day meant. It was impossible to speak of it with any less fondness than the one depicted in your memories, and as dense as Toji could be at times, he was no idiot. So rather than giving him the answer he thought himself to seek, you retracted your hand and took a step back, forcing the meekest smile your guilty conscience could muster.

“How about an offer you’d never refuse?”

tags: @absoluteindulgence

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layla4567 · 4 months

Text

Until we meet again

Mihawk x Fem!reader

Part 2

Summary: You make a living as a thief, stealing for your own benefit and working alone. One day you will cross paths with Mihawk and they will declare themselves bitter enemies.

Warnings: Enemies to lovers trope, not proofread, very poor conection to op universe, canon divergence, the reader makes judgmental comments towards men, mention of blood and and injurie

Word Count: 2k

A/N: This is purely and exclusively inspired by the Puss in Boots movie, why? I don't know, don't ask me because I don't have a clear answer lol

You were squatting at the top of a terrace hidden behind a tower, from up there you could see your objective with shining eyes. You smiled and raised your scarf until it covered your nose and mouth completely. You slowly slid across the roof while adjusting the front laces of your black cape where you wore your pirate look underneath it.

Discretion had always been your greatest strength and you always had to go unnoticed if you wanted to achieve everything you set out to do. The life of a pirate thief has its rewards: adrenaline, treasures, etc. But also its cons, many people were after you, especially the government, there were even posters searching for you and capturing you, luckily no one knew who you were since you always wore your cape and your scarf, plus the added bonus that your hair was hidden in your hat.

You always used to say that if you wanted to do a job well done you had to do it alone, that's why you didn't have a crew or assistants or anything and even less men, you felt like you couldn't trust anyone. Do you remember the afternoons at your mother's house always saying the same silly saying: "Actually Columbus's wife was the one who discovered America, because the man couldn't even find his shoes." You laughed softly, repeating her words in a low voice, in the end she was right, men are useless, you discovered that when your father abandoned you both.

You approached the ledge of a balcony with your entire body against the wall and hidden behind some tall palm trees but without losing sight of your objective. Near a market a sailor had poorly stored a devil fruit that he had found. You had followed him closely to see what he would do with it, the middle-aged man looked everywhere nervous of being discovered while he put the fruit in a wooden box and covered it with a worn blanket. The poor fool didn't know that a shadow was lurking from above ready to attack, that fruit had to be yours no matter what. Smiling under your scarf, you were about to go ashore when you saw something that left you frozen. A tall individual dressed in a cape and a wide hat with feathers was approaching with long, slow steps towards where the fruit was blocking your objective. The man didn't seem to realize that a devil fruit was hidden there, he just looked around indifferently. Shit, you thought. Surely the government had sent him to capture you and now he was looking for you, although luckily he had not seen you yet.

Cursing quietly, you climbed back up to the roof without losing sight of him and went down the back, hiding in some leafy bushes, analyzing each of his movements as you slowly approached the stand where the hidden fruit was. You had heard about him before, if you didn't they would say you lived under a rock. Mihawk known as the lord of war was the most popular and skilled swordsman, everyone was afraid and respected him but you didn't care, you were also quite good at your job and until now you had not been discovered, the only thing you had fear is that he would discover your plans or that he would discover you. Now Dracule had his back turned and only his long cloak and wide-brimmed black hat were visible. You crept even closer stealthily like a cat while still hiding behind bushes or barrels without being seen.

You kept drilling Mihawk's back with your eyes so as not to lose sight of him. He seemed to sigh boredly as he looked into the distance. When you were close enough to the crate and the sailor was out of sight, you removed the dirty blanket, uncovering the fruit, and were about to grab it when the sound of a sword being drawn and hitting the edge of the fruit crate near your hands as a warning to you. you stopped When you looked up in surprise you found Mihawk's amber eyes boring into yours.

"I could feel your gaze on my neck, although I thought it was an annoying mosquito"- The man said, raising an eyebrow curiously.

You looked at him furiously, feeling your blood boil, you were always careful with all your movements, but apparently this Mihawk guy was not a fool at all. Had you underestimated men, perhaps, this one? Slowly growling, you moved your body away from the fruit with your hands up even while crouching.

"Very well, what you will do now is withdraw without tricks"

You pretended to bow your head in defeat but with a quick movement you took your hand behind your back and unsheathed the sword that you had hidden under your tunic. With a blow you decided to attack Mihawk but he already saw this coming and simply clashed his sword against yours to avoid the blow to his chest. He looked at your saber and laughed lightly, your sword compared to his was smaller (or rather his was abnormally larger than any other). He raised an eyebrow again, visibly amused by your attitude, not many dared to challenge him but he delighted in the few people who had the courage (or stupidity) to fight him.

"So the little brat knows how to defend himself, interesting"

His peaceful attitude in contrast to yours made you more furious than you already were, he prevented you from taking the fruit but when you attacked he barely defended himself? Was he doing it out of boredom? Gritting your teeth, you attacked again, putting your foot forward and extending your arm, but Mihawk dodged your blow and you clashed your sword with his again. Several attacks followed where he only defended himself and never started the attacks as if he knew he already had the battle won before he even started. Your body was almost shaking with rage and your breathing accelerated while he remained calm as if it were child's play. Bastard. You wanted to shout at him to attack and not be a coward but you restrained yourself and started running to buy time.

"Do you want to play cat and mouse then? As you wish"- He sighed

You ran trying not to burn all your energy so quickly, you avoided boxes by jumping over them and you passed between people without touching them as if you were as thin as a noodle. You felt like you were already quite far from your pursuer so you smiled satisfied and turned your head back. And that was a mistake. Shocked you saw that Dracule Mihawk was hot on your heels, it didn't seem like he was running but rather he was flying. You began to run faster and turned a corner of a house and climbed the balcony to reach the roof just when he hit the heel of your shoe with his sword, although without hurting you. Without looking down you ran along the roofs of the houses and jumping over the tiles while he followed you below and did not lose sight of you.

It was a wild chase where your strength already seemed to begin to abandon you slightly while his was still intact. Feeling your thighs burning, you jumped onto another roof further away and fell with a somersault to get back on your feet and go down a ladder and continue along another path. This time it seemed that Mihawk had given up and had not followed you, you laughed satisfied looking back as you continued running but suddenly something large collided with you and with a groan you fell to the ground while the tip of a sword was pointed at you. You raised your head and saw the tall man with yellow eyes staring at you with one corner of his lips turned up slightly.

"The game is over little mouse, the cat won"

You were not one to give up easily, so with your sword still in your hand, you took his sword out of your sight and jumped up, pushing him and running towards the only exit that he was covering with his back, preventing your escape route. Mihawk was just as fast and grabbed your wrist firmly to spin you around on your trunk and pull you towards him like it was a dangerous dance. You collided with his bare chest with a loud noise, you tried to get out of his grip by twisting like a worm but he wouldn't let you go. Being so close to him you could feel the heat emanating from his skin and you could hear his heartbeat which was fast, apparently the race had tired him out.

"I told you, you should have given up when you had the chance."

"And what are you going to do now, huh?"- You spat angrily, forcing a grave and deep voice to preserve your identity.

"Mmh" -He pretended to think- "What I do with you now is none of your business, in fact it's not even my business."

You didn't want to hear him talk anymore so you stomped his foot hard with your heel. Mihawk growled and let go of you as he bent forward slightly and closed his eyes. He didn't seem as calm as before and his muscles tensed a little. You walked away from him and shouted in a deep voice.

"You work for the government right? They sent you to capture me?!"

Dracule stood up straight and regained his composure. "Oh I just took this little job because I wanted some entertainment. I didn't even know why they were so obsessed with you although after seeing you in action I think I can understand it.."

He seemed amused by the situation, he kept looking at you with those hawk eyes that seemed to hide mischief and mockery towards you. It was more than you could tolerate and you moved your sword again to hurt him but he simply with a quick movement of his wrist not only pushed your sword away but also made a cut on your cheek. You closed your eyes tightly as you felt the itch of the wound on your cheek and fell to the ground in surprise. The force of the blow caused your hat to fall forward and some strands of long hair could be seen. You had your back towards the swordsman so he couldn't see you well yet. You took off your handkerchief to touch the wound with a grimace of pain, seeing your fingers were stained with blood.

"Enough. You're wearing out my patience."

You stood up slowly in pain and grunting but this time with your normal voice which surprised Mihawk a little since it sounded slightly higher pitched. When you stood up completely your hair fell completely behind you and he frowned. You turned around to face him angrily, now your scarf was no longer covering your face and the man could see that you were clearly a woman.

"Well, well" -He said low, looking at you from top to bottom- "This is a pleasant surprise"

Mihawk closed the distance between him and you with his long, slow steps while you tried to walk away but seemed rooted to the ground. Dracule was a few centimeters close to you and since he was incredibly taller than you his face was slightly downward. You avoided eye contact but you still perceived his yellow eyes traveling over your face as if it were the first time he had seen a woman. Suddenly Mihawk's soft fingers traveled to your jaw and slid under your chin to lift it up and force you to look at him. His threatening, yellow eyes burned your retinas and you felt intimidated. The man let out a low laugh.

"You have guts ma'am. I didn't expect to find an opponent as good as you."

You closed your fingers around Dracule's wrist and moved it away, closing your eyes, trying not to look at him, but his amber eyes were still in your head. Remembering the reckless woman you were, you challenged him by raising your chin.

"So? I asked you what you were going to do with me now, Dracule Mihawk."

The tall man narrowed his eyes slightly upon hearing her full name. He went from your lips to your eyes analyzing you. He would never admit it but deep inside he was greatly amused by your cheeky attitude and how you had dared to face him.

"You know what? I'll set you free. And you better hurry because they're probably coming."

You opened your eyes and were speechless as your lips parted slightly. You expected him to hand you over to the authorities, even stab you, anything but that. Was Mihawk going soft…for a woman? Seeing you frozen and unable to speak, Mihawk raised an eyebrow and smiled a small smile that seemed almost invisible.

"Didn't you hear me? Go now, if you value your life."

Mihawk turned around adjusting his hat and putting his sword back away as he climbed the ladder you had used to get down there. You shook your head and regained movement. You bent down to grab your hat and put it on while you covered your face with your scarf and walked away at fast steps trying to find another hiding place and then run away. Before losing sight of you, Mihawk turned his head with a look of satisfaction towards where you had fled to see you for the last time… or not.

I'll definitely do a part two, when? I don't know but I will do it (I will try)

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