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#like did you not learn anything from the slow and painful death of our relationship due to the distance
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Mask, Midnight, and Wound for the character of your choice.
Ooh, thank you, Alex!! These are all good questions!
mask: Does your OC wear a mask, literally or figuratively? What goes on beneath it? Is there anyone in their life who gets to see who they are under the mask?
Weirdly enough, despite my love of masked characters, none of my characters so far wear a literal mask. I'll have to change that. However, I will say that Kristopher does wear a kind of mask. He presents a facade of the man that the entire kingdom of Oryn sees him as: drunk, foolish, and flirtatious. He never shows how badly their taunts hurt him, and he acts like nothing matters to him. But in reality, he's suffering every moment he spends in Oryn, as long as his family and his people hate him. Once in Anvia he dons a different kind of mask. Almost exactly the reverse. He vows not to let anyone see the "real" him. (Or rather, what his parents and brothers have convinced him is the "real" him.) The fuck-up drunkard who is useless to anyone. Eventually Fallon pulls away all of his masks, and gets to see the real Kristopher. The damaged, hurt, suffering Kristopher, who wants nothing more than to be happy and to be loved. Even after the two of them are together, Kristopher still keeps up a certain degree of appearances to everyone except for Fallon. He doesn't want people to ever have an excuse or reason see him the way the people in Oryn did.
midnight: What keeps your OC up at night? Do they have nightmares? Fears? Anxieties? What do they do in the small hours of the morning when they should be sleeping?
Fallon is kept up by a lot of things. Sometimes it's worries or stress regarding her kingdom. Trade deals, foreign politics food stores, threats of crop failure or disease. Anything that could harm her kingdom in any way. Other times it's more personal worries. Memories of her mother, worry that she's failed at being a queen her mother would be proud of. Later on, after Lavinia's attack, it's nightmares. Lots and lots of nightmares. Nightmares where all of her loved ones die, and she can't do a thing to stop it. Some of the most devious ones put her father, Wymond, as a mastermind behind all of the loss and suffering Fallon has ever experienced. What she does when she can't sleep depends on the reason she's still awake. If it's worries about her kingdom, she may be up until the small hours of the morning writing letters to various nobles, merchants, or foreign dignitaries. If it's thoughts about her mother, she'll often just sit and let memories wash over her. If it's nightmares, she might try and distract herself, but often just ends up sitting there frightened.
continued under the cut for length
tw: physical injury, parental death, toxic relationships, human sacrifice
wound: How does your OC handle being wounded? Are their wounds mostly physical? Mental? Emotional? What’s the worst wound your OC has ever experienced?
Let's talk about a DnD OC here, just for shits and giggles. Let's talk about Cyra, my fire genasi barbarian/fighter. Cyra has experienced a lot of wounds in her life, both mental and physical. From the murder of her parents and entire hometown, to all the wounds sustained while fighting for the Brotherhood, to learning the truth of her girlfriend Talia's true nature, and deciding to flee the Brotherhood for good. Cyra is no stranger to being physically wounded, and they handle it quite well. She has a high pain tolerance, and any kind of bruise or scratch isn't even going to slow her down. Not a wound, per se, but the worst physical pain she's ever experienced was when our rogue's ex-wife (who now leads the very cult he's on a revenge quest against) tried to reach into Cyra's body and remove the magical quarter staff they can summon from their chest. The pain was excruciating, and as Cyra was paralyzed at the time, she couldn't even open her mouth to scream. (But she still tried, leaving her with nothing but a scratchy voice for days.) When it comes to emotional wounds, Cyra is far less resilient. She does not have any truly good coping mechanisms, and tends to bottle up her emotions, only releasing them when they fight. The two worst emotional wounds they have suffered have been 1) losing her parents in a Brotherhood raid (and subsequently being taking in by the Brotherhood to be raised as a soldier), and 2) learning that her girlfriend, Talia (the daughter of the cult leader) is not the person Cyra thought she was. Cyra had long held onto the hope of convincing Talia to leave the brotherhood, and that the two of them would run away together. But after witnessing Talia sacrificing a town full of innocents to the Brotherhood's mysterious god, she realized that Talia had simply been stringing her along.
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visionsofmagic · 2 years
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― the soul of a magician [chapter 1]
a/n: After watching the movie, I couldn’t help but write this. There will be spoilers from the movie. Also, the main story line can change according to events, so it is not movie-related that much. enjoy!
& don’t forget that English is not my first language. & the story just focus on mcu!doctor strange, not comic version that much.
[updated because i forgot to add summary in the first place, sorry :(]
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character/pairing: Doctor Strange x f!reader
summary: y/n is a magician in Kamar-Taj but little she didn’t know how powerful her magic is. she begin to discover her power while trying to protect her secret lover, doctor strange.
word count: 771
warning!: fluff, thriller (a little), some mature scenes in following chapters, deaths, angst, violence
song suggestion for the chapter: timbaland & nelly furtado – promiscuous (slowed & reverb if desired)
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There was a total mess in Kamar-Taj. All the people in Kamar-Taj was dispersed after hearing Wanda’s plans about this new girl whose name doesn’t known neither any of you but all of trainers and masters were preparing for protecting this young girl and holding back Wanda with all of their powers. Y/n wanted to be one of them but her mission was already given. She had a mission to do in North Asia; find some trainers who spread important information about Kamar-Taj to wrong people and make a warning to them. Y/n was alone in this mission because all other trainers and masters were in Kamar-Taj for the attack. So, y/n should be careful in her mission and come back to help other trainers.
She was ready to go when Doctor Strange, one of the most popular magician in y/n’s world, walked in. Y/n took her time to look at him in a detailed way; he was handsome, yet, he was a kind of idiot for y/n. He defeated Thanos who destroyed half of the world with one snap, literally, but he was so afraid to have a relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Christine. Of course y/n knew their odd relationship because y/n and Strange did a lot of mission together with Wong and trio became like friends. However, a long time had passed since y/n went a mission with them. In their mission, y/n were be able to learn certain things about Strange’s life; as a magician and as a normal human and she learnt that he was in love with Christine. Also, she learnt that Strange was not ready for a relationship with her. Y/n didn’t understand his behavior. She was confused but she didn’t question because it was none of her business.
Strange came to Kamar-Taj with the new girl. He was talking to Wong when he saw y/n. Y/n immediately turned her head to another direction and felt a heavy and warm feeling in her chest. She felt a sudden joy in her heart for a second. She didn’t want this feeling. She knew what would come after this feeling and she didn’t want it. She was not ready to falling for a stupid magician who was totally in love with another woman. So, y/n tried to get rid of these emotions, to not feel a longing for him. Then, there he was, looking at y/n with a little smile in his handsome face. Y/n smiled back in both pain and joy, “Hi, Mr. Strange.”
Strange shook his head in disproval, “Didn’t we agree about calling each other with our first names?” Y/n said, “Okay, okay.” while waving her hands, “Hi, Stephen.” Before Stephen could say anything, she continued, “You brought this young girl who is not from our world and a treat to Kamar-Taj in one day, huh?” You laughed a little and hit Stephen’s left arm. “Very professional Stephen.”
He showed both of his hands in surrender, “That was not on my daily routine but here we are.” Two of you began to walk in sync to inside. “So,” Stephen turned to you while keeping walking. “You will help us or not?” You shook your head, “I’m afraid I couldn’t be able to help even if I want to.” Stephen seemed down for a second. “Why?” You shrugged your shoulders, “You know, all of us has our own missions.”
“Yeah, I know.” He stopped. He looked at you directly. “Thank you anyway and good luck with your mission y/n.” You felt hot when he said your name. Oh, you are really falling for this man, you know that. Two of you stood there for a while, looking each other’s eyes directly. The air between you was intense. So, you turned your head to entrance of Kamar-Taj, “I think you should go Stephen.” You turned to him. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at you and shook his head. Then he began to walk. You touched his arm suddenly.
He looked at you. You saw confused in his eyes. You were confused as well as him. Your hand moved without your permission but it happened anyway and you just spilt out your thoughts, “Be careful Stephen.” You give him a warm smile, “Please.”
He smiled back at you, “I will y/n.” You pulled your hand back. He said one more thing before leaving you alone, “You will not be able to get rid of me this easily.” You left Kamar-Taj with the feeling that there will be difference of your relationship with Stephen in just few days and you were right but you didn’t know yet.
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love, rose. ♡
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babywarrior5 · 3 years
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Ex is super long distance dating someone else now, the person I always assumed he'd cheat with/leave me for, and I'm pretty sure I've felt every human emotion possible in the last 24 hours except for happiness. I know I should be happy for him because we're still friends but I'm not at all.
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dr3amofagame · 3 years
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i think that although the theories/aus of puffy's son dream and wil's brother dream are interesting to think about, especially the implications, the (probably) canon statement that he really has no family to me hits the hardest. because it's just dream, you know. his friends hate him, he has none (p relatable), but i can't really imagine,, both not having friends and not having a family. that's kind of what keeps a lot of us sane and okay ( - quill anon (same anon from the c!tubbo c!wil ask) )
ouch quill anon ,, this ask Hurt. it’s true - usually, it’s our family and friends that keep us going, that are the ones that we fight for and live for and love for. c!dream’s “family” was his reasoning behind ,, a lot of the stuff he did, good or bad, and even now you can hear his desperation in getting someone, anyone to visit sometimes, in wanting to know how people are doing outside the cell. 
at the same time, he’s a character very much defined by his solitude, by his isolation, by all of the time he has spent,, alone. by the alliances that had been broken, betrayed, forgotten. by how- at the end of the day - he sits for hours on end in an obsidian box with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him. it’s awfully ,, sad, despite everything he’s done. through it all, he’s alone. he survives the horrors of the vault (until this current arc) alone. nobody’s there to hear his thoughts. nobody knows his mindset, or feelings, or wants, or anything that really makes him human. for someone so driven by people, he spends so much time completely isolated - and it’s. honestly really, really tragic. 
anyway, this is a sad little drabble set pre-roommates arc abt c!dream in the prison, alone, bc he makes me Sad. 
tw: mentioned torture, abuse, violence, broken bones, blood, injuries, mental deterioration, isolation, panic attacks, self-deprecation, trauma, memory loss, death, contemplations of death, dark content, dark imagery
The blank book in his hand stares at him stubbornly, the stark white of the untouched pages nearly burning his eyes, used to the dark walls and floor of the cell. Dream’s hand shakes around his quill, ink splotches marring the pages from where his too-unsteady hand had let the nib brush against the paper and left freckles of black spots behind. He pulls his thumb back from the bottom left corner, hissing slightly when it leaves a dull red fingerprint behind, a smudge of half-dried blood further dirtying the paper.
He’d pulled out one of the books for some reason, probably on a whim, letting his hands run over the leather spine and along the thread of the binding absentmindedly after Quackity left for the day. He hadn’t touched them in a while - he liked to save them, at the beginning, just in case visitors came and he wanted to thank them or if he needed to communicate (though he hadn’t gone silent since Sapnap left, ‘cause Sapnap wanted him to talk and he doesn’t know why he still clings to that visit when it’s been months and he still hasn’t come back, but he promised that if Dream behaved he’d visit again and - it’s stupid to hope, but Dream can’t give up, not yet) and then he kept them because he would need them for the revive book and the Warden would confiscate them, anyway, so it was better not to get attached. Regardless, he’d stubbornly ignored the chest of books for a long time, let the remain closed and the clasp go unlatched as he wasted his days away watching the walls drip bright purple and pretend he didn’t miss his clock.
Until now.
He runs his fingers along the surface of the paper again, ignoring the red and black smudges they leave in their wakes, ruining the previously unblemished pages. The paper is smooth, bearing a very slight grain, and smells clean and woody - this book must’ve been a newer one the Warden replaced into the chest. He’d counted the pages a few times, front and back - there are fifty sheets, so a hundred pages to use as he sees fit, completely empty and untouched. The quill shakes in his hand, the tip pressed against the paper, unmoving.
What is there to write?
He’s forgotten why he pulled out the book in the first place, already - his head keeps getting fuzzier, memory impossibly fragmented and seemingly worsening with every passing day. He knows he had a reason because he’d been very determined about it, had spent what must have been hours dragging himself along the obsidian floor with a broken shinbone jutting out of his right leg and a dislocated left shoulder that he’d taken an extra few minutes to jam back in place by pressing it against the floor. Something had come into his head, probably in the middle of Quackity’s daily session, and he’d found himself desperate to write it down before he forgot despite the throbbing of his head and the pain in his chest making it impossible to take a full breath.
(He must have talked back, or acted defiant, or something - he doesn’t remember much besides the look Quackity had given him after, dark and angry and tight with rage. There had been a hand tangled in his hair, a blade jammed right up against his throat, curses and screams in his ears dying into a singular ringing echo as the blade was pushed deeper and deeper. It wasn’t until a few minutes later when Quackity realized that he’d gone too deep and that Dream was choking on his own blood - his memories shatter, and there’s nothing but more screaming, red and black and blood everywhere, warm against his skin, the sweet-sour taste of glistening melon on his tongue, a healing pot desperately stitching his skin together and bringing him back from the darkness that he’d swelled in the corners of his vision - mostly, he remembers everything going cold and numb and he’d realized, halfway into the Void, that he would never leave the Vault alive.)
His hands tighten on the book as he breathes a shallow, harsh breath through his teeth, because - oh. Oh. He looks back at the trembling white plume in his hand, at his shaking fingers clenched tightly near the end, and he swallows the thick, heavy feeling in his throat. Quackity had- and he had- and then-
Right.
He forces air into his lungs steadily, counting the seconds off in his head. He’d learned how to stave off panic attacks on his own ages ago, and the knowledge had come to full use in the Vault - the struggle to stay calm seems harder with every passing day, but he can’t exactly risk himself passing out every three seconds when he’s inevitably set off by the smell of blood or a twinge of pain or any of the million other triggers crammed into this tiny box that’s been the source of all of his torment for months. He keeps up the slow, steady breathing for another few minutes, just enough time to pull back the darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision, and looks back down at the blank paper.
It stares back at him, almost judgmental of his hesitancy. You opened me up, it seems to challenge him, why aren’t you writing? The quill still shakes in his hand. He doesn’t know if it’ll ever stop shaking again.
Dear, he begins, almost in defiance, proof that he Is Going To Write Something, thank you very much, he isn’t just going to chicken out and leave it a blank book (like you have before?) but the quill tip digs into the paper as he grinds to a sudden halt, the empty space next to the first word nearly taunting. He feels his mouth dry, heat rising behind his eyes - the book, silent and blank as ever, stays imprinted in his vision even as he squeezes them shut.
Dear, what a stupid, sentimental way to start a letter. He can’t even fool himself into thinking of it as a business venture, turn it into an elaborate plan to escape and address it to either Techno or Wilbur (who would never receive his message anyway), not without admitting his regard for the two edged past his pretense of professional interested and owed favors. He can hardly write it to Ranboo, not without compromising their already fragile alliance (if it even exists, anymore. The enderman hybrid had yet to visit for months - and sure, it was probably for the best, who knows how Quackity would react if he found out about the nature of their relationship, but that didn’t make it sting any less.)
In the back of his minds, name rise from where he’d kept them carefully buried despite his best efforts. Punz. Bad. Puffy. Sapnap. George. He shakes his head, trying to wave away them from his thoughts, but the effort is as fruitless as it has always been - he stares at the first word angrily, like it has betrayed him, and receives no response. The words are messy, shaking, his script overly looping and rounded like a child’s. He hates it, hates how cheery it looks, even on the bloodstained page - it looks like the beginning of a birthday card, or a perhaps a particularly dedicated Halloween party invite. Like he’s some sort of lovesick teen, writing letters to crushes that would never pay him a second glance. He laughed a little, without any real humor - minus the romance, that description isn’t all that far off.
Because- well. His memories might be shot to all hell, but he doubts he’ll ever forget the hatred on Sapnap’s face, a loaded crossbow pointed between his eyes, George’s expression set in disinterested apathy - “George, you can give the word.” Bad’s face, twisted in pity and resignation, voice carefully measured as he looks away and gestures at the cell, “you did do some pretty bad stuff to get put in here though, Dream,” the hidden “you deserve it” that he’d heard, just as clearly behind the words. Punz - “you should’ve paid me more” - jaw set stiffly as people poured through the portal, watching, wordless, as Dream bled out twice on that blackstone floor. Puffy, poorly hidden disgust flickering over her face as she looks away from him being dragged away in chains, sword held steady in her hands. Sapnap, that same fiercely determined expression on his face so familiar that thinking of it aches, even now, “it’s gonna be me, who takes your final life.” Months and months and months and months, alone.
Always, always, alone.
The page makes a quiet, complaining groan under his pen - he looks down to see it torn under the tip of his quill, the word completely unreadable under line after line of black ink scratched over it, each one deeper than the last. He stares blankly at it for a few minutes longer, the brief flash of anger that had seared through his body settling into numbness once more.
To whoever may find this: he scratches the words on the page slowly, keeping his print deliberately blocky and neat. The heavy feeling in his throat returns, stronger than ever, and he ignores it as he pushes on.
He pauses for a moment, wondering what more to write. Apologies? Accusations? He could detail every second that he remembers from Quackity’s visits, describe every inch of pain that had been pulled from his aching lungs, every line etched into his skin. He could apologize for every act of cruelty that had ever been caused by his hands, every bridge he’d ever torched to light the path to a better future. He could explain - everything, every tortured thought that had circled his head for hours on end and every night that had passed without any sleep and every time he’d pushed on without complaint or hesitancy because it would be worth it, even if he was the only one who saw it, it would be worth it because he’d sacrifice too much for it to be anything but. He could- he could, he could write and write until he’d filled every page of every book back and front, and would they even believe him? Would it even matter?
Goodbye, he writes at last. It feels strangely final. (He won’t be leaving this Vault alive. He knows this as surely as he knows that he will leave this world uncared for, unheard. As surely as he knows that he’ll always be alone.) With a quick snap of magic following the signing of his name, the book is preserved, shining slightly with a purple glow as he sets it back down in the chest. He looks around, the cell once again stiflingly quiet without the book to busy him, Dream once again completely alone as he’s been for - well.
(Pandas, eyebrows drawn in uncharacteristic seriousness from the usually painfully spirited eight-year-old, pinkie raised between the two of them, solemnity belied by the gap in his front teeth poking out between his lips.
“We’ll be together forever,” he whispered with the volume control you’d expect from a kid that age, which is to say that it wasn’t much of a whisper at all, but Dream, newly ten years old, remembers being particularly moved by the gesture anyway, moving to hesitantly hook his own pinkie in the other’s.
“And we’ll never be alone ever again,” he’d replied, voice faraway with a disbelieving sort of awe.”
“Never,” Pandas’ voice had been just as firm as his first statement, twisting his wrist to tighten the grip of their linked fingers further. “Best friends for ever and ever, right?”
“For ever and ever.”)
“For ever and ever,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut as he slumps down against the floor, and only the lava bubbles in reply.
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blossom-hwa · 3 years
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Time and Time Again - CHANGBIN
I cannot believe this is finished??? I feel like I say this every time but genuinely I didn’t think this would get done until maybe bin’s birthday in August but I somehow finished it the second day of January?? Anyway, I really loved this (the concept LITERALLY came to me in a dream), and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it :)
(The idea that prompted this response to a @quillstarters​ challenge is the same one that inspired this story :D)
Pairing: Changbin x gender neutral!reader
Genre: fluff, angst, reincarnation!au, soulmate!au
Triggers: death, mentions of suicide, blood (nothing graphic)
Word Count: 10.8k
A vengeful god curses one hundred lifetimes of your love.
SKZ Masterlist
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In your first life, the life that starts it all, your mother knows magic.
She’s a healer, one whose patients come from all walks of life, all over the world. From that first lifetime, you remember the heavy, comforting smell of dried herbs, the softness of her hair tickling your face, the shimmers of magic emanating from her practiced fingers into bubbling pots.
You sort of remember a father, hazy memories of a smiling man who wasn’t home very often but when he was, liked to pick you up and swing you around the room. He isn’t around by the time you’re six, maybe seven, though.
You know not to ask about it. The first time you did, your mother’s face just turned sad, an awful sort of sad that looked more like regret and repentance and anger and desolation. It takes a few more slip ups, but eventually you learn to ignore your curiosities. For though your mother never outright dismisses them, they upset her, and you never get a straight response.
Until the god arrives.
They appear in a shower of blinding light. Cold, white sparks burst into brilliant rainbows that fade in the air. You watch, mesmerized, even as your mother drags you away.
The god is beautiful. Fine, androgynous features, red eyes as soulful as song, lush locks of hair that tumble around their shoulders. But it is the severity in their face, as well as the bloodred bow and the bone-tipped arrow nocked in their hands that tell you who they are.
“You hid yourself well, disciple of Hekate.” Cupid’s beautiful lips curl in a mocking smile that doesn’t even attempt to disguise the anger in their eyes. “Eight years. I applaud you.”
Three slow, ominous claps echo loudly in the room.
You look up at your mother, heart about to leap out of your chest. Her face has gone pale, devoid of color. It only scares you more.
Cupid’s eyes flicker to you, clutching your mother’s skirts like a toddler. They freeze you in place. “So she never told you.”
Told me what?
“You never wondered where your father was, child?”
All the breath stops in your throat.
My father?
The god shakes his head disapprovingly. “It’s the least you could have done, sorceress.”
“What would you have me do?” Your mother’s voice brims with desperation and anger – though aimed at whom, you aren’t sure. “How could a child ever understand?”
“You should never have made the mistake in the first place.”
Understood what? Your eyes flit between the god and your mother. “Mother?” you whisper, tugging at her sleeve. “Mother, what do they mean?”
The story spills out in broken fragments. Your father had a liaison with your mother and she found she was pregnant with you. She loved him, but he didn’t want to stay. So she dabbled in forbidden magic. Gave a love potion to a man who did not care for her.
You were born. He realized, eventually, what she had done. Then he left, leaving you without a father.
You can’t even try to speak when the story is over. It feels as though you can’t breathe, can’t feel, can’t see anything beyond the god’s blood red eyes. Fingers cling to your mother’s skirts numbly as you attempt to process the flow of words that just passed through your ears.
Dimly, you register your mother pulling free from your hands to kneel on the floor. “Do with me as you see fit,” she whispers.
“With you?” Cupid laughs. The sound tears at the silence in the room. “What use would that be? No, I think your child will pay for your crimes.” They pin you under their gaze. “Yes, I see many lifetimes of pain in these eyes that would suffice.”
You don’t understand. You can’t understand. What does the god want with you? What have you done to anger them? It was your mother who committed the error, not you. Why must you pay for it? Your heart pounds faster and faster as their eyes refuse to waver.
“Yes.” They nod, finally satisfied. “A heart broken one hundred times will pay for your crime.” Cupid lifts their bow and arrow, aiming at your heart.
Your mother’s head snaps up. “You would condemn my child’s love to centuries of turmoil?” Her voice shakes with barely controlled anger. “You would punish my child for my mistakes? Take me instead!”
Cupid’s cruel eyes flicker between you and her. “Love is hardly fair, as you should well know,” they snarl. “By meddling in my affairs, you have secured your child’s fate.”
Their gaze fixes on you with the intensity of a thousand suns. You shrink under their glare, even as their eyes gain some semblance of softness. For a moment, it seems as though the god will take pity on you.
Then the arrow sinks into your chest, exploding into a shower of the god’s cold sparks. No blood flows but your chest throbs.
Through a dim haze of pain, as though they speak through water, you hear the god speak their final words.
“A hundred lifetimes will pass before I will allow your love to rest.”
. . . . .
It takes years, really, for the information to sink in. You don’t fault your mother entirely for her actions – raising a child alone is hard, you come to know as you grow older. But at the same time, you can’t find respect for a man who would abandon a woman he had a relationship with over the birth of a child. You can’t understand why your mother would love such a person, can’t quite understand love in general. You know you love your mother, of course, but what does such an emotion really mean?
You learn the meaning at age twenty in your first life when you meet Seo Changbin.
Your mother rushes into the house that day, almost collapsing under his unconscious weight. You immediately zero in on the huge gash on his leg that’s still leaking blood, despite the makeshift bandage, and start pulling down the necessary salves and potions.
He doesn’t wake up for a week. Other patients filter in and out of the little hut as the days go by and you dutifully do your best to treat them all, gently treating scrapes and brewing tonics. There’s something about the man lying unconscious and feverish at the back of the hut, though, that draws you in like a moth to a flame. Day by day, you sit by him when you can, wiping the sweat off of his forehead with cool cloths, forcing brews down his throat and dabbing creams onto his leg to fight the infection.
He doesn’t look like one of the gentlemen that sometimes come to town. He doesn’t seem like he has the stately grace of Hwang Hyunjin, the lord’s heir, nor does he exude the cold elegance of Choi Chanhee, the magistrate’s son.
So this man is probably a commoner, if your deductions are correct. But you know almost everyone in the village – they’ve all come to the healer’s hut at some point and met you – and this boy’s face is new. You don’t recognize him, not at all.
You wake up to a soft crash in the middle of the night, then the sound of a loud curse. For a moment, you lie back down on your pillow. Probably Mother.
Then you sit bolt upright. That was a man’s voice. Not your mother’s.
Thieves?
Then you realize.
He’s woken up!
Large, terrified eyes glow in the flickering light of your candle when you enter the healing ward, carefully holding your hands in a purposeful gesture of surrender. “Hello,” you say, trying not to fixate on the beauty of the boy’s eyes. “My name is Y/N. My mother found you in the forest with an infected wound and brought you to our home for treatment.”
He glares at you, still distrustful, but speaks. “How long have I been here?”
“Almost a week.”
The boy visibly tenses. “One week?”
“Yes.” You step forward. “And I would advise you not to leave for at least another two, given the condition of your leg. Wherever you’re going, if you go now, the infection will kill you before you get far.”
“How long will I have?” he asks.
You raise an eyebrow. “Are you suicidal?”
For several tense seconds, you stare at each other, neither backing down. Finally, the boy lowers his gaze. “Fine,” he says, the fight leaving his voice. He smiles a little, apologetically. “I’ll stay. Thank you for treating me.”
“You’re welcome.” You help him back onto the cot. “Now try to sleep. I’ll come back to check on you in the morning.”
Just before you fall asleep, you think of large, brown eyes and petulant lips. For some reason, they make you smile.
. . .
His name is Changbin, you come to learn after several days of pained grunts, spilled salve, and muted conversation. He won’t tell you where he comes from, but a name is far better than nothing. At least you have confirmation that he isn’t a local, and he smiles too much for you to suspect him as a murderer.
That would be unpleasant.
And Changbin is the opposite of unpleasant. He has this smile, a smile that no matter how small, is bright enough to light up the room. He’s so smart when it comes to life but he’s also a little dumb, really, telling bad jokes that make you roll your eyes but laugh anyway. He snorts when you tell your own stupid stories and insulting jokes and as a result, you think of more and more for him, more tall tales and bad puns just so you can hear that beautiful laugh that sounds like a cross between wedding bells and a pig’s snort.
He stays for your recommended two weeks, then another, and another. Your mother doesn’t mind, only smiles at him like he was her own son. Changbin isn’t useless, after all – he helps you tend to the herb garden, chops wood for the fire, and is receptive to the eventual lessons you give him on the basics of healing.
(And if you stare at his muscles when he lifts heavy pots over the fire, what of it?)
The boy your mother found so many weeks ago in the woods lights up your life in a way you’ve never experienced before. Even though it makes you feel guilty, sometimes you’re glad that Changbin injured himself in the forest. Otherwise, you might never have met the boy who sits with you shoulder to shoulder on the bank of the river that runs through the woods, laughs ringing through the trees.
“Y/N,” he says on one of those quiet days by the river. When you look up from your feet dangling feet in the swift current and when you look up, you find Changbin staring at you with something so soft, so deep in his gaze that you can’t decipher it.
(It makes your heart thump.)
“Hm?” You pull your feet out of the water, feeling almost shy as you meet his eyes.
“Have you ever been kissed?”
When Changbin kisses you that afternoon under a green canopy of leaves, golden light showering his dark hair and tanned skin, you can’t think. There are no thoughts of anything in your head (and certainly none of Cupid’s curse) except the euphoria of his lips against yours. With his mouth pressed softly to yours, you feel like you’re flying, drifting on the breeze without a care in the world. It’s bliss, pure bliss.
Your mother knows when you walk back into the hut, suppressing an uncontrollable smile. Her gaze remains carefully neutral for the rest of the day, but when Changbin has gone outside to chop wood, she speaks. “You know about the curse.”
Dread mixes with the bliss in your heart. Your head hangs over the herbs you’re grinding. “Yes, Mother.”
“Darling, look at me.” She turns you around, and you see the tears building in the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
There’s bitterness in your chest and mouth, tingeing the tip of your tongue, but this is your mother, the woman who bore you and cared for you alone for so much of your life. Though angry words rise in your throat, they never make it past your lips.
“It’s okay, Mother.” You brush the tears away, valiantly holding your own back. “I can’t blame you for a mistake you made in the name of love.” Blind, blind hope rises in your chest. “Maybe the god forgot. Maybe they will have mercy.”
Your mother just looks at you with dreadful eyes, eyes haunted by the knowledge that your words will prove false. But Changbin’s already coming back inside and the fluttering happiness in your heart from seeing him expels all negative thoughts from your mind.
One year passes in domestic bliss. Your mother never brings up the curse again, and you push any thought of it to the back of your mind. Changbin’s kisses do much to dispel any worries of yours, anyway.
Late one night, curled in a blanket next to the fire, Changbin tells you the reason he came. “I left because of a family dispute,” he says, almost ashamedly, staring into the flickering flames. “I had a falling out with my father, and he told me to leave. Even though I knew he really didn’t mean it, even though my mother pleaded with me to stay, I… I left anyway.”
You hold him closer under the blanket, comforting him with your warmth. In the light of the fire, his eyes look ghostly against the dark.
“I’m telling you this now because I want to go back.”
Your heart freezes.
Back? He wants to go back to his village, go back home… and leave you behind?
But Changbin’s smiling now, slightly. It settles your heart a little – he couldn’t speak of leaving you forever and smile in the same sentence, could he? You look at him, eyes pleading with him to continue.
“I want to go back to apologize,” he says, squeezing your hand. “I want to go back to make amends. But I’ll come back to the home I have here.”
“Can I come with you?” you can’t help but ask, even though you’re sure you know the answer.
He shakes his head, and your heart sinks. “No, I think this is something I have to do myself. But I won’t stay, I promise you that. I’ll come back home.”
“Promise?” you ask, voice barely a whisper over the crackling flames. Your fingers clutch his desperately. He has to come back, or you’ll go with him.
“I promise.” He lifts a thin silver chain from his neck, a necklace he’s never taken off since he arrived, and loops it around your throat. “That’s my promise, all right? I’m leaving this with you because I know I’ll return. And when I do…” He sweeps one of your hands out of the blanket and places a gentle kiss on it. “I’m going to marry you.” A note of uncertainty enters his gaze. “Unless you… uh, unless you don’t want to?”
You tug your hand out of his and punch him in the arm. “Are you stupid, Seo Changbin?” you ask over his yelps of mock pain. Eyes turning shy, you smile. “Of course I do.”
Your heart explodes in bliss when he kisses you, the fire’s warmth dancing on his lips.
. . .
“No more than two months,” he promises you the day he leaves. “I’ll come home.”
He keeps looking back and you keep waving as he starts out into the forest, green leaves beginning to shroud his path. The last you see of him is his bright smile as he disappears between the trees, the gentle pressure of his lips still a memory against yours.
One month passes, then two. You wait outside the hut eagerly every day, waiting for a sign of his returns.
Then another month goes by. And another. Winter settles in, heavy snow coating the forest in cold, white blankets.
“Perhaps he was held up,” your mother says, guiding your shivering body back inside the house. “He couldn’t travel in the winter, so he’s probably staying somewhere for the time being.”
You want to believe her. You really do, with all your heart and soul. But Cupid’s curse remains in the back of your mind, twisting and turning in its depths, whispering to you that Changbin is gone, that he will never return.
Winter has passed and a month of spring gone by before you decide to find Changbin’s family yourself. It takes several months because really, you don’t have any guide other than the name of his old village, but eventually, exhausted and almost losing hope, you find them.
A stooped woman answers the door with a confused smile on her lips. “Hello.”
“Um, hello.” You swallow. “Is this the Seo residence?”
“Yes, can I help you with anything?”
You pull the necklace from under the collar of your shirt. “Did Changbin come visit some months ago?”
For a single moment charged with hope, you see the widening of the woman’s eyes and believe that she will say yes, that Changbin came and is just having a hard time returning.
Then she shakes her head, and the world begins to crumble at the edges.
. . .
You stay just long enough to tell Changbin’s family who you are and what he set out to do, then flee back home as fast as you can. Tears stain the forest floor and when your mother opens the door to the hut so many months later, it only takes one look for her to fold you into her arms as you begin to cry on her shoulder.
He could be alive, you desperately hope. He could be somewhere, lost, unable to find his way back home. You know your Changbin would never break a promise to you, not if he could help it.
One year. Two years. Then three. The months pass with no sign of his return.
And you know, dead or not, he isn’t coming back.
It hurts. Everything reminds you of him, of Changbin, of what could have been and what should have been. You curse Cupid, cry for the god to come down so you can scream obscenities at them face to face, but they never answer your pleas.
The silver chain Changbin left you burns around your neck, but you can’t bring yourself to take it off. It’s the last thing you have of him, the only thing you have of him. You clutch it on your worst days, imprinting the tiny chain links into your palm when you fall sick, wasting away without a desire to live.
This is what it feels like, you think, delirious with fever, to have lost your entire world.
Your crying mother stays by your side as you wither, sponging your forehead, feeding you soup, whispering apologies into the blankets she covers you with. In moments of lucidity, you clutch her hand and tell her it’s not her fault. That you understand, now, what it means to love someone with the force of the universe.
Weeks pass in a feverish daze until winter seizes control of the earth. Numb with cold and sweating with warmth, you pray to the heavens above to release you from this pain.
The day you drift away is bitterly cold. You’re wrapped in at least five blankets, your mother shivering beside you as she grips your hands, trying desperately to warm them.
There is one brief moment of absolute clarity. You sit up, eyes wide, and cup your mother’s cheeks between cold, cold hands. “I love you, Mother.”
She kisses your forehead. “I love you too, my darling child.”
Her tears drip onto your cheeks. You don’t remember anything more.
In your first life, in the dead of winter, you die of a broken heart.
. . . . .
Your second life begins in a poor family, though happy. Sixteen years of life pass in ignorant bliss, with no knowledge of soulmates or vengeful gods. A week after your birthday, hope filling every step, you set off for the nearby village to try your skills at sewing. Luck paves your path and you find a kind mistress who values your quick fingers and eye for color. The village is bright and cheerful, you’re making money to send back to your family, and life is peaceful.
Then the dreams come.
The first vision is barely there, just a quick glimpse of green trees and a disappearing smile wedged between the scenes of your mind’s musings. You wake up, an uneasy feeling in your chest, but the image is already fading. You shake the discomfort away and get to work.
The second dream is longer, more vivid. You hear a voice, feel a gentle touch, see a mop of dark hair and a pair of gleaming eyes. In the moment, you feel happy, so happy in a way you’ve never felt before. It’s pure, this happiness, something so deep that your entire body feels warm when you wake, even as a chilling breeze seeps in through a crack in the window.
The dreams continue for several days, and each morning, you only grow more curious about the strange man who keeps wandering into your mind. Who is this man? you wonder as you sew, poking your fingers with the needle more times than you’d like to admit. Who is he, and why does he make me so happy?
Why does it feel like I should know him?
After a week of lovely, warm, but deeply unsettling dreams, it hits you all at once.
Needle in hand, you’re about to push the sliver of metal through a silk shirt, ready to begin embroidering the next leaf on a flowering vine. Taking a second glance at the embroidery you’ve already done, you blink in confusion.
This kind of vine doesn’t exist in your little village. In fact, you’ve never seen it before. But each leaf, each flower is so perfectly stitched that it doesn’t seem possible that you just made this up on the spot.
Oh.
Green leaves, sturdy trunks, water rushing down a river. Firm muscle, a flowering vine curled into a crown, fingers placing the circlet upon your head. A brilliant smile, bright as the sun, and a peal of snorting laughter that sounds like wedding bells.
One name hurtles through your mind, the name of the dark-haired, lovely-eyed boy who, by now, is a frequent visitor in your dreams.
Seo Changbin.
The needle embeds itself in your palm.
. . .
It’s hard to explain away your frazzled state when your mistress comes into the room to see you staring at the embroidered silk, palm dripping blood onto your clothes. Voice trembling only slightly (and you’re proud of yourself for that), you tell her that you just made a mistake, really.
Never mind the fact that the needle stuck itself far enough into your hand that you really have to pull it out, releasing a small spurt of blood that raises your mistress’s eyebrows so far they look like they’re about to jump off her forehead.
Shakily, you get back to work. Years of practice have steadied your fingers so that the stitches remain even, but as you sew, your mind races with memories. Memories of a trembling mother, a red-eyed god, a gaping leg wound festering on an apothecary table. Memories of boys you’ve never met in this life, a Hwang Hyunjin and a Choi Chanhee, but most importantly, a strong young man with sweet lips and a raspy, whining voice named Seo Changbin.
“Seo Changbin,” you murmur, testing the words between your lips. Just saying his name sends a rush of warmth through your chest and brings a small smile to your face.
The smile disappears, though, when you remember how the story ends.
Night brings dreams again, full, vivid scenes that begin with joy and happiness and warmth. You see your mother from another life, smell the comforting scent of herbs wafting through the air in the hut. You see your love, Changbin, feel his arms wrapped around your body, see the flush in his cheeks when you press your lips to his in a kiss.
The day he leaves is vivid, too. Sharp greens against a bright blue sky devoid of clouds, his smile disappearing into the forest as he begins his journey home.
A journey that you know he will never finish.
You know what will happen next and you don’t want to see it. You beg yourself to wake up, to stop these visions before your heart breaks, but sleep pins down your limbs and forces you to watch, to experience, to live the turmoil of emotions that flooded your heart those last few years of your life.
The next morning, you look so ill that your mistress forces you to take the day off, despite your pleas that you can work, you really can. The last thing you need is more sleep, after all, more time for vengeful gods to replay past lives for their leisure.
So after sixteen years of blissful ignorance, you know. You know of your love, you know of the curse, you know of the life that began it all. Sick emotions mix in your heart, syrupy and viscous and heavy, hope for a love as deep as your life before and terror for the heartbreak that will inevitably come.
And this time, you don’t have a loving mother who knows of your predicament.
You imagine Cupid laughing in the heavens as you face his wrath once more.
. . .
It happens by chance, purely by chance. On your days off, you sometimes like to visit the marketplace, see if you can find some fun trinket to send back to your family or to keep for yourself. Today is no exception.
Something makes you pause in front of a jewelry stand, a stand you don’t usually visit because your apprentice’s pay, though enough to support your family, doesn’t allow for expenses on jewels. However, a thin chain necklace catches your eye as you walk past.
It’s silver, shiny, not a hint of rust on the metal. A small black stone hangs as a pendant and you’ve never seen it before, but you can’t shake the suspicion that this is a necklace you wore in a past life.
A necklace Changbin gave you in a past life.
Uneasiness grows in your mind the longer you look at the chain. How did the jeweler even get this chain? Who took it away? You’re pretty sure you wore it until your death, and you don’t believe your previous mother, based on your dreams, would have taken it away.
You think you want it back.
Pointing at the chain, you look up at the jeweler. “How much is this?”
“Eight gold pieces.”
Your heart sinks. A day’s work gives you five silver pieces, and there are twenty silvers to a gold. Most of your money goes back home, leaving you with only a little pocket money of your own – certainly not enough for a piece of jewelry worth eight golds. Lips pressed thinly together, you nod before beginning to walk away.
A voice stops you, a familiar voice you’ve never heard before. Not in this life, at least.
“Wait!”
You turn around, slowly, slowly, as Changbin’s voice asks the jeweler, “Eight gold pieces, you said?”
It’s him, you think faintly. It’s really him. Different hair, skin a shade lighter, but his eyes… his eyes are the same. The absolute same.
He doesn’t look at you with any recognition, though, and he’s dressed in silk, indicating high status – at least, higher than yours. So you politely avert your gaze, trying to calm the pounding in your heart.
Eight golds appear on the counter, exchanged for a small silk pouch with the necklace inside. You’re about to walk away – why did Changbin stop you, anyway? There’s not a single chance he would give it to you – when the pouch appears in your line of vision, held by a familiar hand.
You blink once, twice, then look up from the pouch to the man holding it in his palm.
Only one thought runs through your mind.
There is no way, in two consecutive lives, that Seo Changbin would offer me the same necklace.
Your confusion must show, because he laughs. “It’s for you,” he says (and oh, gods, his voice makes you want to just sit and listen to it forever). “It looked like you wanted it, no?”
Thankfully, your vocal cords remember how to speak, even if your mind doesn’t. “I couldn’t possibly take such a gift, sir,” you say, stepping backward slightly. “You paid for it – it’s yours.”
“Then it is also mine to give. And I believe you would appreciate this much more than I.” He unstrings the pouch, slips the chain into his fingers. “May I?”
For any other person, you would have said a polite no before speed walking into the crowd, hoping to disappear between the stalls. Now, though, you stay in place, rooted to the ground under Changbin’s steady gaze.
You nod.
His hands are gentle in their feather-light touch against your skin, clasping the chain around your neck. The pendant hangs at the base of your throat, cold at first, but slowly warming with the afternoon sun.
It feels right.
“Thank you,” you whisper when he’s finished, sinking into a low bow. “Thank you so much.”
Changbin smiles, loosely taking your hand. He drops a butterfly kiss to your knuckles and you physically have to restrain yourself from gasping too loudly, because – oh, because –
The spot where his lips touch your skin sends warmth spreading throughout your body.
“It was my pleasure,” he says, still smiling. “My name is Changbin.”
I know.
“May I know yours?”
“Oh.” You smile, hoping your lips don’t tremble too much. “I’m Y/N.”
His smile widens at your words, making your heart flutter in shy embarrassment. “I hope to see you around once more, Y/N,” he says.
A sudden burst of courage turns your smile a little teasing. “Just once?”
Changbin’s laugh – it’s shy, it’s a shy laugh, your heart can’t take it – makes you want to melt into the ground. “Maybe not,” he finally says, ears red. “Maybe many times more.”
. . .
He keeps his promise of many times more, appearing again on your next day off, then again, and again. If possible, you seem to fall in love with him even more than you did in your previous life, his laughs tickling your heart, his smiles like sunshine against your skin.
Deep down, you know this won’t last. If Cupid took your love away so harshly in your last life, he won’t hesitate to do it again, possibly with even more malice. But Changbin is intoxicating, pulling you toward him like a leaf on the wind, forever fluttering in the breeze, only resting when the air does.
It’s not even just Cupid. At least before, you and Changbin were on equal footing – one a healer, the other a poor runaway. There was no status difference. Now, though, Changbin wears silk while you clothe yourself in homespun fabric, finer perhaps than a peasant’s, but homespun nonetheless. No matter how daintily you embroider the cloth with leftover threads from your work, it will never match up to the rich, gorgeous clothing of the nobles with whom Changbin must walk.
Such differences inevitably drive a wedge into a love that could have been.
It starts after you go to the market once, twice, three times, and Changbin doesn’t meet you at any of the stalls. It feels empty, walking around with no one by your side, and you’re just wondering if something’s happened when you receive a note written in your love’s handwriting, asking you to meet him at midnight where you first met.
He arrives a bit later than you, footsteps softly padding across the empty market. For a moment, you only stare at each other, faces lit just barely by the light of the moon.
Changbin breaks the silence. “I’m getting married.”
The words send a knife into your heart, but you try to ignore the pain. It was expected, you tell yourself, expected of someone with Changbin’s high status. The two of you could never end up together, not a sewing apprentice and a member of nobility. “I see,” is all you say.
For the first time since you’ve met, Changbin looks broken. It hurts your heart and you want nothing more than to hold him close until that expression disappears, but you can’t. You’ve barely even touched – you don’t have a right to hold him the way you’d like.
“I don’t want to be,” he says.
Your hands shake slightly with your reply. “Why?”
“Because…” Changbin’s voice almost fades into the silence. “I think I love you.”
His words should make you feel happy, should make fireworks burst in your heart the way they did when Changbin kissed you in your past life. And yes, a small part of you jumps for joy. But a larger part withers with disappointment, with pain, with the knowledge that none of this will come to good.
“Y/N.” His voice turns insistent. “Don’t you… don’t you feel the same?���
You swallow. Take a breath. “I do.”
A lovely brightness enters Changbin’s eyes, hope filling his face. You hate yourself for having to crush it. “But you have a duty to your family.”
“We can run away,” Changbin says, taking your hand. You want to melt yourself into his touch, rest in his warmth forever. “We can run, Y/N. We don’t have to stay.”
Only the greatest force of will allows you to pull your hand away. “I have a family, Changbin,” you say, trying not to focus on the light that’s fading out of his face with every second. “I have to support them. And you… you have a duty to the village.” You swallow. “We can’t run. It’s too selfish.”
He doesn’t blame you, you know. He understands what you’re saying, has probably already thought of it himself. Still, it doesn’t stop pain from breaking the glass in his eyes, gaze becoming fragmented as he nods once, twice. “I know. I just thought…”
Changbin never finishes his sentence. In fact, you never speak again. He walks you back to your mistress’s house that night, squeezes your hand once under the moonlight, then disappears back into the darkness.
And with that disappearance, he leaves your life forever.
Over the years, you hear stories of Changbin’s lovely partner, her flowing hair and vibrant face and pretty smile. You hear stories of how much they love each other, the children they have, how well they watch over the village together.
It doesn’t matter how much your heart hurts, you tell yourself every time you hear one of those stories. It doesn’t matter at all, not even when his wife commissions a dress from the shop you now own, years later. It doesn’t matter when Changbin comes with her and stands in the main room silently as you take her for fitting, and it doesn’t matter when his eyes linger slightly on you when you lead her back out.
You exchange no words that day, but you’re certain Changbin sees the black gemstone still resting at the base of your throat. He makes no obvious expression, but when his eyes flicker over it, their light dims the slightest bit.
In this life, there are no kisses, no hugs, none of the passion you shared in your first life. Instead, you love through vivid conversations, knowing smiles, and in the end, the barest brush of his hand against yours before he leads his wife out of your shop.
In the end, you never marry. Instead, you spend the rest of your life sewing until your eyes go blind, leaving you all too much time to contemplate everything you’ve lost.
Which is worse, you wonder, losing your love to death or to societal pressures and another woman? Which is worse, never knowing how Changbin suffered as he died, or knowing that he’s doing well without you?
Which is worse, having your love die in a land unknown, or having him live so close, yet so far away?
. . . . .
It continues, over and over again, endless cycles of living, remembering, loving. He’s a thief and you’re a merchant. You’re a shop owner and he’s a soldier. Both of you are orphans, living on the street. None of it matters, not gender, not occupation, not social status – no matter what, you end up apart.
With every lifetime, the dreams grow more vivid, as though to make sure you don’t forget a single instant of the love you experienced, the love you could never see to the end. You’d think that the lines between each life would grow blurred as each one passes, but they only grow sharper, more defined. It’s impossible to forget how many lives you’ve lived, not when Cupid forces each one to remain in your mind, endlessly playing in your dreams time and time again.
On your twenty-ninth reincarnation, you experience a month’s worth of dreams in your silken bed, the bed of a noble heir who can have nothing to do with the boy who stays by their side day and night as a bodyguard and nothing more. You wake up every night stifling screams resulting from twenty-eight lifetimes of broken hearts, muffled cries and tears that bring Changbin running into your room, asking if you’re all right, reminding you that you’re safe.
Physically, you agree. You trust Changbin entirely – he’s proven more than capable of protecting you after multiple attempts on your life – but mentally? Emotionally?
How can he protect you from a god’s wrath, a wrath he doesn’t know of, when you can’t even protect yourself from that same wrath you’ve known of for twenty-eight, soon to be twenty-nine lifetimes?
You try to harden your heart, speak to Changbin a little less, spend more time focused on your lesson books and less on Changbin’s lovely face, but it’s impossible, you find after several months of this forced silence. It’s impossible to ignore the allure of your guard’s lips, his entrancing eyes, impossible to ignore the gentleness of his strong, roughened hands guiding you through life.
But with every chaste kiss, with every stolen hug or brush of skin, you know, deep in your heart, that something will befall your love. Something will tear you two apart.
When he dies, stabbed in the chest by a traitor to your family, rage drives you to take the knife that fell out of your love’s hand and shove the blade into the attacker’s heart. It drives you to cry, to weep, to wail to the sky as Changbin’s skin grows cold, the remnants of his last “I love you” still hanging on his lips.
Watching your love die in front of you, you decide, is the worst punishment of all. Nothing, absolutely nothing could be worse than this, knowing that Changbin died because of you, for you, without a singular doubt in his mind as he did it because he knew you would do the same for him.
Moonlight streams through the windows, illuminating Changbin’s blank face and the blood on his chest. As people begin entering the room, pausing at the carnage next to your bed, you raise your head, tears still flowing down your face.
“YOU SELFISH GOD!” you scream at the cold moon, resisting the arms tugging you away from the body of your love. “YOU SELFISH GOD! I GAVE YOU TWENTY-EIGHT LIFETIMES OF MY LOVE, AND YOU WANT MORE?”
Someone’s speaking, trying to make you hear their words over the raging of your voice. You don’t care, violently wrenching yourself out of their grip to stay thrown over Changbin’s body, tears mixing with his blood. “COME DOWN AND FACE ME!” you gasp. “COME DOWN AND TAKE MY LIFE, DO ANYTHING, I DON'T CARE! FACE ME, YOU COWARD!”
Strong hands, too strong, containing none of the gentility Changbin used to show you, begin pulling you away. You thrash in their grip, still staring at the moon. “I WISH HE NEVER MET ME!” you scream as they drag you out of the room. Blood stains your nightclothes, sticky against your skin. “I WISH HE NEVER MET ME, NEVER DIED FOR ME, DO YOU HEAR?”
. . . . .
The god grants your wish.
. . .
You regret it more than anything in all of your now-thirty lives.
. . .
To know of your love, but to never experience any semblance of it in your entire life? To know of a certain Seo Changbin, but to never meet him, never know how he is, never see him once in over fifty years of living?
Torture.
. . .
From your sixteenth birthday, when you begin having the dreams, until your death well into your fifties, there’s only pain, endless pain, marred by a piece of disgusting hope that rests in your chest, a piece of hope that keeps you praying that you will see him just once in this lifetime, that you’ll know his face and he’ll know yours.
. . .
It becomes so clear as you grow older that you will never know the Changbin of this lifetime, if he even exists. You will never touch his skin, see his smile, bathe in the glory of his laugh. You’ll never kiss, never experience even the briefest joy of seeing his face.
But your heart hopes, anyway, even though your mind sees reason. It prays, refuses to accept the truth.
. . .
Hope, you decide, is a weapon. A weapon far deadlier than the sharpest sword or the heaviest club, a weapon wielded by only the most intelligent of tyrants.
. . .
Apparently, you go mad towards the end of this life. You can’t blame those who eventually put you in an institution, over fifty years old and withering away. They don’t know who Changbin is. They never will.
You never will.
. . .
You blame the dreams. If you didn’t know of your previous lives, if you didn’t know Changbin existed, you might have lived happily – well, maybe not happily, but you’d be content, at least. You wouldn’t be wishing you were dead every minute of your existence.
. . .
You die in that institution, supposedly of a wasting disease, but more accurately of a broken heart, a heart even more broken than the one Changbin left behind that first life when he never came back.
. . . . .
Your forty-sixth life is first one in which you end the love with death, not Changbin. Looking back, it was probably better for you, you suppose, because you didn’t have to feel the pain of losing your love. Maybe this was Cupid’s laughable attempt at some sort of mercy.
You loathe it anyway, loathe it almost as much as the lives – yes, plural by now, which automatically cancel anything Cupid tries to do to make up for it (if the god is even trying) – where you dreamt of certain sparkling eyes and a lovely smile but never met them face to face. It’s not quite as horrible, but nearly.
To know that your love had to deal with any measure of the pain you’ve felt for so long, the pain you wouldn’t impart on even your worst enemy, is unimaginable.
It’s ironic, too, considering your occupations in life. You’re a healer on the battlefield, wearing the strip of blue silk on your arm that denotes your immunity to the opposite forces. He’s a soldier on the same side, though he has no protection other than his skill from enemy swords.
You are sworn to heal. He is sworn to kill.
Isn’t it strange, then, that fate wills you to die first while forcing Changbin to live?
You weren’t supposed to be killed in war. Your healer status, that piece of blue silk tied around your arm, was supposed to protect you from enemy blades. But some unsuspecting enemy soldier, perhaps not seeing the blue amidst the dust of the battlefield or genuinely just not caring for the rules of war, drove their blade into your back as you knelt over a fallen man of your side.
Within minutes, you had succumbed to darkness. The pain of dying, the blade in your back wasn’t even the worst part.
All you could think, after all, as you lay there gasping, was that he would have to learn of your death from finding your body, that you wouldn’t even get to say a proper goodbye.
. . . . .
It’s a pitiful, desolate figure who sits on a clifftop fifteen lifetimes later, blankly staring at an expanse of open ocean, waves crashing against the rocks below, contemplating every single one of the sixty-one lives you’ve lived so far.
You married Changbin in this one, this sixty-first life. You married him for the first time in sixty-one lives, made your vows with him, kissed him under a shower of flower petals.
It didn’t change your fate, not even when, unable to have a baby of your own, you adopted your first, then your second child. It didn’t change anything, not when Changbin had a duty to this village that you couldn’t interfere with. It didn’t change anything, not when pirates came ashore and massacred the village population, killing your two children and half of the rest of your family.
Changbin threw himself from this very cliff, you remember, threw himself to a watery death rather than die at the hands of the pirates who came to raid the town so many years ago. He was brave to the last, fending off invaders even when countless others had thrown down their swords, and he never lived to see the defeat of the pirates whom he died fighting.
You hug your shoulders tightly, staring down at the waves crashing against the rocks. With all that’s happened to you over sixty-one lifetimes, who would blame you for tipping off the edge the same way Changbin died, albeit much less heroically? Who would blame you for giving up in this life, giving up in every life if you knew just how badly it would end every time?
“You’re right,” a rich voice sounds behind you, a voice that you once heard in person, many centuries ago. “Who would blame you? Not even I would.”
Your eyes slam shut, refusing to gaze into blood red. You don’t speak.
A sigh passes from the god’s lips, breath puffing softly. Where the air hits your neck, you feel your skin curdle with disgust.
“It’s no use not speaking,” he continues, a hint of amusement tinging his voice that makes your hands curl into fists. “I can hear your thoughts.”
A snarl twists your lips. “They must be very loud,” you snap, words dripping acid.
More silence.
“You hate me,” he finally says.
You breathe in, out, in, out. Calm, you tell yourself.
“Why wouldn’t I.”
A pause.
“Perhaps you can elaborate.”
For the first time since they appeared, you turn around, eyes blazing, to stare into the red gaze of the wrathful god who cursed you. “I would rather throw myself off this cliff,” you seethe, “than relive my lifetimes in front of you.”
Is it remorse that glitters in ruby eyes, pity that rests in their shadows? Whatever it is, it makes you smirk without mirth, lips curling without cheer as you turn back around to watch gray waves crash against the cliff. It doesn’t matter how a vengeful god feels after lifetimes of revenge. Apologies from the curser mean nothing to the spite of the cursed.
“I made mistakes,” the god says simply. “I acted rashly. I should not have taken my anger out on you, and certainly not with so harsh a punishment.”
You want to snort. “I am ever grateful you realize after sixty-one lifetimes of wrath,” you say, acid practically burning a hole in your tongue. “Now quit with the blather.” You don’t care that you’re staring at a god who could smite you down a thousand times over with a single flick of their finger – they’ve already hurt you too much for it to matter anymore. “After so many years of never answering my calls, you finally come, unbidden. Tell me why you’re here, or I will jump off this cliff.”
“I’ve come to offer an exchange,” they say. “It is impossible to erase a curse, but I can impart it on someone else.”
In a flash, you’re standing, staring the god dead in the center of their bright red eyes. “You said you could read my thoughts,” you snarl. “Tell me, God of Love, what I’m thinking right now.”
They raise an eyebrow. “You don’t want it,” they say calmly, though surprise coats their words. “You have no one, then, on whom you would impart this curse?”
“When I tell you,” you snap, “that I would not wish this curse on my worst enemy in all of my sixty-one lives, I do not lie. That –” you take a breath – “that is how much you have hurt me.”
Astonishment shows itself in the god’s gaze. “I don’t understand,” they say, for the first time looking bemused. “I have given you everything, dying first, dying last, watching him die in front of you, never seeing him in a lifetime –”
“You don’t need to remind me,” you cut him off. “I know it very well.”
“Then you would not even give this curse to me?” they ask. “Not to the god who has shown you so much pain?”
That almost gets you, almost. The desire for revenge claws its way through your chest, begging to be released in a monstrous cry of pain, but you rein it in with a scoff. “For a god of love,” you say, turning back around, “you really understand nothing of it.”
More silence.
“I will leave you with two gifts,” the god finally says. “Two gifts to try and make up for what you have lost.”
You suppress another snort.
“Your love will remember you on your one hundred and first lifetime,” they continue. “When the curse is over, your love will remember you, will know how you have lived one hundred lifetimes without him.”
The words, acerbic with derision, fall from your lips without missing a beat. “Will I remember him, then, or will you take that away from me too?”
A short pause. The air seems to grow slightly warmer, as though the god has been angered, but it cools quickly. “You will remember him,” they reply, voice thinner with a tinge of frustration.
You smirk.
They clear their throat. “The second gift you will find when you return home.”
You give no response to that, only stare resolutely at gray waves, feeling the ocean spray tickle your skin. The god must disappear at some point, because when you finally turn around to return home, they’re gone. But once you enter your empty house, there’s something on your table, something that sparkles in the last glimmers of sunlight peeking through the window.
You pick it up, eyes narrowed, and almost immediately drop it.
A thin silver necklace, polished to shine, with a small black gem as the pendant.
Though there’s no way to prove it, you’re sure this is the very same piece of jewelry that Changbin gifted you so many centuries ago, two lifetimes in a row.
The chain trembles on your shaking fingers as you place it back down, carefully, so carefully, like it’ll explode any second. You go to bed that night wondering if the necklace will have disappeared by morning, but when you wake up after a fitful rest, it’s still there, glittering on the table.
You wear it for the rest of this lifetime, hiding it beneath your clothing so no questions are asked. And when you feel you will die soon, you carefully place the chain in a small box and bury it just outside your home.
You’ll find it in your next life. You’ll find it in the next, then the next, time and time again until the end of your hundred-lifetime punishment.
It’s a small comfort, that simple silver chain with the little black jewel, but it’s a comfort nonetheless, a piece of your love to carry with you until the end of your times. Even if it was given back by the god who cursed you.
. . . . .
Years trudge along, years of waiting and waiting and more waiting for the torture to end. More death, more illness, more societal pressure to drive you two apart. In five lifetimes, you die first. In the others, Changbin either leaves you to face the world on your own, or you never know him at all.
It seems that even though Cupid may have felt some remorse for your curse, that didn’t stop the god from finding new ways to hurt you.
At some point, the lives finally begin to blur together. There have just been too many. If you tried, you could probably piece them all together, work out the details of how the two of you lived and how you were ripped apart, but after seventy, then eighty, then finally ninety lifetimes of broken hearts, it becomes too painful to relive.
(As you near the ninetieth lifetime, if you’re lucky enough to be born to a family who cares, someone always comes running in for months to the tears that stain your cheeks through dream-filled nights. You must have helped send so many people to an early grave with the endless screaming they would wake up to on the nights you dreamed of particularly painful lives.)
There are two saving graces to this pain, and as much as you hate to admit it, they came from Cupid. The god never deigns to meet you again (something you’re grateful for), but their gifts keep you from losing all hope as you near the end, the blissful end of your punishment.
One, the necklace. In every lifetime, no matter how painful, no matter whether or not you find Changbin, you find the thin silver necklace from your previous life. And no matter how rusty the chain gets, how dull the jewel becomes after years of wear, it shows up shiny and polished the next time you find it.
Two, the knowledge that Changbin will recognize you that first lifetime your punishment is over. You don’t have to keep track of your lifetimes, don’t have to count them until the hundredth has come and gone, don’t have to live any unnecessary lives with the fear that Changbin will be taken away from you suddenly and horribly.
As much as you loathe saying it, these gifts give you the slightest bit of hope that keeps you going.
So you trudge through lives, living as a tailor falling for a shoemaker, a nurse who comes to love a bedridden patient, a rich socialite who wants to marry the son of your family’s sworn enemy (this one’s interesting, quite like Romeo and Juliet, really. In your next life, when you dream of it, you wonder if Cupid met Shakespeare after the playwright’s death and decided to have a sick laugh at your expense). Seventy passes at some point, then eighty, then ninety.
By your hundredth life, you aren’t entirely sure what number you’re on. You think it must be ending soon, what with all the dreams your seventeen-year-old self had to suffer through, but it hurts too much to pick them apart and count. When Changbin doesn’t recognize you, though, a student at the same university as you, you resign yourself to several more lifetimes of heartbreak. It’s too much to hope for at this point, too much to hope that you’re on your last cycle of punishment, that the next time you live, you will be able to love Changbin wildly, freely, without a care in the world.
The dreams come once more in your hundredth and first life. It makes you despair that your punishment isn’t over, not even now (because though you don’t dare to freely pray, hope still buries itself deep in your chest, allowing Cupid to wield it like the monster he is).
Cupid assured you on his second and last visit that you would remember Changbin when you met him, though. You don’t like it, but hope only grows when you recall his words. Blind, blind hope.
It’s a cold morning, bitterly cold, when you roll out of bed to go to work. Eyes blinking blearily, you fumble around the cabinets for a package of coffee before remembering you ran out yesterday.
Just my luck, you think, scribbling “coffee” onto the grocery list on your refrigerator. You shove the piece of paper into your pocket, hoping you remember to go shopping later for whatever’s on the list. Your roommates are out of town, so you can’t rely on them to get anything this time.
Bitter wind slashes at your face as you walk to the small café just down the street for your daily fix of caffeine. By the time you’ve reached the shop, your nose is already stiff with cold, and the steaming cup of coffee the barista presses into your chilled hands only briefly warms your skin before you have to step back into the cold.
The bus will be coming soon, you note, checking your phone for the time. Steps quickening, you bend your head into the wind and set off for the stop.
So focused on your destination are you that you don’t notice the person until it’s too late. You smack right into them, sending them lurching into a nearby pole. They fall to the sidewalk as you spew apologies from freezing lips, holding out a hand to help them up.
They take your hand, squeezing with a grip that seems a little too familiar to be coincidental. A familiar sensation of warmth, a lovely, dreadful warmth, spreads through your body, emanating from where the stranger’s hand touches yours.
You freeze, eyes hardly daring to look up and gaze into someone who might be Changbin, who might be the love of one hundred of your lifetimes. You don’t even know whether to hope it is him, because if it is, will he finally recognize you after so many cycles of pain? Or will this just be another love that ends in heartbreak?
Slowly, slowly, your gazes meet.
It’s him.
It’s him.
It’s him.
Lovely brown eyes, eyes that throughout twenty, fifty, ninety years of pain, have remain unchanged in their depth and gentleness, stare into yours. Your breath catches. The coffee in your hand drops to the ground.  
It’s really him.
Belatedly, you realize he’s still on the ground and give a quick yank to pull him up. You try to apologize, both for hitting him and for the coffee that’s spattered onto his shoes, but your vocal cords won’t work. All you can do right now is stare.
He doesn’t recognize you. He hasn’t reacted to your touch, hasn’t given any indication that this is anything more than a chance meeting, an everyday occurrence where a stranger bumps into him (albeit a little harder than normal). You’re about to retract your hand, to force your vocal cords into giving an apology for smacking into him, but then he opens his mouth and speaks words you never dared to believe you would hear.
“It’s you,” he breathes, gripping your hand even more tightly, almost involuntarily, like he’s trying to keep himself grounded to the earth. His eyes, now wide with confusion and awe, search your face greedily. For what, you don’t know, but you’re doing the same, even though you’ve seen his face millions of times by now over a hundred lifetimes.
“It’s you,” he repeats once more, raspy voice breathless with emotion. “It’s really you.”
Finally, your throat manages to choke something out. “Changbin?” you try, words small and soft, conveying all of your disbelief in that one single word, that one single name. “Changbin?”
He says your name, then, says it once, twice, as he keeps staring into your eyes. It sounds like honey on his lips, sweet in a way that makes you heady with bliss, and only the biting wind keeps you rooted to the present, reminding you that this is real, this is not a dream, that this is real, completely real.
Slowly, naturally, one of your arms curls around his waist, just as his hands rise to cup your cheek. His fingers are cold against your bare skin but you lean into his touch, pulling him closer, closer, until your faces are only inches apart.
“It’s you,” Changbin murmurs, still as though he can barely believe it. “It’s really you.”
A strangled sound escapes your throat, something between a sob and a laugh all at once. “You remember,” you choke, eyes beginning to fill with warm, salty tears. “You remember, Changbin.”
He cups your cheek with an ungloved hand, cold skin brushing against yours with a gentleness that makes you want to melt. “I do,” he replies, voice almost cracking with emotion. “I’m only sorry I didn’t remember before.”
In your previous lives, time and time again, you kissed Changbin’s lips. It was always lovely, absolutely lovely, lovely in a way that made it feel like a field of flowers blooming in your chest, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. But there was always a lingering desolation on your part, a despair born of the knowledge that this love would not last, that Cupid would not allow you to see it to its natural end.
Today, Changbin’s lips taste of sunshine and honey, dew on green grass on a summer morning, the excitement of a first snow, nothing reminding you of a lingering heartbreak to come. You can’t even feel the bitter wind with him pressed so closely to you, lips molding against yours as his hands cup your cheeks.
The last walls on your heart crack down, walls formed with the knowledge of your hundred lifetimes of punishment. From the broken walls springs a new warmth, a sparkling warmth that you can’t even find the words to explain, a warmth that spills through your body and makes you feel full, happy, joyous in a way you’ve never felt, not once before in your hundred lifetimes of heartbroken love.
When you break away, tears are streaking down your cheeks. Changbin’s eyes glitter, too, but the smile on his face is radiant as he gazes at you.
Cupid’s punishment was cruel, you know, crueler than it had to be. It was harsh, evil, almost wicked in the pain he inflicted on you. But even though the vestiges of that pain still line the edges of your heart, it’s easy to ignore it in favor of staring at your love standing in front of you as a wobbly smile of the purest joy finally begins to curve your lips.
Is this real? you wonder to yourself. Is this truly real, your punishment finally ending, Changbin remembering who you are and the lifetimes you’ve shared? This bliss, this love, this warmth… it all seems too good to be true.
As though he can read your thoughts (and perhaps he can – a hundred lifetimes of love have probably given him a window into your soul, the same way it’s given you one into his), Changbin grins, vibrant, radiant, warm even in the bitter cold. “This is real,” he says, lovely lips curved into a brilliant smile.
“It is?” you ask, soft, wondrous, childlike, hardly daring to believe.
He brushes away a tear on your face, his thumb stroking your cheek with the gentlest touch. “It is,” he whispers. “As real as your love for me, and mine for you.”
Time and time again, you burned your heart for Changbin, burned it with the love you felt for him over one hundred lifetimes of a curse. Time and time again, you swore at love, swore at the god who inflicted the curse on you without so much as an afterthought until sixty-one lives had passed.
But now, as you crush Changbin close, fitting your lips to his once more, you push those thoughts to the back of your mind and lose yourself in a kiss finally free of pain.
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If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3
(1 reblog = 1 slap in the face for Cupid fuck them)
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dreamsclock · 3 years
Note
Sparrow my beloved, syndicate au crumbs? Happy dream crumbs? Bamf dream crumbs? Dream crumbs? Crumbs?
have a little snippet from chapter sixteen of the syndicate au !! syndicate crumbs, bamf crumbs and crumbs !!
warnings: trauma / trauma responses, toxic relationships, violence, fighting, implications of torture / torture aftermath, dissociation, depersonalization, death (temporary), physical abuse, manipulation, dark thoughts, c!quackity critical (not the whole fic, this snippet just seems it)
Quackity’s eyes are frozen. Dream swallows, holds his hands out low, palms face-up, and tries to seem unthreatening. “We don’t have to do this,” he says, lowly, softly, and wishes more than anything he had his mask, wishes he could cover up his face and hide the terror he knows is flickering over it like a traitor, “I haven’t- I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
Tommy laughs mirthlessly, shifts his sword from one hand to the other. It’s an attempt to look threatening. It comes off uneasy. “You’ve hurt enough people as it is,” he replies stubbornly, “you’ve- hurt me enough, Tubbo, Big Q - all of us. We’re sick of your shit, Dream. It’s time to end this. It’s time to end you.”
And Dream wants to laugh, hysteria beginning to settle in, wants to demand answers as to how he’d hurt Quackity when Quackity had been the one that had ripped him apart again and again, had torn his identity from his body until he’d lost all knowledge of who he’d been. He looks in the mirror and still sees Quackity’s work leering back at him in every scar and every lingering wound - Dream can count on one hand the amount of days he’s gone without pain and without remembering that he has been remade into something awful because of Quackity. As much as he wishes to Prime it had been the other way round, as much as he wishes he could slam his axe into Quackity’s head until his screams stopped, it hadn’t been, and he wouldn’t, and he has no fucking idea what lies Tommy and Tubbo have been fed, but the idea of him being the one to hurt Quackity leaves him bitter and exhausted. 
“I’ve changed,” Dream says, praying they’ll believe his sincerity, “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just- I couldn’t stay in that prison anymore.” 
His voice cracks, and, feeling pathetic, he steps forwards, slow, uncertain, still keeping a wary distance. 
“Let me live out here. You don’t have to see me again. I don’t want to see you again. Any of you. And- And I’m sorry about what I did and I know that isn’t going to change anything and-”
“Yeah, Dream, you’re right!” Tommy snaps. “It’s not gonna change a single fucking thing! You ripped me apart, man, you destroyed me mentally, destroyed my fucking mind in exile, and you manipulated Tubbo and you tried to kill Big Q with the whole El Rapids thing - you blew up our home! And you want us to just forgive you for that?!”
Flashes of the Greater SMP from before L’Manburg flash through his mind. Visions of explosions and walls and borders and tyrants shatter the memory. “I want you to leave me alone,” he replies, as evenly as he can, “I want to rest. I want... I don’t want forgiveness. I don’t think I deserve that.”
Tommy steps closer, sword clenching tighter in his hands. Dream’s eyes flicker around the forest - Ranboo is gone, and really, he doesn’t know why he’d expected help from him, because Ranboo, this version of Ranboo, hates him more than anything and fuck, he’s alone, he’s going to die here, isn’t he? He’s going to die and he’s just learned to live and he’s going to die alone and
“Tommy,” Quackity drawls, but his eyes are fixed on Dream, “let’s not get too fuckin’ hasty here, yeah? Don’t forget he still has something we want.”
Dream’s skin crawls even at the reminder, and from the brief consternation flashing over Tubbo’s face, it looks like he notices. “Big Q, he really doesn’t look like he’s going to talk about it,” Tubbo says uneasily, “I mean, I think the less people with the revive knowledge, the better, right? If it falls into the wrong hands...”
“Sure, sure, but eradicating the knowledge altogether would be worse. And anyway...” Quackity pulls out his axe, shooting a confident, knowing look at Tubbo. “Some of us are on our last lives, you know? Who would you rather bring you back? Dream, or someone a little more trustworthy?”
“You’re not trustworthy.” It comes out stuttered, and Dream internally winces. He pushes insistently at his point despite this, despite the tremor in his hands when he pulls out a shield - he’s not going to hurt them, he tells himself firmly, though he itches for a weapon, he’s not going to risk it. “You’re the furthest thing from trustworthy. You’re no better than me. You’re worse.”
Quackity’s eyes flash in anger, and that’s the only sign Dream gets before the younger is lashing out with his axe, embedding it solidly into the shield. Dream’s arm shakes under the force, and, with a grunt, he wrenches the shield free, stumbling back with none of his old grace and none of his old exhilaration in battle. He’s not himself anymore. He knows that.
So does Quackity, who has watched him respawn and die and respawn and die and respawn and die and knows him better than anyone, knows his weaknesses and vulnerabilities and failures and shortcomings, whose eyes gleam and whose axe rises in the way it used to in prison, in the way that never fails to make Dream want to be sick. He knows that expression.
He knows Quackity. 
And that’s Quackity’s biggest shortcoming. Because while Quackity had been watching Dream struggle to survive in prison, had watched him struggle out of the respawn pit or lie there in exhaustion or beg to be killed, Dream had been watching too, when he’d been coherent enough to, when he’d been spiteful enough to. And he knows Quackity better than anyone else too.
Which is why he smiles, however faintly, when a pickaxe is swung very casually into the ground beside him. Which is why he straightens his shoulders when Quackity stiffens like he’d been electrocuted, which is why he lets relief begin to pool in his chest when Quackity turns round as quick as lightning, which is why he finds himself able to breathe when Quackity’s expression morphs into shock.
“Fancy another trip to the dentist?” Techno asks, and Dream almost laughs at the corny threat - would have laughed, if he hadn’t felt his legs buckle in relief. 
They’d been so subtle creeping up. All Dream’s job had involved had been keeping the Nightmare Army distracted enough not to notice.
Philza grins over at his friend from where he has his sword rested against Tubbo’s back, leaving Tommy looking equal parts betrayed and horrified. “How do you make even that manage to sound so threatening?” He laughs, shaking his head in amusement. “What the fuck?”
Techno shoots him an amused look. “Little inside joke between Quackity and me,” he admits, and rolls his eyes when Quackity splutters at him, “in my defense, as much as I don’t like reminding people of past trauma, you were literally about to kill my friend. A three against one fight just isn’t fair.”
“Friend?” Tommy asks in disgusted disbelief, and Dream, reeling, repeats the same thing faintly under his breath. 
“Oh God,” Techno mutters, “let’s not start talking about emotions right now, Just take a canon life instead.”
“You’re not going to get away with this,” Quackity snaps, all fury and ruffled wings, “I’m not going to let you.”
Techno looks bored. “Are you gonna leave us alone, Quackity, or are we doing this?”
Tommy yanks Tubbo away from Philza in the same breath that Quackity swings his axe at Techno. Dream, still struck by the suddenness of his friends’ arrival, sees a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and, turning hastily, sees Ranboo. Things click into place.
Ranboo had brought them.
Ranboo whispers to you: TURNR OUND
Dream turns. An arrow aiming for his head whizzes harmlessly into a tree. Tommy looks infuriated. When Dream glances back, Ranboo has disappeared into the shadows again. Despite this, he feels a faint smile creep onto his face.
“Dream!” Techno calls, and Dream, instinctively, reaches out, only just managing to catch the hilt of the diamond sword thrown to him. Everything in him recoils at the weapon in his hands, but, with a steadying breath, he works to fight the urge to throw it away. It’s okay. He’s only defending himself. He’s okay.
Tommy steps back at the sight of the weapon, and Dream does too.
“We don’t have to fight,” he says quietly, barely heard over the clash of swords, “we don’t have to-”
Tommy’s sword swings in a blinding netherite arc, and Dream parries it as instinctually as breathing. Fine. Fine. If this is how things are going, then so be it.
Dream grits his teeth, and fights back.
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dark1k · 2 years
Note
*slides into messages*
Hello, I am here to request. there’s lots of troubles Connor in RK1K let’s have some troubled Markus.
❛ you can’t save everyone. ❜
Troubled Markus my beloved <3 I took some liberty with this quote and I hope you like the result, thank you for requesting!
•••
“You’re frustrated with me.”
Connor was walking beside him, but his eyes stayed straight ahead and Markus noticed how his LED kept switching between intervals of yellow and red. He doesn’t remember a time, barring their first meeting in the helm of the ship, where he saw the other so exasperated.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Connor said, his voice flat and distant. Angry, then. Teetering towards furious. They reached New Jericho’s main office and Connor opened it, not bothering to wait for Markus to enter first, as he usually would. Instead, he strolled across the room directly to his desk and started shuffling through his DPD files with fervent speed.
Markus sighed and followed him inside, closing the door behind them.
“You seriously didn't expect me to just stand around and watch as that helpless android got mistreated, do you?” Markus asked, puzzled as to why they were having this conversation.
“Yes, I’m aware that you had to insert yourself in a dangerous situation, despite the fact that I was standing right beside you. An investigative, police android who was specifically designed to both handle and deescalate those types of scenes, thank you.” Connor was never this cold with him. They’d never been cold with each other. Everything was warm and electric; their discussions, how they woke up tangled in blankets, and whenever they grabbed onto the other's body in a desperate intensity.
“I had to help,” Markus hesitantly answered, touching his cheek and feeling how his polymer skin was starting to cover a scrape he got in the scuffle. Turns out their perpetrator had a strong right hook, but the leader barely felt his punch in the heat of the moment. “I led the revolution, Connor, I have a responsibility to our people. I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t help.”
“A responsibility?” Connor’s tone became incredulous, “How chivalrous of you.”
Markus dropped his briefcase on his desk, his own anger steadily rising. Why was this turning into an argument? If anything, they should be brainstorming future legislation ideas to prevent these kinds of anti-android crimes; they only encountered this one because they had some downtime in between meetings and decided to take a walk in the nearby park. “Well, I had it under control. I stopped the attacker and kept him restrained until DPD arrived — I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up over this when it doesn’t even affect you, Connor!”
Connor slammed the file he was holding with such force that Markus jumped, papers scattering across the desk. “Doesn’t affect me?! Are you serious? What if he had a concealed weapon, a knife or a gun, and used it? What if he wasn’t acting alone and you were suddenly outnumbered? You just run into these situations with no regard for your personal well-being, Markus! In case you haven’t noticed, we aren’t fighting in the revolution anymore!” Connor’s face was flushed a bright blue, his chest panting from the pressure of his shouts.
“Stop needlessly sacrificing yourself! Do you have a death wish? You can’t save everyone!”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Markus was screwed. He took a cautious step forward, “No! Of course I don’t want that to happen, Connor! I won’t ever let it get that far." Yeah, he definitely feels like an idiot now.
Connor shook his head and turned away, looking out their shared office window to the bustling streets of Detroit below. “Yes, well. It doesn’t matter what you want. You’re a public figurehead, there’s always going to be a risk when it comes to your safety for the rest of your life. But you clearly don’t seem to care about protecting yourself, let alone how your actions affect those in your life. What do you think I would do if you were ever seriously harmed? What about North, Josh, Simon, or the thousands of androids who see you as an inspiration?”
Markus stared at his back, embarrassed in the wake of such words. He never thought of it from their perspective, believing it was better for him to endure the pain rather than another android. He was almost tempted to drop to his knees and beg for Connor to understand, to forgive him. It was their first argument as a couple and the whiplash felt horrible. “Con, wait a minute.”
“No, you wait.” Connor snapped, shoving his fidgeting hands into the pockets of his slacks. “I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you, don’t you understand? It scares me, keeps me awake at night. It’s exhausting, constantly being reminded of the dangers circulating you.” Markus noticed how he curled in on himself, the spark that ignited their fight seemingly drained from his body. All that remained was a weary sense of defeat.
Markus felt like the worst boyfriend in the world, having been the one who caused the android he loved and cared for more than life itself, to feel anything other than happiness.
He took another slow step forward, raising his hands in the gesture of universal surrender. “You’re right and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being careless when it comes to my safety and I’m sorry for not being more sympathetic of your feelings about it.” He saw Connor turn his head slightly, just enough to glance at Markus for a quick moment, but not enough to fully face him. Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Markus closed the last bit of distance and stood in Connor’s personal space.
“I just... hate seeing our people abused. How there are injustices done against them, after months of us tirelessly fighting and advocating for the right to live peacefully. But Connor, I swear, I do not want nor would I ever do anything that might endanger you or our relationship. I would be the biggest idiot to place something so important, so special, at jeopardy.” Bending down to stare into honey-colored eyes, Markus stressed his next statement. “I promise, I won’t jump head-first into those kinds of situations again. It was stupid. I’ll be better about cautioning myself, I’m sorry. Again."
Connor quirked a reluctant smile and muttered, “You sound like a broken record.” Turning to face him for the first time since barging into their office, he continued, “Thank you for understanding, I’m also sorry for yelling at you, Markus.”
But Markus just shook his head, indicating that he had nothing to apologize for. “Are we okay?”
Instead of nodding, Connor simply held up his hand and peeled back his polymer skin, sunlight gleaming off the white porcelain beneath. Markus did the same and accepted the request for an interface immediately. Fear from the attack, unease from their fight, and immense amounts of love easily flowed between both androids. It was a loop of growth and acceptance, a learning experience.
Their argument was settled and forgiven by the time they left New Jericho that evening.
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missjaystone · 3 years
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Inescapable
Summary: Even in the middle of the ocean, your alpha manages to find you, even if it was an accident. Pairing(s): Alpha!Helmut Zemo x Reader Word Count: 3,640 Warning(s): NONCON! DUBCON! A/B/O Dynamics! Forced Claiming! Manipulation! Implied Stalking! Miscarriage mentioned! Death mentioned!
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Everything around you froze when you looked up and met a certain pair of brown eyes, a certain sparkle when they looked into yours. The contact was brief before he was led around the corner by the Dora Milaje but it felt like it would never end. You worked on the Raft as a therapist to put as much distance between the two of you as possible but now that he was here, where could you go? The way he smiled at you as he walked by, it wasn't comforting like the first time you'd seen it, it made your heart stop in fear. It made his claiming mark on your neck throb in pain, a reminder of how much power he'd had over you before and how much he'd always have. It reminded you that he was your alpha, whether you wanted him to be or not. The man that passed by you wasn't the man you'd met, he was much worse.
The battle was over, your husband was dead, the child you were growing followed suit not long after you got the news, like he couldn't bear to even be born in a world without his father; you couldn't even blame him, you'd contemplated ending your own life to join your husband in whatever afterlife awaited. You'd just gone back to work after your allotted week of bereavement leave and another week of personal time. You weren't sure if you were ready to go back to work or not, but at the very least it would distract you. The first thing you noticed when stepping into your office were the pictures of you, your husband, and his family. You turned the picture frames face down before you could stare for too long, everyone in the pictures was dead; your husband, your mother and father in law, your two brothers-in-law, everyone.
Your first patient came exactly at 9:30 for their appointment. He was a brown-eyed brunette man of average height, dressed surprisingly nice for a therapy appointment. You greeted him with a soft smile and a handshake. "Welcome, Mr..." you trailed off so he could introduce himself. "Zemo," he answered, his thumb running over your knuckles gently before he let go of your hand and took a seat "Baron Helmut Zemo." "Would you like me to address you as Baron Zemo or Mr. Zemo? Or just simply Helmut if that would make you comfortable?" You asked him. "You can just call me Helmut, Doctor, but thank you for asking," he returned the same sad smile you'd given him when he came in. "Well, Helmut, I'm glad you came in. It's never easy dealing with loss and having someone to talk to is far better than bottling it up. I'm proud of you." He gave a single nod after looking around the office, motioning to the overturned picture on your desk "I thought my friend might be nuts to have referred me here but maybe you understand my pain better than anyone can." You smiled sadly at him "you'd be surprised at how many people understand." You saw his attention drift towards the sweets jar on your desk, holding it out to him "Turkish delight?" He smiled a bit more, this time a little more genuine as he took a piece out "don't mind if I do, Doctor."
After your first appointment, he came back twice a week. He told you about his wife and son, how much it hurt when he finally found their bodies amidst all the rubble. You asked him about his favorite memories with them, trying to make him remember the good times. You asked him about them; his wife's favorite flower or his son's favorite toy, encouraged him to open up about them. Soon he had you talking about your husband and the people you lost. It was amazing how effortlessly he tore down both your professional and emotional walls. He had you falling for him before you even knew you were.
For two months you tried every which way to talk him down off of his growing rage and hatred for the Avengers. You used everything you'd learned in school to make him understand breaking them apart wouldn't bring back his family or make anything better. At the beginning of the third month, he seemed to drop it, and you foolishly thought that was the end of it, that he'd seen reason. He'd slowly been getting bolder during your appointments, asking questions, each more personal than the last but only by a little. One evening, after seeing him for almost four months, he showed up about half an hour after your last appointment of the day, it was about a quarter of six. He was dressed just as nice as he always was, maybe even nicer "I hate to disturb you so late, doctor but may I take you out to dinner this evening? I'd very much like to thank you for these past months; I knew it's your job but I can't imagine what kind of troubled headspace I'd be in if I didn't have you to talk to." He'd asked so politely, how could you refuse? While you gathered your things, you missed the hungry look in his eyes. You missed the way they dragged over your body, the same way a lion looks at his prey. You'd be his omega soon. Whether you wanted it or not. You were his innocent, gentle little lamb and you needed to be protected from other wolves.
Thirty minutes later, the two of you were at his favorite fine dining restaurant in all of Novi Grad. It was fun, the most fun you'd had in months since the battle of Sokovia and the heartbreak that followed. After that first dinner together, it became a more frequent occurrence, usually once a week after his appointment. You were smart, you knew how stupid it was to be dining with the patient so frequently. This professional relationship was becoming close and intimate. He had you on the hook before you could even realize it and pull away. As you began dining with him more, your guard fell. Helmut was no longer your patient, he was your friend, he understood your pains. You began dining together more frequently and then he introduced alcohol into the equation.
When you looked back at everything, you cursed yourself for being so stupid. How could you not see his plan? He was making you comfortable so it'd be easier for him to go in for the kill. Everything you shared with him would get used against you later. Helmut could play your mind like a flute and you let him, you gave him the tools he needed to find your weak spots and exploit them for his own benefit. If he'd crashed into your life and caused as much trouble as he had, you could hate him, but you let him in, welcomed him even and he made himself as comfortable as possible before finally taking what he came for.
Your first night together was gentle and slow, getting to know each other's bodies on such an intimate level. You turned your back to him afterward, eyes watering as the feeling of betrayal settled in the pit of your stomach like a stone. "What's the matter, malo jagnje? Did I hurt you?" He'd asked softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder as he looked you over worriedly. You shook your head, quickly wiping your tears before they hit the satin pillow sheets beneath you. "No, it's not you, Helmut," you whispered. "Then what?"  He asked, a worried frown on his face. "I just worry, it feels too soon, like I've already started moving on," you answered with a sniffle. "Nobody mourns the same, jagnje, it's different for everyone. You told me that," he assured you, wrapping you in his arms and pulling your back to his chest.
He repeated everything you'd told him whenever you got emotional. 'Sometimes the best way to honor someone's memory is to find new ways to be happy' 'you can't beat yourself up for being happy without them, this is what they would have wanted' 'nobody can ever replace them but you can't wallow in self-pity forever'. Every piece of advice you gave him was used back against you. The two of you had been seeing each other for two months before you stopped answering his calls and messages. He'd shown up at your apartment when you hadn't returned his messages, worried something had happened to you, that his little side activities trying to destroy the Avengers might have led to you being hurt or captured or worse.
He was relieved to find you alive and well. "You haven't been speaking to me, are you unwell?" He asked after you hesitantly let him inside. "I don't think I can keep doing this, Helmut, I'm sorry," you said in a shaky, quiet voice. His face fell in disappointment "what's the matter? Have I done something? Malo jagnje, please, you can tell me anything you know that," he pleaded, taking your hand only to have it slowly pulled from his grasp.
"It's not you, Helmut," you said as clearly as you could muster, wiping the tears that were already beginning to roll down your cheeks. "Then what is it, moj voljeni? What's happened?" He pleaded for an answer. "It was too soon, I can feel myself forgetting him and I don't want to. I don't want to forget all the time me and Christoph spent imagining and building our future together. I don't want to forget about the baby we almost had, that died inside of me almost as soon as he heard the news of his father's death. I don't want to forget everything he and I had but when I'm with you, I feel the memories slipping away and I'm not ready and I'm so sorry for that Helmut," you told him, sniffling throughout. He stared at you for a long moment after you finished speaking, not saying anything. When he finally did react, he approached you and pressed a kiss to your forehead "I understand, little lamb, and I'll wait for you." With that, he gave you a tight hug, rubbing your back comfortingly as you sobbed into his chest for a bit before he left. You went to sleep that night thinking about how lucky you were to have a confidant like Helmut in your life.
You remembered thinking that was the end of things. He took it well and things would continue as they were before you became sexually involved. No wonder he called you his little lamb, you were too innocent and naive to see the anger in his eyes when you told him you'd stop sleeping together. If you knew then what you knew now, you would have run from the hills, hidden at the north pole. You would have gone to the police and gotten a restraining order or hired a security detail. But you didn't do any of that. You were a lamb being led to the slaughter by no one other than yourself.
Helmut stormed into your office on a night he knew you stayed late to put the week's worth of notes away in their correct files. As fast as he'd appeared, he'd closed and locked the door behind him, watching your stunned form for a reaction. "Helmut?" You barely managed to get his name out before he'd crossed the room, pulling you to him and into a rough kiss. No matter how much you shoved his chest, he only pulled away when he was ready to. He effortlessly picked you up and set you on your desk, already positioning himself between your legs "I've waited for you to realize your mistake, jagnje, but I'll wait no more. I know you love me, омега, you're troubled mind is still reeling from the loss too much to accept it." "Helmut, I don't want this anymore, stop it," you shoved him away but it did little to dissuade him. It only angered him.
He grabbed your jaw tightly and made you look into his eyes; the pools of brown swirls had been replaced by black, lust-blown pupils of a... an alpha going through his rut. It sent waves of panic through your mind but waves of something else to your core. You whimpered when you felt your heartbeat speed up, reacting to the alpha's close, intimidating presence. "Helmut this isn't what you want, this isn't you," you tried to reason despite the rising panic telling you to run. He chuckled darkly "oh, little lamb, this is what I've longed for since before I stepped foot in your office. I caught a whiff of your sweet, scent when you visited the memorial all those months ago and I knew you'd be mine. You might not want to admit it, but your body knows you need an alpha like me to treat you right, keep you safe," he hummed as he ground the growing bulge in his pants against your clothed core. "Helmut-" you started, but his squeezing your jaw harder made you stop immediately. "You'll address me as alpha from now on, little lamb. I'd rather not hurt you but tonight I will make you mine by any means necessary, understood?" He asked, loosening his hold so you could nod, which you did hesitantly.
Pleased, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants and pulled them and your underwear down, a smirk appearing on his features. He pulled your pants completely off and discarded them carelessly, holding your underwear up so you could see just how much you didn't want this; the flimsy black fabric already had a small amount of slick arousal on it. You watched in embarrassed shock and he brought the fabric close and sniffed it, a pleased hum leaving his lips as he tucked them into the pocket of his pants. "I think you do want this little omega, you want to please your alpha don't you?" He asked softly as his hand slowly drifted higher up on your thigh. "You aren't my alpha, Helmut," you said bitterly, ignoring the tears that stung your eyes as you glared daggers at the man you'd considered your friend and confidant. He snarled and dropped his hand to your neck, squeezing until the air barely flowed "but I will me, little lamb. And you'll be my perfect little omega, my perfect girl who'll give me the family we both crave and deserve."
His hand on your thigh finally came in contact with your core which was already soaked and ready for him. He hastily pushed in two of his fingers, curling them as he pulled you into a dominating kiss, nipping your bottom lip enough to bruise. Your denials were muffled by his lips and soon faded into pitiful, needy whines from his unwanted touches. He smiled darkly against your lips when he felt your body arch into him "see, омега? Your body knows what it wants, it's that big beautiful brain of yours that's keeping you down." You shook your head, trying to save any dignity you had left, which was none "I don't want this, Helmut, and I don't want you!" The words felt like acid coming up but his chuckle hurt worse. He was three fingers deep in your cunt, pulling whines and quiet, muffled moans from your lips, he knew you didn't mean that.
When he abruptly pulled his fingers out, you regrettably let out a disappointed whine, another, needier whine following as you watched him suck his fingers clean without break eye contact. It took .2 seconds for him to undo his belt and push his pants and briefs down, stroking his throbbing cock while he looked into your eyes. His hand still holding your wrist remaining just as tight. "I'll always take good care of you, my needy little lamb, you'll never want for anything ever," he promised, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead that didn't match the roughness he used to immediately bury himself to the hilt. He started off with a brutal pace, not giving you any time at all to adjust as he had before. His thrusts were purely animalistic, he was just an alpha trying to knot the omega in front of him amid his own release. He let you bury your face in his chest as an escape for now, whispering the filthiest things you'd ever heard in your life.
"See, little lamb? See how much you need your alpha to make you feel good, make you feel better than good?" He asked when you finally gave up on trying to mentally escape the moment. "N-not my alpha," you stuttered out in between the rough hammering of his hips. He snarled and bared his teeth, eyes darkening even more than you thought possible. "We'll see," he mumbled angrily. He tilted your head and moved your hair out of the way quickly, leaving no time for you to react before he sunk his teeth into your mating gland, his hips faltering a few times before his movements went from thrusts to more a series of rapid ruts as his knot began to inflate. Your pained scream was music to his ears, it was the sound of you becoming his omega, making it so no other alpha alive would dare to so much as breath on you.
When he detached from your shoulder, he again pulled you into a kiss, making sure you could taste the metallic taste of your blood on his lips while the feeling of euphoria from the bite coursed through your veins, reaching every last nerve ending. He let out a pleased groan when he felt your cunt strain around his knot as you came, sending him headfirst into his own climax almost immediately. His face happily buried in your chest as he rode out his orgasm, ropes of his cum painting your walls, reaching your innermost areas while you held onto him for dear life.
Your stifled sobs made him look up, a small frown on his face. "Oh, little lamb, don't cry," he said softly as he wiped your cheeks "I just want to keep you safe from all the wolves in the world, it won't always be this way." He ignored how hard your palm connected to his cheek "you bastard!" He gently picked you up and sat down in your chair, letting you curl up in his lap without dislodging his knot, smirking slightly when he heard your whimper at the shift in position. He soothingly rubbed your back as he held you close, comforting you "it's okay, омега, I'd hoped you'd accept us on your own terms but my rut came early and nobody else will do." You hated this; being reduced to your dynamic, to some cock sleeve for him to use as he saw fit. He'd bound you to him for the rest of your lives and there was nothing you could do about it now, so you curled into his chest and sobbed until you had no more tears.
You recalled the way he stayed with you for the rest of the night, comforting and tending to you. He'd return often, usually every other day to take you out somewhere for a date or just show up at your apartment to do it all over again. You couldn't put up much of a fight, once he was close enough, your omega side came out and you were putty in his hands. And he knew that, and he treasured it. He showered you in gifts; clothes, jewelry, wines, books, everything he could think of. When his visits became few and further in between, you hated the nerves you felt. You hated the way you wondered when he'd come back home to you. You were messed up, and it felt like it was all your doing. You broke your professional rules. You let him into your life. You told him everything he needed to know to get to you. You let him claim you. You were Baron Helmut Zemo's little lamb, and he'd never let you forget it, leaving bruises on your thighs and hickeys on your neck to show any and everyone you were a protected little omega, and woe to anyone who caught your alpha's wrath.
You then had to watch in horror as his actions became known on the news; he'd never given up his plot to destroy the Avengers. He'd succeeded more than he could have ever dreamed of and now, he was in jail. He'd be in jail for the rest of his life. It felt like losing your husband all over again, the pain deep in your heart hurt twice as much now. You practically had to go through detox to get used to life without your Helmut around you. You were still protected by his mark but you'd never get to listen to him shower you with praises while he cleaned you up after sex. You had to get used to a life without being on his arm and you hated yourself for craving his attention and companionship that you'd still claim to hate.
He smiled so happy when they stopped while waiting for the door to open. He spoke in Sokovian so nobody around understood him "izgledaš prelepo kao onog dana kad sam te pogledao, jagnje malo." "What'd he just say?" Your superior asked, looking between the two of you. You felt that familiar stone in the pit of your stomach, he'd have you doing his bidding in no time. You were already wrapped around his finger. You shook your head and looked at your boss "he's mistaken me for someone else." "Jedva čekam da stignem, jagnje," Helmut said with a smirk before he was pulled away by a member of the Dora Milaje, leaving you with a wink.
-malo jagnje - мало јагње - little lamb -jagnje - јагње - lamb -moj voljeni? - мој вољени - my beloved -омега - omega -izgledaš prelepo kao onog dana kad sam te pogledao, jagnje malo - изгледаш прелепо као оног дана кад сам те погледао, јагње мало - you look as beautiful as the day I laid eyes on you, little lamb -Jedva čekam da stignem, jagnje - Једва чекам да стигнем, јагње - I can't wait to catch up, lamb
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boltwrites · 3 years
Text
Misfits - Chapter 2
Fandom: Star Wars - Clone Wars / The Bad Batch Pairing: The Bad Batch / Reader (Polyamorous) Rating: M (Rating May Change) Tags: Polyamorous Relationship, Force-Sensitive Reader, Slow Burn
Work Summary: After a year working with the 501st, you've been assigned a new post - Clone Force 99, aka the Bad Batch. You're concerned about the transition - you found it hard enough to fit in with the 501st, and now you had to acclimate to an entirely new squad. As it turns out, the Bad Batch is very accommodating.
Chapter Summary:  You're started to settle in with the Bad Batch. Introductions are in order, but one in particular leads down a path you never expected.
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You had said goodbye to Rex only a few minutes prior. He had wrapped you in a tight hug and told you not to get into too much trouble, and you had to try really, really hard not to start crying in front of your new squad. He’d waved as you entered their transport, and instead of dwelling on those emotions – loss, sadness, anxiety – you’d pushed them to the back of your mind. You learned long ago that acting as if they didn’t exist wouldn’t help anything, but right now, you needed to compartmentalize. You hardly knew these men, and you didn’t want to freak them out by sobbing about leaving your best friend behind.
The men in question had since been introduced to you by Hunter. The tall, slender clone who liked to lean against the side of the ship like some half-baked deathstick dealer was Crosshair, a sharpshooter and sniper. You probably should have figured that, judging by the tattoo that encircled his eye. When Hunter introduced you, he had made a noncommittal noise, looked you up and down, and then decided you weren’t very interesting, instead walking his way back to the cockpit. You hoped he was just antisocial, and didn’t hate nat borns, or women, or something.
The big burly one was Wrecker, who had wasted no time in offering you a big smile and a firm clap on the back. Honestly, you thought he was going to hug you – and maybe he was, and then he thought better of it.
“You’re our new Jedi, huh?” he had asked with a broad smile? You offered him a somewhat hesitant one back – he was intimidating, after all. He was broad and muscular like you had never seen on a clone before, and the large scar that encompassed half of his forehead and a good portion of his scalp was distracting. It made him look hardened and dangerous, but with his jovial tone, you soon found out he was anything but menacing.
“Yeah, guess I am?” you answered with a nervous laugh.
“She’s a force-sensitive, Wreck, not a Jedi. She doesn’t answer to the Council.” Hunter had clarified. You were somewhat shocked that he cared about the difference – but, then again, he had seemed pleased that you weren’t a part of the Order, likely because it meant you had less rules to follow.
“Oh, yeah!” Wrecker had grinned, clapping you on both shoulders now, as he leaned down to grin at you. You had laughed a little harder, because you were starting to see now, by both his force signature and in his voice, that he was really just a big goofball. “I never liked the Jedi anyway!”
“Weren’t you just expressing how excited you were for ‘our new Jedi?’”
That had come from the one with the glasses – er, goggles? You weren’t exactly sure what they were, or if he needed them for his bad eyesight or just tactical reasons. Either way, he adjusted him on his face as Hunter introduced him as Tech. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what his specialty was – much like it was easy to deduce that Wrecker liked to punch things in addition to blowing things up. Tech, of course, handled a lot of technical issues and data – but you were actually shocked at the fact that he wasn’t, well… tiny.
Tech was taller than Hunter, and even Rex, as he peered down at you through his glasses. He took your hand and shook it – you could tell just by his grip that he was used to intricate work – robotics, droid work, rewiring datapads – fiddly things that required a steady hand. You had nodded politely to him as he greeted you.
The last member of the team, and perhaps the most elusive, was Echo. He was paler than the others, and studded with prosthetics – most prominently, the jack that his hand had been substituted with. He had an aura about him in the force that spoke of pain – not the pain of war that the rest of the squad exuded, no. This was a deeper pain, something profound and lasting, and you had a feeling it had to do with that arm, and the bolts in his skull, and the way his cheekbones still looked sharper than that of even Crosshair.
“You’re from the 501st?” he had asked, after Hunter had led you to the cockpit and left to look at something in Tech’s travel plans for the route to their next mission. You were alone, but Echo still gazed out the front of the transport into hyperspace, his flesh hand fiddling with the textured armrest of the captain’s chair.
“Yeah – I’ve worked with them for the past year, most of the time. I get contracted out from the unit to do a lot of stealth work that the Jedi obviously can’t be pulled for. Stuff like this, I guess,” you shrugged. Echo had hummed in acknowledgement, glancing at you, almost curious.
“Were you with the 501st when Captain Rex last worked with… Clone Force 99?”
The wording was strange. Rex had mentioned to your that this squad usually referred to themselves as “the Bad Batch” due to their mutations. But Echo was more cautious – he almost hesitated on the name. His force signature didn’t give away much more – it only told you that he was being careful with his words, that he didn’t trust you quite yet. Which, honestly, was to be expected.
“No. Anaxes, right?” Echo nodded, and you shook your head. “No – I was on a stealth mission. Well, I guess it couldn’t really be called a stealth mission… I was working with a pirate named Hondo Onaka. Think I might have rather been on Anaxes.”
You chuckled, trying to make light of it. You knew Anaxes has been a mess, and honestly you had felt horrible leaving behind the 501st in order to take on what you considered a useless political mission. You knew the campaign had been long, grueling, and complicated, and you always felt guilty when you weren’t by Rex and Anakin’s side to help with something so important.
“Ah,” Echo made a soft noise, picking at some scoring marks on his socket arm. You bit your lip at the awkwardness that permeated the room, the conversation stagnating at Echo dwelled on… something.
“I used to be a part of the 501st,” he finally admitted, glancing up at you. His eyes said more than his lips – there was sadness, there. It was hidden behind his soldier’s veneer of indifference, but you could tell by the way he looked at you that his transfer to Bad Batch hadn’t been as straightforward as your own.
“Yeah?” you asked, sitting down in the co-pilot’s chair next to him. He nodded, sighing, relaxing into the chair before shooting you a glance.
“Yeah. Made ARC trooper at one point. Me and Fives – me and Fives.”
His eyes had gleamed the first time he said it – but as he repeated Fives, his face fell, and your own did as well, your first clenching.
“Oh,” you breathed, and he glanced at you, ducking down to try to make out your expression.
“You knew him?”
“He talked about you – I had – I’m stupid,” you laughed, trying not to think about Fives. You hadn’t known him or Tup long before the incident, but Fives had showed you the ropes, along with Rex. You got along with him easily – he had been funny, and kind, and if he tried to flirt with you a few times you just put it up to you being the only woman available.
You remembered him talking briefly about Echo – he had only mentioned Echo once, with gritted teeth and a set jaw, mumbling something about a previous mission, and how he and a fellow ARC trooper had handled the situation. You could tell that it pained him to mention his comrade – that this Echo had likely died – and you didn’t press the subject. You knew, even then, that Fives didn’t deal well with loss. Ironic, then, how he was the one to cause so die, to cause the grief himself.
“I worked with him, before…” you gestured vaguely, and Echo nodded, not wanting you to mention Fives’s death himself.
“He thought I died at the Citadel. Everyone did,” Echo sighed, staring out at the hyperspace lane. “Maybe I did.”
You stared at him. In the force, his emotions were a tangled mess – grief, both for Fives and himself. Pain – not only physical, but emotional, spiritual. You couldn’t fathom what happened to him – you could look at this physical evidence of his cybernetic appendages, more similar to those of a droid than any prosthetics you had seen before. You could see the pallor in his face, the way his cheekbones jut from his face, how he had squinted far too severely in the light of the Coruscanti sun. He had been through something that you couldn’t fathom, something you would never truly understand, even if he did wish to explain it to you.
But despite that, you could still feel him in the force. When he spoke of Fives – the way his signature sparked let you know that he didn’t just know Fives. You could tell they had worked together for years, that they had likely grown up together. The rest of the Batch – their signatures sang in harmony because they had grown up together, because they had known each other for many years. And you initially hadn’t caught onto Echo’s dissonance – the way that he was trying to fit in with them, but how he didn’t fit in quite as easily as the other men. And now you knew why. It was because, while he had changed, he still held onto those bonds. Rex, Fives, the rest of the 501st – even though whatever Echo had endured, those were still his brothers.
“Not completely,” you mumbled, looking down. You could feel Echo’s eyes on you, so you sighed and continued. “You – you still care about them. Those men. They may not be your men anymore – and I guess they aren’t mine, either – but you care for them. That has to count for something.”
When you looked up, Echo caught your eye. His expression was unreadable, and his signature betrayed nothing. He was hard to read already – the cybernetics clouded your judgement – but you could tell that he didn’t exactly know what he thought of your statement.
“Yeah. Maybe it does,” Echo mumbled to himself, staring out across hyperspace, as stars flew by, exploding behind his eyes as he contemplated his place among them.
After that, the silence wasn’t quite so awkward. It was comforting, almost. You knew that it wasn’t the same – that although you and Echo were both former members of the 501st, that the circumstances were wildly different. But you still felt a kinship with him. Because he still knew Anakin, and Rex, and Fives, and Jesse, and Kix, and all the others. Because he probably played the same drinking games you had with the men, he had fought beside them as you did, and he had watched them die, as you had. You knew he wasn’t ready to talk, and perhaps he never would be. But if he ever was, you would be ready to listen.
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nyctolovian · 2 years
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Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mikotoba Yuujin/Sherlock Holmes | Herlock Sholmes, Mikotoba Yuujin & Sherlock Holmes | Herlock Sholmes, why isn't there a platonic tag for them.... Additional Tags: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Canon, Regret, Guilt, Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Summary: Y'know, just dudes accidentally being dads.
Yuujin apparently didn't have to worry about knocking the door at 1am because he didn’t even have to wait for more than 2 seconds before the door swung open to an already chattering man. Sholmes had a frown on his face as he talked animatedly, "... checked with me! It is incredibly late. There had better be a proper reason why you would require me to open the door for you at this time. What would you do had I been asleep? You most definitely have your key with you so I don't see why you couldn't just…" He trailed off as his eyes travelled downwards to the bundle in Yuujin's arms.
 A small pudgy hand stuck out from the folds of the towels. Sholmes' gaze travelled quickly from Yuujin's arms, to his face, to the large medical bag on the floor and to his hands before sighing. "Hm… I see." Wasting no time at all, he stepped aside for the exhausted Japanese man and closed the door without a single fuss.
 Yuujin supposed that was the good thing about Sholmes, you didn't need to explain too much to him. And Yuujin couldn't be more grateful for this trait of his tonight; he was in no mood for explaining anything.
 Cradling the infant, he sat down on his bed, which creaked under his weight. The baby made a noise as she gazed up at him with wide eyes. For a second, the blue in her eyes shifted to a familiar brown he hadn’t seen in ages, and Yuujin felt a pang in his chest. He tore his eyes away from the child and said, "I- Well, I believe it's, um, her meal time. Herlock, could you make something for her?"
 Sholmes followed Yuujin's gaze to the large bag he came in with. "Where did you get it from?"
 "The… The mother had it prepared at her home. And I simply… took it."
 Sholmes froze mid-bend to look at Yuujin quizzically. "But that would mean…" He caught himself and shook his head.
 Yuujin didn't know what conclusion Sholmes had drawn from that but knowing him, it was probably scarily close to the truth.
 “It pains me to admit, my friend,” Sholmes said, holding up the bottle and the bag of baby food, “but it seems even my brilliance may have its limits when it comes to the art of making infant food without instruction.”
 “Ah,” Yuujin said as he gently placed the child on the bed. “Right. Of course.” After making sure she was nicely settled, he got up with a sigh. God, how much of an old man he was behaving right now, especially when there was an eighteen-year-old around him daily as a direct comparison. He gestured for Sholmes to join him as he prepared the food, describing the process as they went along.
 As he shook the bottle, Sholmes asked, “You are teaching me all this because you intend to leave her in my care, don’t you?”
 Yuujin flinched. “I… Well…”
 To be asked so directly… but that always was the way with Sholmes, was it not?
 After taking in a deep breath, Yuujin admitted, “Truthfully, yes. I presume that Jigoku and I might be deported soon and I can’t take this child with me… I am supposed to only care for her temporarily but…” Yuujin had no idea what Genshin had meant. What on earth did he mean when he said, ‘if something should happen to me’? None of it made sense… God, his head hurt.
 He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to focus. “Hopefully, it will not come to it but I have to prepare for the worst. I can’t put this child’s future on vague hopes.”
 Sholmes looked back at the infant lying on the mattress and Yuujin recognised the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. His heart squeezed with guilt.
 “I’m sorry. This is a lot to ask of you. You’re the first person I thought of but I know I… I am being incredibly selfish." He shook his head. "Please do forget it, Sholmes. I shall look for alternatives. You needn't worry yourself with this."
 Before Yuujin could say another word, however, the child on the bed began to wail. He snapped into action, rushing to the child. Gently, he cradled her again and rocked her. “Are you hungry? Don’t worry. We have food,” he cooed. He gestured for the bottle and Sholmes handed it to him.
 Carefully, he cocked the bottle to the infant and pressed the nipple to her lips. The crying slowed quickly and the child began to suck at the nipple. She was suckling with such ferocity that Yuujin couldn’t help but laugh at the adorable little face she was making. This baby girl was going to grow up strong, he could already tell.
 He thought of the baby—ah, no… she must be 6 years old by now; no longer the baby he had left in Japan… Thinking about it made him so very tired and guilty. That made it a total of two children.
 Two children whose mothers he could only watch lose their lives to childbirth, unable to do anything as he cried for hours after. Two children who would grow up without fathers because one was killed by the Professor, and the other spent every day on the brink of complete and utter resignation before he was whisked away to a foreign land. Two children he was leaving in the care of others again, because he was incapable. Two children who were supposed to be his responsibility, placed under his care, yet he had abandoned—was going to abandon—them.
 What a useless man he was. He failed at being a caretaker of these children. He was meant to be a father but now it felt like a title he didn't deserve—
 “Can I try?” Sholmes broke Yuujin's train of thought, voice quieter than usual.
 “Ah, of course.” Yuujin shuffled closer to Sholmes, who took the bottle. The infant’s eyes widened and her lips trembled as the nipple slipped out of her mouth for a second. But Sholmes returned the bottle to the infant, who resumed her suckling with what seemed almost like increased fervour.
 “Do not worry,” Sholmes said. “I’m not taking it away from you. You need not react with such sadness and worry!”
 “She’s just an infant,” Yuujin chided lightly. “She wouldn’t know otherwise.”
 “That's right…” Sholmes said. “Your experience of the world is not even 24 hours! There is very much for you to learn, isn't there?”
 Yuujin nodded, but his chest was welling up with worry. Not even 24 hours in the world and, already, her life was looking so… bleak. What on earth was Genshin even going to do?
 No, Yuujin would wait. Genshin looked like he had a plan. Surely, he was needlessly worrying.
 But the next day, Yuujin heard nothing about Genshin other than the news that he had been executed. So he waited for whatever arrangements Genshin might have gotten to pull through. But days stretched to weeks before, as Yuujin had predicted, the exchange was called off officially and all Japanese students were to be deported. And Yuujin was certain that there was no more hope left.
 "It's a bit sad that you still haven't got a name, isn't it?" Sholmes said, lifting the baby up. "After all this while."
 The baby let out a joyful noise.
 "Actually… I've been calling her little Iris for a while. I-In my head," Yuujin admitted. It hadn't felt right for the baby to be completely nameless. But it hadn't felt right to actually name her either.
 "Little Iris?"
 "Yes, Iris. Um… named after my… wife, Ayame. But in English," Yuujin said sheepishly. It felt silly now, but two weeks ago, as he held the child and whispered to her gently, he wondered if giving the baby the name of his dead wife might mean she'd be watching over her too. Perhaps she'd protect the child from any more tragedy and harm. Like some sort of protection charm.
 Yuujin hoped it wasn’t too selfish, asking his wife to watch over two children like this.
 "Iris…" Sholmes repeated. He turned to the child with a smile. "Your Papa has given you a good name, hasn't he?"
 Yuujin felt his ears grow hot.
 "I'm not her Papa, Sholmes," Yuujin said in a mix of exasperation and fondness, shaking his head. "I thought that much was obvious."
 “You worry so much over her, you’re practically her Papa. Don’t pretend like you don’t peer into her cot almost every hour just to smile at her,” Sholmes said.
 Yuujin sputtered in mortification, but he had no leg to stand on in this argument.
 "Besides, as far as I'm concerned, we're Iris' fathers now," he said. "I'll be taking care of her from now on after all."
 Jaw dropping, Yuujin stuttered, "You'll be… what? No, there's no need to do that. I'll search for someone else before I leave. You don't need to do this."
 "It's quite alright, my friend!" Sholmes said. "I, the great detective, am clearly a natural at many things including taking care of infants. You can leave Iris in my very attentive and gentle care!"
 "But that is simply too much to ask of you.” Yuujin’s heart felt heavy, dripping with guilt and distress. “I’ll try—"
 "Nonsense!" Sholmes huffed. "Nothing is too much to ask of me. While I was frankly quite worried at first, time has proven that I have quite a knack for taking care of children. It will be fine."
 "No, it's not right to burden you with this. I shall look for alternatives—"
 "Surely, you won't be so cruel as to separate us!" Sholmes interrupted. "We get on so well after all. Like a house on fire, wouldn't you agree?" He lifted Iris to eye-level, and she gurgled excitedly.
 Yuujin pursed his lips. He sure hoped this was just one of those strange English turn of phrases, rather than something literal. He had been the unfortunate witness to how "on fire" Sholmes could turn a house before.
 Noticing the worry still etched upon Yuujin's face, Sholmes said in a more sombre tone, "Truthfully, that night, I was honoured to be the first person you've consulted about this. It spoke volumes of the faith you have in me. And now, I truly do wish to care for Iris… A part of me also thinks that it would be rather nice if… when you come back, you could come home to me and Iris both. And I know how much you’d worry about her back in Japan." He smiled softly at Yuujin. "What do you say, my dear partner?"
 “I…” Yuujin gazed at Iris, his eyes burning with the threat of tears again. “Thank you so much, Sholmes."
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dark-mnjiro · 3 years
Text
the monster [who tells lies]
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Rating: Teen or up - nothing too serious
Warnings: betrayal, ending friendship, attempted/faked s*icide, angst, hurt, lies, heavily a venting fic, bakugou x f!reader friendship/established relationship, midoriya x f!reader friendship/established relationship (heavily friendship)
Author’s Note: this is heavily based on L’s famous monster speech in Death Note and a venting fic regarding a person in my life that did nothing more than hurt and use me. I apologize if this one shot is terrible and horribly RUSHED. I was on a roll and I needed to get these feeling out.
——
the monster [who tells lies]
Whipping around the turn up the stairwell, you could hear a siren alarming overhead. You quickly wiped the sweat from your brow as you looked behind you to find your fellow classmates quickly following you, Bakugou leading the pose. Exhaustion was starting to set in as you tried to catch your breath before he stepped closer, grabbing your wrist.
“Hey,” he said, his voice going stern. “Slow down. We’re all behind you. We’re going to catch them this time.”
Nodding, you turned as you continued to make your way up the staircase with him matching your pace. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself at the sheer loyalty your friend had entrusted you with…
“You’re sure the traitor went that way?” Midoriya called out from the group. “I don’t see any signs of-”
“If y/n said the traitor went this way,” Bakugou snapped at his classmate. “I believe it!”
A giggle bubbled from your throat as you thanked Bakugou for his faith in you as you managed to finally reach the top floor of the school. You glanced at your best friend before earning a smirk from him as he forced the door to the roof open. You both raised your arms, shielding your eyes from the bright sunlight glaring from overhead.
As the group’s eyes adjusted to the sudden change in lighting, you looked out into the roof before taking a step outside. The corners of your lips dropped into a frown as you could hear Bakugou growl in frustration. You walked toward the railing, gripping the metal tightly within your hands as you made sure to keep your back toward your friends to avoid the look of disappointment in their eyes.
“I’m confused?” Midoriya asked, following as his head darted around. “Where’s the traitor! Kaachan! Did they escape?!”
“Deku! I can’t tell!” he snapped. “Idiot!”
“I don’t see anyone nearby!” called out Uraraka, who floated high above the group, using her gravity quirk.
“Are you sure you saw them, y/n?” Midoriya asked again, frowning. “I’m sure they were moving too quickly—”
You closed your eyes as a smirk curled over your lips as your head fell forward. A small laugh erupted from your throat before you turned toward your 1-A classmates. “Can I let you in on a little secret?” you asked, playfully.
Frowning, Bakugou took a step toward you as his eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong? Hey-! What are you doing?!”
“There are so many different types of people in the world,” you said, beginning to walk toward him as your smirk grew wider. “So many monsters in his world. So many evils…”
“Y/N,” Midoriya whispered, frowning more. “Hey calm down. What’s wrong? Maybe we can help you.”
“We should head out of here before the other Pro-heroes arrive,” Denki said, trying to ease the situation.
“Yeah let’s—”
“Y/N!” Bakugou shouted, rushing toward you as you began climbing the metal railing. He faltered as he watched you balance your body on it. “Get the hell down from there! You could fall!”
Tilting your head, you flashed him another playful smile. “Oh Bakugou,” you cooed. “Have you learned nothing?”
“I said get down! This joke isn’t funny anymore!”
“Yes please! Get down! This is dangerous!” Midoriya shouted, standing next to Bakugou now as they both attempted to plead for your safety.
Another giggle erupted from you as you looked out onto the city. “Monsters can’t be trusted,” you said simply before glancing back at the two students. “They always tell lies.”
“W-what are you talking about?”
“God dammit! Get down from there before I drag your ass back down the stairs!” Bakugou shouted at you.
You tutted him before wagging your finger. “Now now Bakugou,” you teased. “Temper, temper.”
“Kaachan,” Midoriya said, softly as he reached out and grabbed his friend’s shoulder. “I think—”
Bakugou’s red eyes flashed dangerously as he jerked violently away from Midoriya before turning his attention. “That can’t be true!” he shouted, angrily. “You would never do that to us! To me!”
All you could do was smile. “How clever, little Midoriya…” you said, applauding his observation. “I’m impressed.”
He frowned, trying to restrain Bakugou from rushing you. “Just tell us why,” he said, wincing at Bakugou’ aslee of swears and shouts. “Why did you betray us?”
“Why?” you repeated, as you began to stroll on the metal railing, holding your arms out playfully balancing yourself. “I’m not sure I even know why…”
“But we were your friends!”
“What are friends other than simple tools to use,” you continued. “I told you, little Midoriya. I’m nothing more than a monster. A monster that tells lies.”
“Shut up!” Bakugou nearly screamed. “What about-?”
“You were just a means to an end Katsuki…” you teased, giggling at the pain that flashes in his crimson eyes. “What sweet lies I fed you too… and you believed… every. single. word.”
“Shut up!” he repeated in a pain stricken voice. “Shut up!”
“It’ll be over soon Katuski,” you cooed. “And you’ll never hear from me again… and this time, you can trust me.”
“What-?!”
“Oh god-NO!” Midoriya shouted as he and Bakugou raced toward you as you smiled at the two friends before taking a step back and off of the railing. You watched as they leaned over the railing calling outside your name.
Your eyes slowly slid shut as you relaxed into your free fall, welcoming your upcoming death with welcome arms. There was nowhere to go after admitting you were, in fact, the traitor who had informed the League of Villains just where the UA students were training. A vengeful child, just trying to find some ounce of justice for your parents who lived in constant poverty until their death thanks to the corruption of the Heroes Commission.
Memories flashed through your mind, replaying like a small, silent movie. If you weren’t a top hero… you were nothing. And quite frankly, you were sick of it. Watching your parents work themselves to death for what? Nothing, but their own death certificates handed to you after sacrificing themselves for a city that never cared for them.
“It’s finally over,” you whispered to yourself.
But the bottom never came, until you felt your body almost slow as you slipped through a familiar, purple portal before your back slammed against the hardwood of a bar. The air in your lungs was forced out of your chest as you gasped for air. Your eyes snapped open before sitting up, groaning in pain.
“Oops…” you heard a voice say from behind the bar as you groaned again. “I didn’t slow you down enough. I apologize.”
Your eyes narrowed at Kurogiri. “Took you long enough to even show up!” you snapped at him.
“I had to make sure they really believed you’re splattered all over the street. If I had made a portal too early, they would’ve caught on,” he explained as he continued to shine a glass.
Shaking your head, you forced yourself to your feet. “I could’ve managed my way out of that anyway. They would’ve believed anything I’d tell them with my quirk.”
Kurogiri chuckled. “That Sweet Talk quirk of yours is something to be impressed with,” he said.
Grinning, you dusted yourself off. “I’m quite proud of it.”
“And you should be,” he said, before patting you on the head lightly. “Now get yourself cleaned up. The others will be here soon. We must go over the next phase of our plans.”
“Perfect.”
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clonemando · 3 years
Text
Late Night
Boba is trying to sleep but Din’s armor clanging as he walks is keeping him awake. (Din and Boba brother fic, no pairings, just brotherly bonding.)
Boba sighed as he heard the sound of metal clanking throughout his ship and he glared at the ceiling. Din had been pacing for the last 4 hours and if he made even one more lap past Boba’s bunk the older bounty hunter wasn’t going to be in control of his actions. The gentle clinking got further away and Boba closed his eyes starting to drift to sleep finally. His breathing slowed and he calmed almost to the brink then *clink clink clink* 
“Dank farrik! Djarin! I’m going to strangle you!” He growled throwing himself out of bed and walking out in only his sleep pants to glare at the Mandalorian who had frozen in place.
“Boba? What’s wrong?” He asked and his voice was so innocent Boba had to rub his face to keep from sneering at him. That was just how Din was, he wasn’t faking it to try to mess with him.
“You are. Why are you pacing up and down the Slave like we’re going to be in battle any minute? We’re in hyperspace. We’re safe. Go to kriffing bed Din.” He said sharply while crossing his arms over his chest. 
“My pacing has been bothering you? You slept right through that dog fight Fennec fought a few days ago.” Din pointed out and Boba scowled. 
“This ship was my father’s. I grew up on it. I know every sound it can make and exactly why it would make those sounds. I knew she had it handled. Your armor isn’t a sound that’s soothing to me.” He said lowly. Which was… partially true. During the day the sound was soothing and reminded him of the safety of when he would hear similar sounds of his father’s armor as he moved around the ship working on things. The difference was that it was the middle of the night and it was too clearly pacing for it to let Boba sleep. It made him tense like he should be expecting something. Jango had never been one to pace unless things were very bad.
“I’m sorry. I just… miss him.” Din murmured the pain in his voice making Boba want to punch something. Damn it. One year in the pit. It had been one year and now he was so easily softened by puppy dog eyes he couldn’t even see. 
“Yeah, well… come on.” He grumbled leading Din through the ship trying not to let the following clinking spark his annoyance further. He sat him in a chair in front of a tiny kitchenette and started to prep some tea, choosing one of the spicier flavors knowing Din could handle it. 
“You say the word, we’ll go grab the kid and run. The Jedi won’t even bother coming after us.” He offered as he waited for the water to heat. “I still don’t understand how you could just let that-” He let all the terrible words roll through his mind but didn’t say them. “Jedi just walk away with him. After all the work we did to get him.” He added. Din’s head tilted. 
“You really don’t like them, do you? The Jedi?” He asked and Boba sighed reminding himself that Din was clueless and had been purposely left out of proper history lessons by the Death Watch so they had more control over him. Not that his personal life was something taught at schools but most people he met already knew his issues with the Jedi. He didn’t have to explain it.
“No, I don’t. They have been a plague to my family for at least three generations and only in the worst ways. I’ve never met one worth knowing and would prefer if I never have to meet another one as long as I live.” He admitted glaring at the cups as he poured the hot water into them and set them aside to let them seep.
“Oh… I was told they were enemy wizards, but the kid needs them. He needs to learn to control himself. The Empire, they won’t stop looking for him. I can’t always be there to fight for him. He needs to learn and I don’t know about all that-” Din waved his hand in the air “Jedi stuff. I can’t teach him.” He finished though he looked even more troubled after what Boba told him. 
“The kid will be fine. They won’t hurt him. The Jedi are good to their own… usually. Look, my relationship with the Jedi doesn’t have anything to do with him and if they did have a single thought of doing anything we’d go in and get him out.” He swore causing Din to stare at him long enough it started to make him uncomfortable.
“What?” He demanded moving one cup to the table in front of Din and sitting down with his own looking away so the other Mandalorian could drink without worry of him seeing his face, however he could still feel Din’s gaze on him.
“Why are you helping me?” He asked and Boba sighed. 
“I told you it’s beca-” He started but Din cut him off. 
“Why are you helping me? You took the armor, I didn’t give it to you. The kid has been rescued and given to the Jedi. You owe me nothing.” He said seriously and Boba took a long sip of tea relishing the warmth and spice as well as the time to pull his thoughts and words together. 
“When a Mandalorian dies, if they were true to the creed, they believe they become one with the Manda, yes?” He asked instead and Din nodded, curious to where this would go. 
“That’s right. We earn our souls through our actions in life and join with our forbearers in the Manda after death.” He confirmed and Boba nodded. 
“I died in the pit. I’m certain of it. I saw my father and grandfather. They were not proud of what I had become. I could have taken the armor back sooner. I knew where Vanth was and that he had it. But then I would have been leaving that village and all who were in it to die. When I die again, I want it to be as someone they will be proud of. But my moral compass is damaged, I know that. I need a spotter. That’s you. You seem to do the right thing by accident most of the time. So long as I keep you around, I’m pretty sure I’ll manage. So… here we are.” He said looking over when Din was silent for several minutes before returning to stare at this empty cup. 
“You’re using me as a replacement moral compass because you think I’m… good? I’ve killed people!” Din argued and Boba nodded. 
“Din’ika, you are a cinnamon roll compared to the life I’ve lived. Look me up on the holonet sometime. Just promise not to go running for the hills after. I’d hate to have to hunt down my new compass.” Boba said more playfully and Din sorted. 
“I’ve heard enough of the stories. Fine. So then you and Fennec want to be part of my clan then?” Din asked and Boba gave him a toothy grin. 
“Aww, Din’ika are you asking me to be your Riduur?” He asked batting his eyelashes at him only to get punched in the shoulder making him start to laugh. “I’m too pretty for you anyway.” He added at what he could guess was a horrified face behind Din’s bucket. 
“NO! No. I am not interested… that would just be… No. I see you more like a brother.” He said the last part coming out almost shyly and Boba rolled his eyes. 
“You need me to say it, don’t you? You’re really tight to this creed. Fine. Ni kar'tayl gai sa’vod. I accept you as my brother Din. Better?” He asked and Din nodded removing his helmet and giving Boba a small smile. Boba had to admit, the face fit his personality even if it wasn’t what he expected.
“Welcome to Clan Mudhorn.” He said offering his arm and Boba took it squeezing his hand. 
“You’re a sap Djarin. Don’t think you’ll get me to cuddle away your nightmares now or anything.” He said and Din’s grin widened. 
“Aww ori’vod, are you offering to cuddle me to sleep? How sweet.” He teased and Boba glared. 
“You won’t be the first brother I’ve thrown out the airlock. Don’t test me.” He said standing as Din gulped down the tea. “And take those damn boots off so I can sleep.” He growled ruffling Din’s hair as he walked by feeling comforted in a way he’d never admit by the laughed that followed him down the hall as he headed back towards his bunk.
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imagine-that · 3 years
Text
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Torn
Warnings: mentions of injury/abuse (Umbridge)
Pairing: Draco Malfoy x reader
AN: sorry I’ve been missing for a while!! First few weeks at a job, it gets kinda hectic lol. But I’ll try to write more as often as I can!!!
You walk nervously down the hall towards the office of the woman you loathed so much. Much to your dismay, you had to spend the evening in her vomit inducing office, writing lines.
Of course you weren’t stupid. You’d heard all about what writing lines actually entailed with the wench. You just never thought you’d be one of the students being forced to do them.
Though they didn’t particularly like your relationship, the Weasley twins had found out about your upcoming detention and they’d apparated to your side, scaring you half to death while they were at it.
“You two are relentless. She’ll catch you doing that someday you know!” You scold, giving them a stern and concerned look.
“And what? Make us write more lines? It barely hurts anymore for us.” They argue.
You suck in a breath at the mention of pain.
“You’ll be fine y/n. It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as people say it does. And when it’s done, the pain mulls over quickly.” One of them assures you. You nod absentmindedly, knowing you’ve probably gone completely pale in the face.
You’d never thought you would have to do this horrid punishment. Sure you misbehaved sometimes and used magic when you knew Umbridge would yell but that wasn’t even the reason you were there to begin with.
The night before, filch had found you and your boyfriend Draco sneaking off, snogging each other. Of course being the kissup he was, Filch ran directly to Umbridge, shouting “students out of bed.” On repeat as he went. She came with that sickly sweet smile and, basically completely ignoring Draco’s presence, she’d given you detention for tonight.
“This form of punishment is completely barbaric. I’ve heard several professors say so as well.” You mutter, a frown etched on your face.
“We know.” The twins chorused.
You laugh faintly, their talking in unison all the time cheering you up a bit. Finally you hear the disgustingly familiar ahem and turn to her office door to see her gesturing you in.
The twins squeeze your hands and tell you it’ll be ok as you get to your feet, slowly making your way into her office.
“Sit.” She orders as she walks around her desk.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes and take a seat, biting your tongue to keep back any nasty comments you have.
“You will be writing lines for me today.” She hums, the smile you’d like to slap off of her perfectly in place.
“And what will I be writing today professor?” You ask with a raised eyebrow.
“I would like you to write I will act like a lady. Just enough times for it to sink in.” She instructs, giggling to herself.
You scoff, looking to her with anger and frustration. “Professor, that seems a tad bit sexist, does it not?” You ask.
“I did not give you permission to speak miss y/l/n. Now please do your punishment. It’s good for you to learn.” She says.
You sigh, picking up her stupid special quill and beginning to write, wincing as the words etch into your hand. At first it isn’t so bad, only breaking through the surface. But as you continue to write over the course of the next hour, you resist the urge to cry out in pain.
Every nerve in your hand is begging you to stop, the burning irritation making tears start in your eyes but you quickly hold them in, refusing to let this foul woman see that she’s gotten to you.
Finally, she tells you to stop, letting you put down the quill as your hand throbs, the surface of the scar a vibrant red.
“That should be enough for today. I do hope I don’t have to see you in here again miss y/l/n.” She warns.
“Yes Professor, lets hope.” You mutter, walking through the door and giving a sad smile to one of the nervous looking third years sitting outside her office and waiting to be summoned.
“Don’t be afraid. It’s over before you know it.” You promise him in a whisper, walking away before Umbridge has the chance to try and discipline you again.
You see Draco leaning against a wall, watching you but you ignore him, quickly brushing past and walking in the direction of your common room.
“Y/n!” He calls after you, running to catch up with you.
You continue to ignore him, getting onto one of the staircases as it starts moving.
“Darling what’s wrong?” He calls, finally catching up to you as he runs up the staircase.
You scoff at him, tears in your eyes. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong you ask!? Of course, you wouldn’t know. Why don’t you just go back to the inquisitorial squad, I’m sure they need you to help catch people breaking the rules.” You say through your tears, staying facing away from him.
“Y/n, what’re you so upset about?” He asks, reaching out to hold your hand. You yank it away, instead holding it up for him to see the scarring.
“Blimey, what is that?” He asks, grabbing your hand to examine it.
“That is what you and your bloody gang are sentencing people to.” You growl.
“Y/n- I had no idea.” He says softly. “But those people are breaking school rules! They must be punished.” He adds.
You stare at him with wide, hurt eyes. “Do you even hear yourself anymore?! The Draco I know and love would never put anyone through this.” You say, your bottom lip trembling at this point.
When he doesn’t speak, you decide you should. “Was I breaking some kind of rule for kissing my bloody boyfriend? Did I deserve for this to happen then?” You ask, looking over at him pleadingly.
“No, of course not love. You could never deserve anything like this!” He exclaims, holding your hand carefully in his.
“Then neither does everyone else.” You sigh, tugging your hand away and walking up the stairs, going to your common room and straight to bed.
——————————————————————
The next morning, you wake up with a sigh, glaring down at the words on your hand until you will yourself to get up.
Your roommates had already gone down for breakfast but you, having had a lousy evening the day before, had opted to stay in bed for a little longer and eat quickly.
You’d felt torn and distressed all evening. You loved draco with all your heart but the idea of him condoning such actions as those of professor Umbridge felt like a betrayal to you. You didn’t know what you could do, thus the stress resulted in a rather fitful sleep
Once you got dressed, you finally made your way to the dining room and ate a rather small meal, your appetite having disappeared.
“Y/n, wait up!” One of the Weasley twins shouts, trailing after you down the hall.
“Hey George, what do you need?” You ask, recognizing him as he approaches.
“I was meaning to give this to you. It’ll help with the scarring.” He explains, putting a small purple container in your hand.
“Wow, thanks. Where’d you get it?” You ask, worrying about if you ever had to do the lines again.
“Fred and I came up with it. Mostly me of course, I am the brains of the operation.” He says and a smug smile, making you laugh.
“Of course. Well it’s brilliant, thank you.” You reply with a smile of your own. He nods, quickly walking back to his brother to cause more mischief no doubt.
“So, I piss you off once and now you’re off snogging Weaselbee?” A voice says from behind, startling you enough to turn around.
“Draco, I was not snogging him, don’t be so daft and jealous.” You groan, giving him a knowing look.
“Sure looked like it to me.” He mutters with a shrug.
You sigh, looking back over at him. “It’s you I love you ninny. Even if you’re being a complete arse.” You promise, a frown still on your face.
He avoids your gaze, looking guilty. “I’m sorry about what I said last night. I didn’t mean it, honestly!” He apologizes, looking at you sadly.
“Draco, I can’t be with someone who would defend something like that.” You start, your heart aching at the idea of breaking up with him.
“I know you can’t.” He interrupts. You look over at him in shock, thinking this was what he wanted.
“That’s why I marched into Umbridge’s office this morning and quit the inquisitorial squad.” He adds, making you somewhat surprised. You never thought he’d quit something that his father put him up to like that. It was intriguing.
“Sure you did.” You mutter sarcastically, not fully believing him.
“I did. Do you see the badge anywhere here?” He asks, spinning in a slow circle to show you. Sure enough, the badge is no where to be found on him.
You blink, unsure what to say.
“Y/n?” He says a moment later, a gentle hand on your arm and his face etched with concern.
“I’m just- what about your parents?” You ask worriedly. He gives you a soft smile, pulling you into his chest.
“I will deal with their wrath, don’t fret baby.” He says, placing a kiss on your head.
“I promise I’ll be there with you every second of the conversation-.” You start promising, but his bitter chuckling stops you.
“You shouldn’t be there for that y/n. Merlin only knows what would happen.” He sighs.
“Which is exactly why I should be there Draco.” You groan, pouting your lips up at him. He shakes his head, sighing a bit more.
“Who cares what they think anyway? It’s our choice not theirs.” He complains and you nod firmly in agreement.
You wrap your arms around his torso, squeezing him for dear life.
“You’re too good to me.” You murmur into his chest.
He takes a second to hug back, his shock at the sudden show of affection evident in the way his body tenses up.
As he relaxes into your touch, a faint smile comes to his lips. “And you’re too good for me darling.” He whispers, his face one of sadness and regret.
The two of you stand like that, in each other’s embrace, for what feels like an eternity, caring far too much for each other to ever truly let go.
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Text
We would name our children Jackie and Wilson
Relationship: Loki/Female Reader (Hozier did the gender first, don't @ me)
Warnings: Major Character Death, Mourning, mental health, alcohol.
Summary: Your relationship reminds you of a nice soft song. But things are not always so sweet.
Notes: this is part of a somewhat Collab with @lucywrites02, her part is done and can be found here, read it to soften the pain. I would say that I'm terribly sorry for the pain ahead, but I'm not. Meaning of the song can be found here, I used it for reference
Read On AO3
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So tired trying to see from behind the red in my eyes
Loki fights for a deep breath.
It's just your face, you idiot. What are you afraid of? This mean voice from the back of his head asks.
They manage to draw a shaky inhale and puff it out, finally opening his eyes and staring at the reflection.
But those hateful crimson eyes staring back is too much, even though they look at them behind tears.
"Maybe another day…" he sighs and wears the illusion again. But the bloodshot eyes stay, this time not because of the Jötunn form.
No better version of me I could pretend to be tonight
For how long will you hide from the monster you are? This same voice asks in the dead of the night.
Once again, it's not mistaken.
"I can't walk amongst mortals like this. This illusion helps me avoid some of the staring," they respond. It's a beautiful lie, Loki almost believes it.
Still, it will break down. Like everything does.
This argument stays and torments him for the rest of the night.
Soul deep in this swill with the most familiar of swine / For reasons wretched and divine
Stark had suggested another night out on a bar. Loki usually declines, but comes to this one.
Soon enough, everyone is drunk and happy. Alcohol from Midgard is like a beverage for Æsir, and Loki can barely get tipsy. But Loki still decides to drink.
This period had some very successful missions, and the avengers are celebrating it by drinking. Little do they know that Loki drinks for a whole more different reasons…
She blows out of nowhere, a roman candle of the wild
It's late. Loki's surely past the tipsy phase, but still has control. So, they just sit on a bar and watch the others have fun.
"Would you mind some company?" you yell from a part of the crowd. Loki tries not to flinch, loud sounds do no good at him.
Then they see you, all smiling and beaming like a firework, drink in hand as you walk closer and point at a stool beside him.
They have to admit, you look ravishing.
"You're free to sit, if you want to," he smiles back and nods at the seat. You grin and slide there, placing your drink in the bar and having your attention to them.
"Are you not afraid someone might drug the drink?" Loki winders, eyes on the cocktail.
"Sitting beside an Avenger is safe enough, don't you think? And it's rubbish anyways, I probably won't finish it,"
Midgard has different communication patterns, and Loki's inability to catch up in time has made their silver tongue rusty and useless. But you make a conversation with him out of nowhere, like it's the most easy thing.
Laughing her way through my feeble disguise/ And Lord, she found me just in time
A few days later after the night out, the sparks of happiness you casted on Loki's heart have died out. But Thor insists that being out of the four walls of their chambers will do good to him, and Loki gives in. They wear an illusion to hide the mess that he is in and join Thor on their afternoon walk around for some food, mostly.
During the hours long conversation, you didn't mention that you work for Stark, in the Tower. They smile and call your name the sparks igniting inside his heart once again. It gets stronger when you give them this glowing smile and walk closer.
"Brother, will you mind if I get stolen for a moment?" he turns to Thor.
"Have fun, brother," he smiles before greeting you and leaving.
"You know, there's a nice coffee shop with a big tea collection, what do you think?" you beam, knowing it's an offer Loki cannot resist.
It's not far away, and truly a sweet little place, crammed between the offices. You order your drinks and settle on a table nearby. You give Loki the chair with the view on the passers by, sitting so you can only see them and the wall behind him.
"You didn't say you work for Stark," they hum, taking a testing sip of the dandelion tea that caught his attention.
"That's cause I work for the Avengers, technically, not Stark. Mission support agent, Romanov brought me here," you shrug one shoulder. Loki can't hide a smile, they always had a soft spot for humble warriors, for they're so rare on Asgard.
"Odd, I don't remember you in any field," he mutters.
"I haven't gone on a mission with you. I find it insulting for a God to be supported by someone who learned how to tie their shoelaces at age 12," you laugh. Loki doesn't share the enthusiasm for the 'joke'.
"You'll be the best support, if you ask me," they smile, and change the subject. And then, you throw this damned question.
"So, how are you doing?" you trail off.
"Just fine," he scoffs. You see through it like they're the worst liar ever.
"I know we're somewhere public, but you are allowed to be honest," your eyes scan him.
He takes a deep breath and makes an illusion of you and them just talking. Then, he lifts his own.
Your face stays almost unreadable as the green glow reveals the mess of them. Expect for the eyes that speak of sympathy.
Underneath the table, you cup his right hand, your thumb petting it. "If you want to, we can go somewhere more private. Your call,"
"Only you can see this. Don't worry, I'm not making a fool out of you," they laugh without humour, voice almost breaking. You now squeeze the hand.
"You'll have to actively try to make a fool out of me, your highness. It's your boundaries I'm worried about," the playful tone leaves you as you speak.
You've barely done anything, but Loki is already determined to kill for you.
Cause with my mid-youth crisis all said and done / I need to be youthfully felt 'cause, God, I never felt young
"Forget it, I'm not doing it. It's stupid!" he tries hard not to yell at you.
"But it's going to be fun! Come on, you can cast an illusion if you're embarrassed. Didn't you have fun as a teen?" You grin, pleading for them to come.
Little do you know that the last question feels like a knife in the guts.
"No," he whispers.
"Okay then. I'll be there with Sam, you can pop up if you change your mind," you sigh. It takes some minutes for them to realise what you just said.
"Allow me to rephrase it. No, I didn't have fun as a teen, I had to prepare myself for the throne I wouldn't take. And… this park will do nothing but remind me what I've lost. I'm sorry but I can't come nor change my mind," he fights against tears as he talks, your eyes on them. You walk closer and cup one cheek, letting them rest their head.
"Society says that you must have certain experiences at certain time frames. It's wrong, especially for someone who will live for as long as you. There's always time to replace things you've lost, the question if if you'll do it or not,"
Loki gazes at you and takes a deep breath, in, holding it, and out. Almost like he's smoking the air.
"Fine. But don't force me to stay if it's too much," they smile weakly, but it's genuine.
"Have I ever forced you?" you grin and place your forehead against his. "And anything critical to your physical health doesn't count,"
They laugh before nodding a no, a small kiss being blown in your nose.
Lord, it'd be great to find a place we could escape sometime / Me and my Isis growing black irises in the sunshine
Out of all the things Loki expected his fallen heart to do, daydreaming was last on the list.
They're a realist, always have been.
But the image of him and you in a nice stone castle in the middle of the woods is too perfect to resist. How you two would wake up and sleep together, have no one and nothing to make you feel anything but bliss. The two Monarchs in your little kingdom of two residents
Norns, they haven't even talked to you about these feelings. And he's already scheming his retirement with you.
How are you doing this to them?
Every version of me dead and buried in the yard outside / We'd sit back and watch the world go by
"That's it, Laufeyson," he's glaring at the mirror, one finger pointing at the glass, "no more lies. Fuck those illusions and games and just say the damned words!"
They sigh and run their fingers through the hair, testing if the smell of smoke is still in there, after five sessions with the shower. He has noticed that you don't like the smell, when you keep some distance on his bad days. And stinking on a moment like this is the least they want.
"Alright… into the battlefield…" he conjures his weapon, a bouquet of black irises, your favourite flowers. They finally teleport themselves on the field, outside your door.
Goal of the mission: be vulnerable.
He rings the bell, fixing his already perfect posture before you open the door. This smile they know and love so much is on your lips.
"You didn't have to! Come in," you exhale, beaming as you make space for him to walk in.
They call your name, the tone making your smile drop. "I have to tell you something I've been hiding from you for a while…" he sighs.
You nod, the agent face on. A green shimmer makes the flowers rest in a vase on the coffee table, Loki's hands now free to pick on each other.
"I appreciate your friendship, more than you can ever imagine. You're the only person who has reached out to me like this for eons. But, my heart has started to yearn for more. I've fallen for you, hard. And I can't keep the illusion anymore," they recite, eyes scanning your unreadable face. You stay dead serious, making Loki's nerves eat him up.
"Took you long enough," you grin and bring them down to a kiss.
It's nice and warm and slow, one devouring the other while also offering the best you can. Then, a salty taste makes you break the contact and cup Loki's face.
"Love, why are you crying?" you whisper, wiping away the thin paths the tears have crossed. He hasn't even noticed he's been crying.
"You can't imagine how happy you make me… I love you," they whisper.
You barely have time to say anything before he pulls you into the tightest hug possible, tears streaming down to your shirt and those three words coming out of their lips again and again like a prayer.
Loki has no idea how many lifetimes he washed off within just one hug, but a weight they never noticed they carried was gone when you break the embrace and stare deep into his now puffy eyes.
"I love you too,"
She's gonna save me, call me baby / Run her hands through my hair
"I'm telling you, you have to be more careful in the missions. Yes, you are a God, but don't be so reckless," you groan as you rinse them with water and try to remove the blood and dirt from their hair.
Just the right amount of strikes, and he now can't lift his hands enough to wash his own hair. If you weren't so good at it, they would refuse to stoop so low.
"It was supposed to be abandoned. How would I know that it wasn't? I'm a God, not a prophet," he sighs, holding his sides. Even talking is making their scattered ribs pierce him… "And I did call you to save my arse, that's the exact opposite of recklessness,"
"If you say so. But what will I do if one day my baby comes home with something more than a wretched ribcage?" you laugh.
They try to answer but both the pain and the pleasure from your fingers on his hair, massaging his scalp with shampoo, are making his tongue a knot and his throat release one moan of pleasure after another.
She'll know me crazy, soothe me daily / Better yet, she wouldn't care
You walk through broken mirrors and scattered furniture, reached out to Loki, who's hiding their head between their knees.
You don't say anything, you just play with his hair. It's cold, much colder than usually. But you don't care.
"Leave, please. You'll get hurt," their voice is growly from the smoking but weak.
"Forget it. I'm not leaving you alone in this state," you declare matter–of–factly. A sound comes out of his throat, something between a chuckle and a cough.
They snap their head up, blue and scarred cheeks wet with tears and flaming red eyes with blue veins all over them drilling holes in you. "Do you dare say this in my true face? Declare that you care about a monster?" He spits, lips shaking as they try to hold back another crying fit.
You face stone, you grib his cheeks to stop them from breaking eye contact. "I am not leaving you alone like this, because I care about you and I love you. And, I don't give a fuck what others have made you think of yourself, you're anything but a monster," you keep your voice steady, trying to physically pin those words in his mind.
They sigh and lean against your hands, eyes closed and breaths slow as tears start rolling down his cheeks again. They turn to kiss your palm, now the rest of his body relaxing and hands bringing you close to a hug. "Thank you," they breathe out against you, the weakest of smiles forming slowly.
We'll steal a Lexus, be detectives / Ride 'round picking up clues
"Feet off or I'll chop them off and put them in the truck," you snap, eyes on the road as you try to find a place to park.
"Relax, it's not ours," Loki brushes off the threat. You sigh and park the car among some trees on the edge of the road, hoping no one will see it. He tries to mask it, like always, but you can see how the pain is making their features harsh.
"You can drop some spells, we're well hidden," you point out, watching as the pale skin starts melting and dark azure replaces it. Your skin crawls, you don't know if it's the cold or the awe. Loki breathes out, head resting back on the seat. "I didn't know the illusion is so painful," you think out loud.
"When running so low on rest, everything is painful. Now, where are those files…" they mutter and turn around, searching for the yellow case in the back seat. "Here. Do you have any idea?" he asks, giving you the file.
"I'll probably find something to milk. Now get that rest before you pass out on the field," you glare at them with that Look. He grins and nods before laying against the window, a thin layer of frost already forming.
Then, they start laughing.
"What's so funny?" you ask, not looking up from the report you're reading.
"Before I even talked to you, I had the honeymoon trip already planned in my brain, with too many versions to count. This wasn't even on the list," he straightens up and smiles. You laugh too.
"Well, it's not exactly as bad as you make it sound,"
"Norns, are your standards so low or are you so disappointed in me?" They raise one eyebrow.
"Neither, love. Now get rest before I have to knock you out," you smile through threatening him.
"Kinky, might try it later," they wink and lay back down, his breathing deepening some minutes afterwards.
We'll name our children Jackie and Wilson / Raise 'em on rhythm and blues
You're laying against them, smiling like an idiot as he runs a hand on your stomach and feeling this new anomaly.
"Are you sure?" you ask, watching a small wrinkle from between their brows.
"Yes. Two of them. Perhaps boys but I can't tell yet," he whispers, hand still resting there even though the spell is over.
"Twins… we will become parents," you smile, breathing out and laying against their shoulders.
Loki calls your name. You turn around and he rests his forehead against your own. "I love you so much, you know that? All three of you," they grin. You chuckle and close your eyes, accepting the kiss that's definitely coming.
"You know, we'll have to name them something," you point out after they break the kiss.
"Narfi and Vali," he's… quite fast on picking up the name.
"No way,"
"Why?"
You freeze. "It's silly…" you mutter.
They cup your face, glowing green eyes on yours. "It's bothering you,"
"It's the myth… how Narfi and Vali suffered in the myth because of your… because of Loki's mistakes… I don't want this to happen to the little guys," you sigh.
"Then, do you have to suggest another name while I'm trying to think of a second choice?" he smiles.
"It's even more silly," you giggle.
"At least it won't be your mythological dead kids,"
You take a deep breath. "Jackie and Wilson, from the song," you are ready to hear them laughing at you for the suggestion. But he just smiles.
"Jackie and Wilson…"
Cut clean from the dream that night, let my mind reset / Looking up from a cigarette, she's already left
Loki has no idea how long they've been staring blankly at the ashtray, the suit in front of him mocking him.
It's maybe the first time they're so hesitant about wearing all black.
It was supposed to be a small mission, nothing dangerous. You were supposed to be back, safe, within an hour.
You were supposed to raise your sons and retire in that castle in the middle of the forest.
Why was he so foolish to believe that he deserves a happy ending?
"You have to collect yourself. You have to say the farewell, a fucking thank you for all you've got from it, you coward!" they spit at the mirror opposite to them, hand tensing and breaking the cigarette in half.
A deep breath, in and out, a tight squeeze on the wedding ring hanging from his neck, and they stand up to put the damn suit on.
I start digging up the yard for what's left of me in our little vignette / For whatever poor soul is coming next
The funeral is over, the farewell has been said. But there's a small dinner coming afterwards.
Out of all the public appearances, this is by far the worse. Malevolence is something Loki has learned how to deal with a long time ago. But these eyes of pity are unbearable.
The strangers, probably reporters or Stark's acquaintances, coming to express their "condolences" are at least few enough to allow Loki to slip away to the bathroom.
He sits on the cold floor, this numbness drowning him. They hoped you had made it go away, but you just suppressed it. He wants to cry, to scream, to beg to whatever cruel Deity did this to bring you back. But their mind cannot give the order.
He takes your phone out, opening the music app and wearing your earphones. They press play on the last song you listened to, only to hear some familiar chords echo from the small device.
You were muttering this song all the time since you found out about the pregnancy, it's no wonder it's the last tune you listened to. But the upbringing melody of the song and the dark emptiness in Loki's heart are painfully opposite.
He sits there and listens to the whole song in silence, trying to milk some happiness out of it.
But they only manage to whisper along the last two lines, or an alteration of them. Just before he starts weeping at the tile floor until Thor finds him.
"We would name our children Jackie and Wilson, Raise 'em on rhythm and blues,"
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mnictasbcl · 2 years
Text
Deviancy.exe not found
Here is my next story for @connor-sent-by-cyberlife‘s #dbhghostsinthemachine prompt challenge. Prompt OCT 14: Shutdown Inevitable.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Characters: Connor, Hank Anderson
Tags: Connor’s last mission, Canon scene divergence, Swearing, Connor swears, Hurt/Comfort, The Fight, Fear of Death, Machine!Connor feels
Summary: Connor-53 is sent after Connor-52 deviated and died. His mission: stop Markus.
But Hank seems determined to stop him first.
Read it on AO3! Or, read below. 
“You shouldn’t do this, Connor.”
Connor stopped, hand straying away from the trigger of the sniper rifle. Hank, right. Hank was here. Hank had been supportive, helped him get onto Jericho—
Where he’d failed helping the deviants and had been killed by humans.
The next Connor was sent, not a single trace of deviancy in him. That was him. He… could feel the same way towards Hank as his predecessor could, could be his friend again, to have a chance at a better life, if only he could deviate.
But he couldn’t. Amanda had made it clear. This was his last and final chance. Kill the deviant leader, or he would be shutdown. It was inevitable.
“Keep out of this, Lieutenant. It’s none of your business!”
Yet it wasn’t inevitable that Hank died. If only he would keep out of the way, he’d be safe. And maybe… would he be safe if the deviants were gone? Deviants were dangerous. Unpredictable. He’d been killed in the same hour he’d deviated. Maybe it was for the best.
“You’re gonna kill a man who wants to be free, that is my business!”
“It’s… dangerous, Hank. Deviants are dangerous.”
“That’s what I thought for a long time, that’s what I thought on all of our cases. But then I met you, and, hell, I thought you were a deviant. Looks like I was wrong.”
“The last Connor failed. I am picking up where he left off.”
“What—fuck, did you die again?”
He shook his head, tried to look back down the sights of his gun. It would be best not to get into a conversation, or a confrontation.
“I have a mission to accomplish, Hank. It’s best if you stay out of this. The deviants are a threat to humanity.”
“They’re a threat because we refused to listen to the deviants!”
He put the gun to the side, finally turning back to look at Hank. “After all we’ve been through… I respected you, Hank. I thought we were friends!”
The word felt strange on his tongue. Friends. He wanted to be friends. Closeness, companionship… Hank. But he had to learn that this wasn’t for him and accept it. The past Connor had blown his chances. All he could do was accept reality.
“Oh, yeah? I was just starting to like you too! But then I realised you’ll never change! You don’t feel emotions, Connor, you fake ‘em! You pretended to be my friend, when you don’t know the meaning of the word!”
Well, shit, that stung. Despite lacking deviancy in any meaning of the word, Connor 53 found that… he didn’t like what Hank was saying. And it wasn’t fair.
“Faked them, Lieutenant? No. The last Connor didn’t fake anything. He was your friend, and he became a deviant at Jericho. He—”
“Wait, what? You deviated?”
“He deviated. But he failed. His body probably sunk with Jericho.”
“Fuck… Connor, that’s, that’s…”
“That’s how it goes. Deviancy, for him, was a mistake. I’m not going to make that mistake.”
Hank took a step towards him. “Look, Connor, for whatever I’ve said about the whole being replaced thing before… You’re the same person. It was traumatic when you got shot saving me at Stratford Tower, but the guy who came back? That was still you. And you’ve been through a lot, fuck knows what happened to your deviancy but… You’re still you. We were friends.”
Connor shook his head. As tempting as it sounded, if he deviated again, it wouldn’t be long before he died. How many times could it keep happening?
“No.” Not again. It was painful enough the first time. “I’m not doing it again. Sorry, Hank.” And despite everything in him screaming no, he dashed forwards and tumbled into Hank.
But his movements in the fight were slow and sloppy. His processors wouldn’t quite catch up, his preconstructions wouldn’t work in time. Time and time again Hank bested him, knocking his head against a wall, throwing a grating at his face.
Until finally, Hank dragged him over to the edge of the rooftop and held him there.
This… would mean dying again, wouldn’t it? Sure, he wasn’t a deviant this time. But he would die. Would die. Shutdown was inevitable. So he clung onto Hank’s hand, eyes blown wide.
“Don’t, Hank. Please.”
“Why not? You’re just a machine, like you said before. And you’re going to destroy the androids’ chance at freedom, at peace. What’s to say you won’t pick that gun back up as soon as I free you?”
“Because I—I don’t want to die again, Hank! Not like this!”
That, it seemed, was enough. Hank swore, threw him backwards onto the rooftop before falling onto his knees.
But this wouldn’t do. He knew it wasn’t enough. He had to shoot Markus. Had to… if he didn’t shutdown was inevitable. Inevitable.
So, he crawled across the floor, ignoring Hank’s shout of protest, and picked up his gun off the floor. Not the rifle, no, that was probably broken in the scuffle.
Yet instead of pointing it at Hank or escaping from the rooftop and running off to counter Markus, he simply shuffled up to the edge of the roof and sat, cross-legged, gun in his hands.
“…what are you doing, Connor?”
“You can go now, Lieutenant. I’m just waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“The Revolution to succeed. You’re right, they do just want to be free. I’m not going to stop them. As soon as I see them win, my mission will be failed. Cyberlife will want to deactivate me. But I won’t let that happen. I’ll just wait here, watch it happen, and…” His sentence trailed off, glancing down at the gun in his hands.
“Connor…”
“It’s not that bad, Lieutenant. I know it’s inevitable. And I’m thankful you didn’t kill me. At least this way, it won’t be out of my control.”
A hand fell on his shoulder.
“Give me the gun, son.”
“No.”
“There’s always another way. Give me the gun.”
He frowned. “So you’ll shoot me? I guess it would be easier…”
“For fuck’s sake, no! No one’s shooting anyone. Look. There’s always a third option. Just…”
“If you’re suggesting deviancy, then you’re writing me my death sentence. I’m not meant to be a deviant.”
“And I’m probably not meant to be here right now, prob’bly not fucking meant to be stopping you from shooting Markus in the head… but I am. Life’s not just cut and dry. Fucking sucked what happened to you on Jericho, but that won’t happen again. You were there at a dangerous time, whole FBI and army was there, the ship was going down. You’re safe here.”
Connor looked over the edge of the building, sensing the irony but not pointing it out to Hank.
Then, he turned and handed him the gun.
“I don’t know if I can officially… deviate. I can’t seem to find the command, the wall to break down. Before, Markus persuaded me to, but now…”
“It’s alright. You don’t have to be officially deviant for me to care about you, kid. Now.” Hank sighed as he sat down beside Connor on the edge of the roof. “What about we watch them win the Revolution and then go back to my place? Sumo’ll be glad to see you.”
Connor smiled, turned his gaze away from the snowy ground below them. Instead looked out at his people being freed and nodded.
“That sounds perfect, Hank.”
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1rintooru · 3 years
Text
a relationship gone sour
Warnings: physical abuse, toxic relationships, swearing, the whole ‘yandere’ trope, heavily implied death
Pairing: yandere! Tendou Satori x gender neutral reader
Themes: uhm? read the warning again pls
Word count: 1869 - one-shot
Summary: You and your friends devised a plan to escape your toxic relationship, however Tendou ends things before you even get the chance to.
…You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy, when skies are grey…
A familiar hum traveled with the cool breeze that tickled his cheeks. The smell of wet concrete lingered in the air from the heavy downpour earlier. The streetlights had automatically turned off some time ago and the moon hid behind dark, dried-up clouds. ‘Would you be happy to see him? Excited, even? Or would you look at him the same way you’d begun to for many weeks now?’ Tendou could only wonder. For a moment he was worried he’d arrived too early, but it didn’t matter. He promised you that he would visit – even if you didn’t know it yet.
***
Your legs felt heavy once you finally emerged from the bathroom, a yawn escaping your lips. You weren’t used to staying up so late; you had met up with a couple of friends for a much-needed study session and lost track of time. Once you all finally parted ways it was already past midnight and all that you could do was mentally apologize to your future self for being exhausted the following day.
Conversation of school gossip quickly turned into a targeted interrogation towards you. To be fair, your friends were deeply worried for you. They made no secret of their dissatisfaction in your relationship since you heard every complaint under the sun. Gentle concern eventually turned to stern berating out of desperation and much to their dismay, you easily brushed off their remarks and defended Tendou every. Single. Time.
Tendou always stood out to you as an oddball type; he was loud, playful and marched to the beat of his own drum. You fell in love with his quick wit and sardonic humor and grew innately protective over him when you learned about his difficult childhood.
But as months passed, the line between satire and sincerity became more and more blurred. It wasn’t until he would become increasingly obsessive and his lampooning more threatening that you understood the gravity of his words. You were constantly walking on eggshells around him as your formerly sweet relationship quickly turned acidic.
You weren’t wearing your rose-colored glasses anymore and the confession of your relationship woes were met with sighs of relief. Grammar structure and algebraic formulas soon became trivial as you and your friends started planning a way for you to escape your toxic relationship. The worry that weighed heavily on your mind finally lifted as you felt the warm compassion of your closest friends’ envelope you like a heated blanket.
How long has it been since you felt this way?
You smiled to yourself – still riding feathery-light high from earlier – and brushed your thoughts aside, deciding to deal with them again in the morning. You rounded the corner into the hallway, a slight spring in your step as you went, before stopping abruptly.
The light went out.
You made a mental note to replace the broken lightbulb as soon as possible. While you weren’t shrouded in complete darkness, the newly missing light source still created an illusive atmosphere that you weren’t fond of. Your shadow crept up and bounced off the walls and the end of the hallway was left in pitch-darkness. The only thing you could barely make out was the faint outline of your clothes that hung from the clothes stand, creating an eerily human-like shape. You considered to check the door to see if it was locked but decided against it; you were just being paranoid and in your sleepy state it was expected for your mind to play tricks on you.
What you didn’t expect was for the shape to take a step forward.
Your breath hitched in your throat and you could feel how each individual hair stood on end. The figure took another agonizingly slow step forward, revealing its silhouette to be that of a male with a tall, lanky build. You wanted nothing more than to run away, but the cold shiver that went down your spine had you completely frozen. Your legs had locked themselves in place and all you could do was watch in horror as they took a third step forward, the dim lighting cascading across his face and illuminating his features.
“Satori!”
“Hello there, Sunshine.” His tone was sardonic, fleering as he extended his arms towards you. “I’ve missed you… how about a hug?”
You wanted to reply but only managed to choke out a cough; the sharp, excruciating pain at the back of your head traveled down your spine and spread outwards, making your whole backside throb. You didn’t even have time to react when he lunged forward, toppling you off your feet and knocking the wind out of your lungs. The room felt as if it were spinning as you hopelessly watched Tendou and his double merge in and out of each other, both of them offering you an ear-splitting grin. A painful, heavy pressure provoked another coughing fit and your eyes darted to the source – the center of your chest caved in where Tendou deeply dug his knee, the other planted firmly on your left arm while one hand pinned your right down.
You tried desperately to thrash your legs in a frantic attempt to kick him off, but the way you were angled made it nearly impossible to reach him. He remained unyielding as he stayed perched onto you like a gargoyle, his crimson eyes boring into you acrimoniously. A pout formed on his lips as he watched you squirm beneath him, tilting his head so unnaturally that it practically rested on his shoulder.
“Is that any way to greet the love of your life?” he cooed.
“Satori please, I can’t- I can’t breathe,” you gasped, still convulsing in pain.
“Hm? Oh, guess I don’t know my own strength,” he responded dispassionately, focusing his attention on the dirt under his nails. He knew exactly what he was doing, this was all just a child’s play for him. With Tendou it was always a game – and you were the prize. You shifted beneath him, finally able to somewhat breathe as the pressure elevated.  
“Satori, sweetheart – if this is about before, then you have nothing to be jealous about! I was just studying-”
“Huh?” he leaned back with crossed arms, not enough loosen his grip but enough so that he almost sat upright. “Jealous? This has nothing do with jealousy. I made you a promise, remember?”
A promise? Your mind frantically raced trying to remember when he had promised you something. What promise?
He smiled wryly and answered as though he had read your mind, “I promised you that I would keep you safe – that I would keep our relationship safe. I know everything about you and I’ll be damned if anything ever gets between us!”
You winced at his menacing tone; you always knew Tendou could switch from cheerful to incredibly threatening at the drop of a hat and you regretted not listening to your friends sooner. However now, dread enveloped you as you felt a sense of foreshadowing in his words.
“Satori… I am safe! I’m not going anywhere, see?”
His face softened and he abruptly leaned forward, his face just inches above your own. His breath tickled your nose and you had to collect all your willpower to not recoil as his long fingers caressed the side of your cheek ever so gently.
“That’s a lie.”
Your eyes widened in panic as you felt your whole body be overcome with despair.
“Satori, I –”
“I thought we had a pretty good thing going for us. You really accepted me fully and I am so, so thankful for that.” Despite his casual delivery, there was a genuine fondness written on his face, only revealed by the small crinkles that developed under his eyes. “So, when you started to look at me the way everyone else did – like some freak – I knew that wasn’t you. My beloved Y/N wouldn’t look at me like I’m some fucking monster.”
“I – I don’t think that – I would never think you’re a monster!”
You were interrupted by a deafeningly loud clap, the sound still echoing through the room as you felt blistering sting from where Tendou’s hand met your cheek. You briefly saw him multiply again, but even through blurred vision you could see his manic eyes twinkle like rubies.
“Goodness Y/N, you’re just full of lies today!”
His cheery tone made you cower. You knew you couldn’t overpower your 6’2” boyfriend – you already tried that – so in your desperation all you had left was to reason with him.
“Satori please! I’m your sunshine, remember…? You wouldn’t want to hurt your sunshine, right?” your pleas came out as pathetic whimpers, hot tears threatening to spill over your cheeks, already sticky and tear-stained from before.
“Well, yeah I guess.” His face turned thoughtful for a split-second while he considered your words. “But you’re also the one who took my sunshine away. Y/N wouldn’t look at me like I’m some demon.” He shrugged nonchalantly, his expression immediately returning to its morbid excitement.
“But if that’s what you think, then I’ll show you a real fucking abomination.”
He leaned forward and planted a kiss onto your right cheek. Then your left. You wanted to scream but your cries stopped in your throat, right where Tendou had wrapped his long, calloused fingers.
“I wanted to be mad at you, but I just can’t. It’s my fault all of this happened, I failed at protecting you.”
He fastened his grip, adding additional pressure through his digits and onto your larynx. While you felt your throat tighten, you could also feel the weight on your chest get heavier as Tendou slowly and tortuously added more of his bodyweight. His frenzied breath and your choked cries were only drowned out by the earsplitting cracks of your ribs. With both arms freed, you frantically tried to pry his fingers off, scratching his face and punching him as hard as you could. He didn’t even react – completely ignoring the scratches that now decorated his face. The hits you landed felt more like pesky flies to him.
“Forgive me, but I have to do this. It’ll only take a sec.”
Tendou’s grip tightened, silencing you completely. Exhaustion overwhelmed you as the adrenaline from before started to wear off. The weight of your arms felt like cinderblocks as they slowly drooped down, just faintly clasping at the fabric of his sleeves.
“I wish things could have been different.”
You were unsure of who spoke as Tendou’s multiples reappeared, almost as if to taunt you while a black haze emerged from the corners of your eyes. His eyes gleamed nefariously and his face split into a maniacal, shit-eating grin – a final farewell – as your vision fully eclipsed.
“I’m sorry.”
***
The pillowy clouds from earlier had finally dissipated once Tendou stepped back outside, veiling the sleepy neighborhood in a dim moonlight. The breeze from before had died down, leaving the air stagnant. How ordinary. Nothing stood out on this night except for the familiar tune that could be faintly heard in the distance.
…You’ll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away…
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