#physically hold them to stop them from doing permanent injury to themselves

[cemeterything]

they should hire me as like a stunt double but for when they need someone to express screaming and falling to their knees and tearing at their clothes levels of grief in movies and shows. not only would i be great at it but i think that a regularly scheduled cathartic wail would do things not even the best medication and therapy money can buy could for my mental health. you wouldn't even have to pay me i'd just show up ready to go like a working dog finally getting an opportunity to fulfil its life's purpose.

#🐉 #nothing makes me more jealous than an actor getting to scream and beat the ground with their fists until someone has to #physically hold them to stop them from doing permanent injury to themselves

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

Something in the woods is stealing peoples’ Souls;

Merlin learns the hard way that he's a little more... fragmented, than normal people when he tries to solve the issue himself.

Part 2 (final part)

All of the Physicians in the town are being overrun.

Bodies keep showing up, still breathing, still perfectly functional, all seemingly unharmed... but they won’t wake up.

None of them will even twitch, as if, whilst the physical bodies were in perfect condition, there was something lacking somewhere, stopping any sort of higher brain function.

The King, his Knights, and even the Court Physician and his (newly titled) Co-Worker (as opposed to Apprentice), were baffled.

Medically, they had nothing to go on, all they could do was keep the bodies alive as best they could, and hope that some sort of solution could come about after some good old fashioned detective work.

Thankfully, it only took five days, and twelve comatose patients, for The King’s best Knights to realise that all of the... victims(?) had been found in a specific area of the woods just outside the city limits.

With such a distinct, and unexplainable issue, it was assumed (rightfully) that magic was involved somehow; whether it be some sort of creature, or yet another evil sorcerer hell-bent on revenge.

Which of course led to Merlin, one of the Court Physicians, and also (Secretly)TheMostPowerfulWarlockEver™, putting on his warmest clothes and sneaking out in the dead of night under the worried gaze of Gaius.

He did not come back.

Not that anyone but Gaius knew.

~

Early the next morning, King Arthur gathered his best Knights, Sirs Leon, Lancelot, Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan, to go and hunt down whatever it was that was rendering his people permanently unconscious.

Gaius and Merlin had explained the previous day, when these plans were conceived, that Merlin would have to stay behind; Camelot’s Physicians were so overwhelmed with not only normal patients, but now twelve comatose bodies as well; they needed every pair of hands they could get. For once, Arthur was happy to leave his manservant behind. 

The man cared greatly for his people, and whilst he would love nothing more than to have Merlin at his side all day, every day, he knew that he was safer, and more needed, in the city.

It was meant to just be in case Merlin got injured and had to hide it, but Gaius did well to hide his worry when he waved them off, and didn’t mention that Merlin wasn’t even in the city, that they could be finding Merlin’s comatose body next.

It took the Gang barely half a day to get there, and they had supplies to last them a few days in the woods, if that’s what it came to, but they were all still tense.

They hadn't seen anything like this before. They had no idea what they were up against; there were no physical injuries to assess, no eye-witness accounts, nothing found in their blood or on their person. Just unconscious bodies that showed no sign of waking.

Thankfully, they found no more bodies as they methodically searched the forest, but they also found no sign of what was wrong.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary: nothing attacked them, there was no blood, no destroyed areas, not even a scrap of evidence that something had even happened.

They finally stopped to make camp at sundown, dejected. Their mood definitely worsening with Elyan’s terrible cooking.

Gwaine was, of course, the most talkative:

“I know he’s needed or whatever, but are we sure we can’t go back and get Merlin? I’ve eaten a lot of gross shit over the years, but I’m not sure if I can take this for four more days.”

Elyan grumbles in embarrassment as the others snort, amused, and he throws a twig at Gwaine. It snaps in two across the knight’s face with a satisfying crack.

Arthur ignores the childish behaviour (something he can’t believe he has to do in the first place), shaking his head as he replies:

“No. The health of the people comes before your stomach. If Gaius says he’s needed in the city, then he stays in the city. Though I was surprised that he wasn’t there to wave us off.”

Gwaine smirks knowingly, and Percival puts a warning hand on his shoulder, but it does nothing to deter the knight as he waggles his eyebrows at The King.

Arthur flushes slightly, but he covers it quickly, not having time to retort before Gwaine opens his mouth again:

“Missing him, are you? Perhaps next time you should request that he stand on the battlements in a dress, and wave a handkerchief at us as we heroically ride out?”

Arthur throws a much larger twig (it’s more of a branch, really) in Gwaine’s direction, and this one knocks him off his seat, but before anyone can even snigger at him, Arthur loudly announces the watches and tells everyone to get some sleep.

~

The next day went much the same. 

That is, until late-afternoon.

The Knights were continuing their methodical search of the woods, once again finding themselves somehow tense and bored, when they came across a clearing that had clearly seen a gruesome battle.

Trees were uprooted, the ground was covered in deep holes and scorches, and there were even the occasional splashes of blood.

Which honestly raised more questions that it answered.

After thorough searching, they were hopeful. It looked like it had been some sort of fight between a sorcerer, and something... not human, some sort of creature. BUT, going by the tracks, the sorcerer had survived, and wandered off.

Was the sorcerer injured, or was the creature injured? If the sorcerer had walked off, injured or otherwise, where was the creature? Surely they should find the body of one or the other?

Another question that no one really wanted to ask: was this even related to the bodies?? Or had the Knights just stumbled onto something completely unrelated that they would inevitably get dragged into dealing with anyway?

Either way, they couldn’t ignore it, and with new-found motivation, they followed the tracks deeper into the woods, instead of setting up camp, like they had intended.

Whoever it was seemed to be wandering aimlessly. The blood trail slowly came to a stop, and it seemed that every step was stronger; as if whoever it were was gaining more energy from walking, as opposed to becoming more tired.

Still, whoever they found at the end of the tracks would be able to provide some sort of answer.

Eventually, after around two hours of diligently following the footsteps through the woods, Arthur signalled everyone to stop.

He wordlessly dismounts his horse, and gestures everyone to quietly do the same, before silently pointing ahead.

The knights look carefully to where he gestures, to see a man stood in the centre of a clearing, facing away from them.

They, still silent, draw their swords and sneak closer, but the man doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was stood upright, they would think him dead.

Arthur steps into the clearing, about twenty feet from the man, and furrows his brow. That looks like.... no... it can’t be, can it? He shakes the thoughts from his head, convinced that he’s just imagining things, but before he can make his presence known, the man turns around, as if he sensed them stood there.

All of them gasp and take a step back, immediately recognising Merlin.

But he’s... different.

He stands scarily still, unusual for a man who was constantly fidgeting or on the move.

His face is blank, and if he hadn’t been staring straight at them they would think he hadn’t noticed them at all, and whilst he stood as if uninjured, his tunic is ripped and blood-soaked.

But what draws everyone’s attention, was the bright golden glow of his eyes, highlighted especially by the quickly descending darkness of the evening.

Arthur brings his sword up slowly, taking a cautious step forward as he calls Merlin’s name.

Merlin simply tilts his head slightly, otherwise staying still, before stutteringly beginning to speak:

“Mer... lin... Merlin....... Merlin is... Merlin is...... Merlin is gone.”

It’s clear that something is deeply wrong with the manservant, but the way he spoke, as if he knew how but had never actually done it before, like he was still figuring it out, creeped the hell out of everyone.

His words as well, “Merlin is gone” do nothing but fill them with dread.

Lancelot steps forward quickly, moving to stand in front of Arthur, sword unsheathed but pointing at the ground. He was unsurprisingly less fearful of the golden irises, and recovered the quickest:

“What do you mean, “Merlin is gone”, gone where? Who are you?”

Merlin... or... not!Merlin, tilts his head further:

“Merlin is... gone. I... I... I want him... back.”

Lancelot gulps but before he can reply, Arthur breaks out of his stupor, and growls:

“What have you done with him?! Whatever you are, give him back!”

Merlin moves his gaze from Lancelot to Arthur, and takes a step forward, before bowing his head slightly, as if out of respect:

“You are... The Once and Future King... I want him back... you... you... you need him... back.”

The rest of the knights are fully freaked out now, but they hide it well, and gather slowly around Arthur. Lancelot scowls at them, holding a placating hand out. He really doesn’t want any of them to get jumpy and skewer Merlin. He takes another step towards the golden-eyed man:

“We all want Merlin back. The bodies, the same thing happened to you? Happened to Merlin?”

Not!Merlin nods slowly once again, looking back to Lancelot:

“It... took him... from me. I... I... I want him back.”

Lancelot returns his nod, letting out a deep breath:

“And who are you? What are you doing in Merlin’s body?”

Not!Merlin frowns slightly, as if confused, the first actual expression he’s pulled this whole time. It takes him a few moments to respond, and Lancelot is getting desperate; he can feel the knights behind him getting more and more jumpy, especially Arthur:

“I am... I... I have always been here... I am... I am... I am me. I am Merlin’s... and he is... mine... I want him... back. He is... mine.”

Lancelot tenses slightly. He has a feeling he knows what’s going on. Merlin talks about his magic sometimes, talks about it as if it’s... sentient. Described the way it’s always desperate to reach out to Arthur and the Knights and Gaius and Gwen, how it sometimes does things without his permission.

Lancelot gulps. This is bad. Merlin’s magic is walking around in his body without him there to control it. They were going to struggle to explain this away, as much as Merlin claimed Arthur was an idiot, it wasn’t completely true. Lancelot bit his lip, glancing back at the others as he re-sheaths his sword.

He knows there’s no way to get them to relax... unless... this might backfire terribly, but it also might be the only way to get them to calm down a little.

Lancelot frowns thoughtfully, and just before Arthur works up the nerve to say something else, he turns back to Not!Merlin:

“Do you mean us any harm?”

Not!Merlin once again tilts his head and frowns as if in confusion:

“No... Merlin is... Merlin is fond of... you. I.. I was made for... for The Once and Future King. I am... unable to hurt him.”

Lancelot nods, before saying slowly:

“Do you have any reason to lie to us?

The golden-eyed man shakes his head slowly, the glow seeming brighter as he replies:

“Why would I... I... lie? I could kill... you without a... second... second thought. I want Merlin... back.”

The knight nods one final time, looking back to the others to gauge their reactions. Their swords are still unsheathed, but lowered, their faces tense and concerned, but not angry. Lancelot supposes that’s the best he’s going to get at this point.

He lets out a rough sigh, running a hand through his hair as he looks back at the Warlock:

“You’re not Merlin. What do we call you, until we can get him back?”

Not!Merlin lets his gaze wonder to the knights, before finally landing on Arthur. His speech had been getting better with use, but he speaks slowly and keeps his stare on The King, as if curious to his reaction:

“I am... I am... I am part of him. I don’t... have a name. Call me... me... Emrys.”

Lancelot grits his teeth, and his eyes whip to Arthur, to see if he recognises the name.

With The King’s gasp, and widening eyes, Lancelot knows that he does recognise the name.

“You... you’re Emrys?? I thought Emrys was some all-powerful sorcerer, what are you doing in Merlin?”

Arthur is too distracted to notice Lancelot’s panic, but Leon, ever the observant one, is not, and frowns at the sudden fear on his fellow knight’s face.

Mer-... Emrys had already admitted that he wouldn’t lie, if Arthur keeps asking questions, he’ll figure it out. But before Lancelot can think of a solution, Emrys replies:

“Emrys is... is... our other... name. But I am not... Merlin. Not on my own. I want... want him back.”

Arthur looks taken aback, but before he can ask another question, Gwaine steps forward, giving Lancelot an unreadable look before:

“Right, well that’s all fine and dandy, but we need to set camp up and figure out what we’re going to do about... this.”

He gestures vaguely to Merlin’s body after sheathing his sword.

Arthur looks about ready to argue, but with another pointed look from Gwaine, Lancelot jumps into action:

“Gwaine’s right, we need to gather the horses and set up for the night. Here is probably alright, then we can come up with a plan to get Merlin back, and presumably, all of those other people.-”

He turns to Arthur, a sufficiently subservient expression on his face:

“-If you think that’s best, Sire?”

Gwaine rolls his eyes and scoffs at that, heading back to gather the horses from where they’d been left without further prompting. Arthur’s argumentative expression drops after a moment, and with one more mistrustful glance to Emrys, he nods, instructing the others to gather wood and get started on dinner.

Lancelot lets out a breath, but flushes slightly and tenses his jaw when he sees Leon giving him an inscrutable look. He turns away after a moment, under the pretence of helping Gwaine.

The moment Lancelot reaches Gwaine, a few metres into the treeline, the other knight quickly turns around and grabs his shoulders. He glances desperately back towards the clearing, and when he establishes that they’re the only two within earshot, roughly whispers:

“Please tell me you figured it out?? Because I’m not sure how the hell I’m going to keep Arthur from finding out on my own.”

Lancelot’s eyes widen, but his shock keeps him silent for only a few moments before Gwaine shakes his shoulders. He blinks away his surprise, whispering his response:

“You know?? Does Merlin know that you know?”

Gwaine shakes his head, finally letting go of Lance’s shoulders:

“No. I worked it out like twenty seconds ago, I’m sort of hoping that Arthur isn’t as quick as me. How long have you known?”

The other knight nods his head understandingly:

“About as long as I’ve known him, but I’ll explain later. This whole thing is... terrible. I don’t think our odds are good. Mer- Emrys won’t lie, and we won’t be able to stop Arthur from asking questions. He’s probably asking them now. We need to get the horses and get back.”

Gwaine nods roughly, and without another word, the two of them gather the reins of their six horses, and quickly make their way back to the clearing.

They had only been gone a few minutes, and in that time, firewood had been gathered and arranged. Elyan pulls a flint out of his pocket, and Lancelot widens his eyes as he sees Emrys tilt his head (still stood in the same place), moments before waving his hand casually.

The wood bursts into a roaring flame, and Emrys suddenly has four swords on him. Lancelot and Gwaine rush forward, standing in between Emrys and the other knights, holding their hands out as if in surrender. Gwaine speaks first:

“Hey! You might be freaked out by all of this, but that’s still Merlin’s body, and he needs it, so lets not poke holes in him, alright??”

Everyone bar Arthur lowers their swords, but before Gwaine can growl something out, Lancelot turns back to Emrys:

“Look, they’re all a little... unnerved, by magic, so maybe stop using it for now, yeah?”

Emrys tilts his head and furrows his brows again, and everyone stares at him in shock as he replies, not quite knowing what to make of his response:

“But I am magic. I am magic... incarnate. If I stop... I... I cease to exist. And Merlin... Merlin needs me. He needs me like... like... like humans need to breath. I can not just... stop. He would... would... we would die.”

Lancelot tightly shuts his eyes. There is officially NO way to explain this one away. Gods, Merlin is going to be so scared when he finds out.

After a few moments of shocked silence, Arthur finally squeaks out a:

“What??”

Gwaine quickly responds, before Emrys can reveal anymore:

“No. It's cruel to take Merlin’s secrets from him when he isn’t even here. We find Merlin, then you can ask your questions.-”

Arthur looks angry, like he wants to argue, but Gwaine takes a threatening step towards him, resting his hand on his sword at his hip as Lancelot and the other knights look on the scene with panic in their eyes. Gwaine growls out:

“-I said no, Princess. Everyone here knows I’m more loyal to Merlin than you, and that doesn’t stop just because he’s not here and you’re about to throw a temper tantrum.”

Arthur huffs, but lowers his sword as Gwaine glares at him, and Lancelot lets out a breath. The other knights follows The King’s lead, sheathing their swords and settling tensely around the fire.

Lancelot goes back to the horses, tying them down and removing saddlebags, with Leon’s help (and constant stare, which was an odd mix of concern and suspicion).

Gwaine points Emrys to a spot on the floor, and tells him to sit. The knight settles next to him protectively, his sword across his lap as he glares at Arthur on the other side of the fire.

The evening passes awkwardly, food being cooked and eaten in silence, no one quite sure what to say.

Arthur spends the whole time with a pinched look of frustration on his face, but the knights look to him as he takes a deep breath, his expression morphing into an odd mix of concern and accusation in the blink of an eye:

“How do we even know that the... Merlin, part of... part of you is alive? What happened to hi- to you? How do we get him back?”

Lancelot wants to be annoyed at his tone, but he poses valid questions. They still had no idea what actually happened or why or how they fixed it.

Emrys tilts his head, aiming his golden stare at Arthur:

“It is one of... of the Manducan, or The Eating Ones. They... are very rare, they steal... steal souls. Bodies can survive a short while.... a short while without them. Hence your... comatose patients. I am... we are, a little more... fragmented... than most. I contain too... too much power, so The Manducan took... only the human... human part.”

Everyone looks extremely worried at that, but Arthur’s face turns desperate as he rushes out:

“What do you mean, human?? What are you??”

They all stare at the raven-haired man as he speaks, his eyes focused on the King:

“We do not... know. Some call us a Lord, or a King. Others call us... call us... a God. In moments... of power, we... we hear prayers. It can be... disconcerting.”

The camp is silent for a while after that, everyone processing what had been said. Merlin heard people praying to him... not even Lancelot knew that, Merlin had never told him.

After around half a candle-mark, Leon breaks the silence to ask the questions that had been pushed to that back of their minds:

“How do we kill this creature, and what happens if we do? Can we get the souls back, undamaged?”

Emrys turns his golden gaze to the curly-haired knight as he replies:

“It is already... weakened. The Forever King needs to... strike... strike it with Excalibur. They hibernate for.... for centuries... and only return to this plane of existence to... collect food. If you... if you... if you kill it before it leaves, the souls will... will return...naturally.”

The knights all let out breaths of relief, but Arthur looks at his sword oddly, before muttering:

“What’s so special about my sword? And why do you keep calling me strange titles?”

Lancelot gulps, and Emrys tilts his head:

“You know of Emrys, but not of the... the prophecies?”

Arthur nods his head slowly, but Lancelot interrupts before Emrys can start the complicated process of explaining his and Arthur’s destinies:

“Perhaps that’s a... story, for when we have Merlin back in one piece. How do we track the creature?”

Arthur gives him a glare, before lowly saying:

“Do not think I do not notice you avoiding the subject, Sir Lancelot. You know of these prophecies?”

Lancelot grits his teeth, but gives a slow nod:

“Bits and pieces. Merlin isn’t fond of talking about it.-”

He raises a challenging eyebrow, still staring Arthur in the face, and everyone is take aback. Lancelot was never anything but respectful and polite to his King; this defiant look shocked them all:

“-You see, he’s spent his entire life in Camelot absolutely terrified that someone will overhear him, and have him burnt.”

Arthur took in a deep breath, hiding his guilt behind a blank façade, but before anyone can say anything, their gazes are drawn back to Emrys, who looks almost... mournful?

He nods his head slightly, and the sad look on his... on Merlin’s face, looks so out of place for someone so normally upbeat:

“He is... we, are constantly frightened. It is exhausting. I try to... to reassure us but... Merlin is... is... is always so scared, despite our power. We used to... to love flames, fire. Now it is... terrifying to us.”

Lancelot had kept his gaze on Arthur, and when The King looks back at him, his despair badly hidden, the knight simply shrugs one shoulder and nods slightly.

Arthur lets out a breath, and looks to his lap, whispering so quietly that the group barely hears him:

“He’s scared of... of me.”

Gwaine growls out an “Of course he is, you’re a Pen-.”, but he’s interrupted by Emrys:

“No. He would allow you to... to kill us. But we couldn’t bear to... to lose you.-”

He finishes his statement quietly, and Arthur looks up at him, tears in his eyes:

“-We don’t want to be sent away. Camelot is... is... is frightening. But it is also our... home.”

“I would never send you away. When we get Merlin back, you... you tell him that. Tell him he’s safe with me, with us, and always will be.”

Emrys tilts his head yet again:

“And my people? Will we be an... exception? Will you make us watch you... continue to persecute our people, whom we... we... we should be protecting? Merlin does... does not want to make a... hypocrite out of you.”

The knights look at him expectantly, and he blanches slightly as he looks away. The King gulps, before taking a deep breath and looking back, straightening his spine and looking confident:

“The laws will change. Crimes committed with magic will be judged the same as crimes committed without; it’s about time I faced the cruelties of my father.”

The corner of Emrys’ mouth tilts up briefly as he nods, but says nothing. Gwaine smirks, Leon and Lancelot give The King proud smiles, and Percival and Elyan look taken aback, before they relax into fond smiles of their own.

The evening had passed quickly, and with all of them exhausted, it’s decided that any further discussion on how to track this... Manducan, would happen in the morning.

All of the knights fall asleep quickly, finding the protective golden glow of Emrys’ unsleeping eyes both comforting and unsettling.

~

They all woke the next morning oddly refreshed, but the relaxed atmosphere didn’t last long when, one by one, the knights noticed Emrys sat unnervingly still, in the exact same spot as last night.

Only the occasional blink and shallow breathing proved that he was in fact alive, and not some sort of incredibly life-like statue.

Food was eaten, and camp broken quickly; the golden eyed not-quite-a-servant staying in his spot the whole time. 

Despite Emrys saying that the souls would be fine as long as they got there in time, they were still full of nervous energy, and wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible. Not least of all because they had a lot, and I mean a LOT, of questions for Merlin... or... all of Merlin.

Emrys was pointed to Lancelot’s horse, and once he mounted in front of the knight, everyone looked at him expectantly. He simply tilted his head, and Arthur huffed:

“Well? How do we find this... creature? Can’t you-”

He waves his hand vaguely, and Leon is the only knight able to hide his snort at The King’s impression of magic.

Emrys nods in understanding, and extends his hand in front of him. A thin stream of light, like a glowing string floating in the air, extends from his palm, snaking through the trees.

He nods, this time in the direction of the light, and the knights urge their horses to begin a quick paced journey.

Conversation is sparse, but eventually the question on all of their minds is asked by Percival:

“If you could do that the whole time, track the Manducan I mean, why didn’t you?”

Emrys doesn’t look towards him, but the horses noticeably slow as everyone bunches together, curious about his answer:

“They are of a different... different plane. Magic can harm them but... but... but not kill. I was waiting for The Once and Future King to bring... bring Excalibur.”

Percival nods in understanding, but Leon frowns:

“Well... what about us? Will we not be able to harm it with our swords?”

Everyone copies his frown at that. They’re valid questions, and Arthur is silently grateful that Leon had the tactical mind to think of them:

“No. It will be safer for... for... for you to... wait. I can distract and injure it further until... The Once and Future King can... kill it.”

The knights looks worried at that, but Elyan is the first one to pipe up:

“We’re meant to just stand back and watch? Can’t we set a trap, or help distract it?”

Emrys shakes his head:

“It can not be trapped. Being too close would... would have adverse effects on... on... on your souls.”

Arthur looks back from his position at the head of the group with a frown on his face:

“Well what about my soul? I’m presumably going to have to get close to it in order to stab it?”

Emrys fixes his golden stare on The King, and tilts his head slightly in confusion:

“Your soul was forged through magic, it is marginally... immune. It will take a little... longer for... for... for your soul to react badly.”

Arthur nods, looking back to the front, muttering something about “having a time limit before my soul implodes or whatever. Great.”

Once the knights finish snickering at Arthur, Gwaine asks:

“Wait wait, if Excalibur is the only thing able to kill it, what are you doing out here?”

Emrys tilts his head, looking back to the knights:

“We were... unaware of that at the... the time. We only figured out what... it was, when we fought it.”

Everyone nods, all of them wondering just how many times Merlin had snuck out to take care of something, with none of them knowing about it. The list of questions they had for when Merlin was back in one piece was getting longer and longer, and no part of this conversation was helping the anxiety swirling in Lancelot’s stomach.

After another hour or so of silence, Elyan pipes up:

“I’m surprised no one has asked yet but... what does this thing look like? I know we’re following a trail or whatever, but what are we actually going to find at the end of it?”

“They shift sizes, though they always take... the form of a thick-”

Emrys is interrupted by Arthur pulling his horse to a sudden stop, and pointing through the trees ahead of his, harshly whispering:

“Black shadow??”

Everyone stops behind him and their gazes dart quickly to where Arthur gestures. Through the trees they see a large mass of deep black smoke.

The black tendrils seem to writhe in the air, and the knights can see vague impressions of limbs tipped with impossibly sharp claws darting out occasionally before retreating back into the fog.

The creature looks like evil in semi-corporeal form, and the usually strong-willed warriors take in stuttering breaths at the overwhelming instincts of “Unnatural, run run RUN!” screaming at them with every passing second.

The shadow doesn’t seem to have any front or back; being in a constantly shifting state, sometimes seeming to freeze, sometimes darting through the trees in a blur.

The knights have lost all colour in their faces, and their breath comes shallowly and quickly. Arthur gulps, tightening his grip on his sword as he whispers:

“Horse, or on foot?”

The sound of Emrys’ feet softly thudding on the undergrowth gives The King his answer, and he dismounts his horse slowly, trying to stop the shaking in his hands and legs.

He takes a deep breath as Emrys moves to stand behind him. His voice is shaking and desperate, as if he were a child reaching for help after a nightmare:

“How do I... what do I do, Merlin?”

Emrys tilts his head, but doesn’t say anything of the The King’s mistake:

“You need only get close enough to... deeply slice it. It is fragile in this... this realm. Cover your eyes when you... you do so, the light will be blinding. Do not let it... touch you. I am reluctant to admit that, after what it did to... to... to our soul, I do not know what it will... do to yours.”

Arthur takes another deep breath, and clears his throat slightly as he gives a firm nod. Time to be brave now, for his people, for Merlin.

The King can hear his knights dismount behind him and tie up the horses, ready to jump in and help at a moment’s notice, in spite of... whatever will happen to their souls. None of them are really sure they want to know, so none of them ask for details, and Arthur is unendingly grateful for their silent loyalty and bravery.

Emrys walks forward, past Arthur, and towards the creature. The King gulps before silently slipping off to the side; he doesn’t know how the creature sees (not having a head, or even eyes, as far as he can tell), but Emrys said he would distract it so... splitting up makes the most sense? 

The knights can tell the exact moment the creature notices Emrys walking towards it.

The tendrils of shadow seem to writhe even more frantically, and the fog bulges and retreats again, somehow giving the impression of anger, fear.

Emrys plants his feet strongly and raises a hand, summoning vines and roots from the ground with nought but a gesture; Arthur only gives himself a second to be distracted by the sight of Merlin so effortlessly doing magic before focussing back on the creature.

Everyone bar Emrys winces, and covers their ears as the beast lets out an ear piercing screech, moving judderingly towards the Warlock. The trees shake with the noise, and a few of Emrys’ magical attacks disintegrate into the air. He summons more, and snarls in concentration as the beast whips towards him.

Emrys rushes forward to meet the beast, and they clash in a burst of golden light and black shadow, each trying to take over the other. The shadows try to sneak around the Warlock, reaching towards the knights behind him, but they’re quickly halted in their tracks as cracks open in the ground, swallowing the fog before it can do any damage.

The golden light emanating from Emrys pulses brightly, and the creature is pushed back, the edges of its smoke disintegrating slowly into the air. It lets out another high pitched screech, and Arthur takes that as his cue; rushing silently forward, on the opposite side of the creature to Emrys, and swiping down precisely with Excalibur.

The knights see his attack coming, and step even further back, heeding Emrys’ warning and covering their eyes, Arthur doing so with his free hand as he brings the sword down. 

Excalibur cuts through the shadow with no resistance; the screech getting impossibly louder as the blade leaves a blindingly golden trail in it’s wake.

Emrys simply stands back to watch, but the pitch of the beast’s screech forces the knights to the floor, eyes tightly shut, and hands clamped over their ears.

Suddenly, the noise stops, and the shadows of the creature seem to disintegrate into nothing as the golden light of the wound takes over. The light recedes in on itself, before exploding outwards and fragmenting into pieces. The bulk of the fragments fly in the direction of Camelot, golden blurs through the trees, but one, the smallest and dullest (due to being only part of a soul, they assume) flies with speed straight towards Emrys.

The knights and their King finally look up, feeling oddly exhausted, to see Emrys take a staggered step back and grimace in pain as the light forces it’s way down his throat.

He falls to the floor, and the knights rush towards him as his muscles spasm and he begins to scream. His eyes are shut tightly and Lancelot quickly lunges forward to grab his wrists as his hands go to yank at his hair.

Everyone gathers around him, Lancelot yelling for them to hold him so he doesn’t hurt himself. They can only hope that Merlin is an exception, and this isn’t happening to the other victims back in Camelot. Lancelot keeps a hold of his wrists, and Arthur discards Excalibur in favour of holding down Merlin’s shoulders, whilst Elyan, Leon, and Gwaine hold down his hips and legs, and Percival wordlessly stands guard.

Merlin’s screaming dies down, and he stops thrashing so much (but stays tense), but the knights don’t let go just yet. He opens his bleary eyes, and whispers, so faintly they barely hear it:

“... Lance?”

The knight lets go of Merlin’s now limp wrists gently, and strokes a hand through the man’s raven hair:

“Yeah, I’m here Merlin. All back in once piece?

Merlin closes his eyes again, and goes fully slack as the others let go of him fully, nodding slowly as he gulps before groaning:

“Yeah, that fucking... hurt.”

Lancelot huffs out a gentle laugh, but before he can reply, Merlin gasps and quickly sits up. When his wide, panicked eyes land on the rest of the knights huddled around him, his breath deepens and he scrambles back frantically, only to run into Arthur, who grabs his shoulders.

Merlin whips his head around and rips himself from The King’s grip, stumbling to his feet and rushing back, away from the knights and into a tree.

His ears are deaf to everyone’s gentle reassurances that he was safe, and his eyes are blind to the hands held up in soft surrender. He sinks to the floor as his breathing gets even more frenzied and tears gather in his eyes, but before he can process that he was safe, the mix of memories triggers a blinding pain behind his eyes.

He gives a pained yelp and shuts his eyes tightly, bringing his hands to grip the sides of his head as he curls up on the floor. Merlin begins to groan again, and Lancelot desperately gestures for everyone to stay back as he kneels by Merlin’s side, pulling his hands away from his head again:

“You’re safe Merlin, no one’s going to hurt you, do you remember? We said that to the bit of you that was left.-”

Merlin doesn’t seem to hear him, but squeezes Lancelot’s hands painfully tight as he continues to groan, arching his spine:

“-Ok, ok, what’s wrong Merlin? Your head? We can’t help you if we don’t know what’s wrong. Is it your... your soul?”

Merlin shakes his head slightly, groaning dying down, but still struggling to draw breath, still gripping Lance’s hands:

“Your magic?”

Another shake of the head has Lancelot beginning to panic a little; none of them have dealt with anything like this before, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong with his friend. He continues to try and comfort Merlin as he struggles to think of what else it could be, when Merlin begins forcing himself to take deep breaths, and stuttering out:

“Mem... memories.”

Lancelot takes a fortifying breath, and the others crowd a little closer, panicking for their friend:

“Memories? Ok, which ones? Memories from the bit of you that was wandering around, or memories from the bit of you that was in the creature?”

Thankfully, Merlin’s pain seems to be dying down slightly. His breath comes easier, but his eyes stay tightly shut and his muscles still spasm periodically as he grinds out:

“Both. Two sets of memories from... from the same time. Hurts. My. Brain.”

Lancelot huffs out another gentle laugh, rubbing his thumbs softly over the back of Merlin’s hands, and the others relax at the sight of Merlin’s pain lessening. Gwaine kneels down next to Lancelot, and quietly announces himself before beginning to run a gentle hand through Merlin’s hair.

This goes on for a few more minutes; the servant’s pain dwindling and his breathing evening out as his mind sorts the two sets of clashing memories and stitches the two pieces of his soul back together, Lancelot and Gwaine not stopping their soft ministrations for even a moment.

He finally relaxes fully, opening his eyes but not moving from his position on the floor as he gazes tiredly up at Arthur’s worried face, over Lancelot’s shoulder. His words comes out timidly, and Arthur has to stop himself flinching at the hint of fear in his voice:

“Did you mean it? Am I... safe?”

Arthur forces a soft smile on his face, hiding his worry, and gives Merlin a firm nod:

“I promise Merlin, you’re safe. None of us will hurt you.-”

Merlin smiles back at him, before nodding, and closing his eyes, drained from the ordeals of the last few days:

“-though you need to make sure your head is on straight at your earliest convenience, I’ll need your help to write that repeal.”

Arthur says it with a weak, teary grin, and Merlin chuckles slightly, nodding softly once more before drifting into a deep sleep, exhausted.

Lancelot mutters that he’s asleep, and the smile drops from Arthur’s face, his brow furrowing in worry as he crouches between his two knights, putting a hand to Merlin’s forehead:

“Will he be alright?”

Lancelot shrugs, biting his lip, and sporting a similar expression to The King as he replies:

“I’ve no clue. His soul was split in two, his magic was pushed to the limit in that fight, and his body didn’t rest at all or eat much for at least a day; he’s probably just exhausted, but we should get him back to Gaius.”

Elyan, Leon, and Percival move back to gather the horses without prompting, and within minutes the gang is racing back towards the city, Merlin’s unconscious form being held protectively in front of Arthur (his excuse being that Lancelot’s horse had already held the extra weight for half a day, and he’s The King, so he can do what he wants).

~

Thankfully, the creature had been between their camp and the city, so it only takes them around a day to get back. They took few breaks, and ate whilst they rode to save time. Despite not waking up the entire journey, Merlin’s breathing stayed alright, and he occasionally mumbled nonsense to himself, so the knights weren’t panicking too much.

They didn’t stop when night fell, and so finally pulled into the castle courtyard at around midnight. A guard was immediately sent to wake Gaius, and Percival wordlessly took Merlin from Arthur’s horse, only after The King had given him a short nod of approvable.

They got to the Physician’s chambers to see Gaius wide awake and bustling around the room, clearing a cot and gathering various potions and ingredients.

Percival gently set the manservant on the cot, and Gaius firmly demands that they all leave the room to give him space to work, choosing to ignore the fact that he had told them that Merlin was in the city, and that they definitely shouldn’t have come back with his exhausted, unconscious body.

Arthur notes that Gaius doesn’t react at all when Lancelot stays behind, but has to temper his frustration (and jealousy) when the Physician shoots the knight a concerned look when Arthur himself also refuses to leave.

Lancelot sighs, but gives Gaius a reassuring smile:

“It’s fine, Gaius, they all know about Merlin’s magic, he’s safe. We said we’d explain when we got Merlin back in one piece.”

Gaius sends The King a curious look, hiding his concern well before he seems to catch up on what Lancelot said:

“Back in one piece?”

Arthur moves closer as Lancelot nods and begins to speak, content to let the knight explain as long as he got to stand near Merlin:

“He said it was Manducan?-”

Gaius widens his eyes in surprise, but nods, continuing to mix together various herbs as he listens:

“-Apparently, Merlin’s power was too much for it to handle, so it took the non-magical part of his soul. We found Merlin’s body being controlled by his magic. It was... odd. He was still Merlin, you could hear it in the way he spoke, or the words he chose, but it wasn’t... all of him. Just the magic part. He wouldn’t lie to us, and was desperate to get the “Merlin” part of his soul back. Unless we spoke to him he just... sat there, blankly.”

Gaius hums thoughtfully, and he and Lancelot politely pretend not to notice Arthur reaching out to gently grab Merlin’s hand.

Finally, the physician finishes mixing his potion, and gently pours it into Merlin’s mouth, holding his nose shut and massaging his throat so it goes down properly. He sits back on his chair, glancing at Arthur quickly, before looking back to Lancelot:

“The other victims began to wake just under a day ago, so I’m assuming that the creature was... dealt with?-”

At Lancelot’s nod, he continues:

“-Did Merlin wake at all when his soul came together?”

Lancelot nods again, speaking quietly, feeling oddly like he doesn’t want to disturb Arthur softly rubbing his thumb over Merlin’s hand:

“Hmm. Briefly. He screamed for a while, whilst his soul... I don’t know, stitched itself back together? Then he panicked, because he knew his magic had been outed, then he was in pain again. He said having two sets of memories from the same time hurt. Then he was just exhausted, he passed out a few moments after the pain stopped.”

Gaius nods, and Arthur finally looks up, knowing that the explanation was over, and a conversation was about to happen. The Physician speaks:

“Humans are not made for that, it would have been painful for his mind to try to comprehend and organise two separate sets of simultaneous memories.”

Arthur speaks, his voice quiet, but obviously worried:

“Will he be alright? How long until he wakes?”

Gaius looks to him once more, giving The King an assessing gaze. When he spies no anger or deception in Arthur’s face, he relaxes his shoulders slightly, and sighs:

“He will be alright, he just needs rest. Both his body and his soul have been through a great deal, it will take a few days to a week for him to fully recover physically, though I can’t speak for his mental state.”

Arthur looks panicked, and Lancelot worries his lip between his teeth as Arthur asks:

“His mental state??”

Gaius finds himself sighing yet again as he asks:

“How lucid was he, between the bouts of pain?”

Lancelot rushes to answer:

“Very. He understood what I was saying, I think, he asked a question and understood our answer. He just seemed tired.”

Gaius gives the two men an exhausted smile, before softly saying:

“Then I imagine he will be fine. Go and get some rest, I will send for you if anything changes, though it’s unlikely that he’ll wake up at any point in the next two days or so.”

Lancelot nods, and moves towards the door, but Arthur stays put. Gaius raises an eyebrow, but moves forward and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder:

“He will be fine, Sire. And... everything he has done, every lie he has told, has been to keep you safe. He couldn’t bare to lose you.”

Arthur nods absentmindedly, before looking up to the Physician, and whispering:

“I couldn’t bare to lose him either. You... you promise he’ll be alright?”

Gaius nods and smiles, noting with relief the tearful desperation on The King’s face:

“I promise.”

Lancelot smiles fondly from his place stood at the door, but wipes it from his face as Arthur turns towards him. The two men leave out of the room, Gaius’ assessing eyes following them all the way.

The door shuts behind them softly, and Gaius lets out a breath he hadn’t even realised he had been holding, before running a hand gently through Merlin’s hair, and moving to settle in his own cot.

Of all the ways Arthur could find out about Merlin’s magic, out of Merlin’s control, Gaius never saw this coming, and though the pain Merlin felt was regretful, The Physician is grateful, that it went so well.

~

End of Part 1!!

Part two is already almost finished. It’s much shorter than this, and will be out at some point in the next few days!! Sorry this took so long lads, I’ve been really busy atm.

EDIT: I’ve actually just finished writing part 2!! It’s queued to be published at 12:30PM GMT tomorrow (09/05/21)

EDIT 2.0: PART 2 IS UP!!

Also I couldn’t find any mythical creatures that fit what I wanted, so I straight up just made one up ✌️

Head over to This List to let me know what you want me to work on next! :)

#merthur #gwencelot #bbc merlin #merlin #emrys #gaius #merlin emrys #merlin's soul is funky #bamf merlin #arthur #arthur pendragon #protective gwaine #protective lancelot #sir leon #leon #sir gwaine #gwaine #sir lancelot #lancelot #sir elyan #elyan #sir percival #percival #gwen #guinevere #magic reveal #merlin's magic revealed #camelot #knights #the knights of camelot

[danika-redgrave124]

TW: Death, Physical Abuse, Permanent Injury, Gender Dysphoria, Self-harm, Loss of Loved Ones, and Suicidal Tendencies/thoughts

@zozobegone I've made some angst headcanons about some of them. You can expand on them if you want.

TWST Deadpool

He often hides the fact that his scars hurt or gets into risky situations (overblots) because he already loss his family, so to him, what more did he have to lose?

He's actually bouncing from place to place literally since he's a war criminal, he's constantly on the move. He wishes to have a more consistent home to stay in sometimes.

He has more of accepting mindset whenever he gets closer to death or have a near death experience.

He's very clingy (unhealthy degree) to Yuu since who else would try and be able to stop him from trying to fight the overblots aka he's trying to kill himself, but isn't brave enough to do it himself beside what better way to go out than fighting against something stronger than him.

TWST Loki

TWST Loki suffers from being mislabeled whenever they change from Gender to Gender or whenever their mood changes. Normally, they wouldn't mind, but the people they're around often used more colorful words to describe them.

They always got belittled by their brother's friends due to the fact that they're not interested in sports or anything like that.

They tried to take their lives with pills but ditched them last minute while holding themselves together aka they dumped the pills, so they wouldn't get hurt again.

Often avoids relying on Yuu and the others, they were called a burden by their adopted father, so they have that mentality sometimes.

Vivo Galvan

He suffers from the physical abuse from his parents to the point where he actively avoids going home. He lost his eye because he was sorted into Ramshackle than any of the well known Dorms i.e. Octavinelle, Pomefiore or Diasomnia and his father took it out aka he beaten him to the point where he became blind in one eye cause in his words, "I didn't raise a failure!".

He often lies to Yuu and the other dormmates whenever they asked him about it cause he didn't want the war criminals to go against his family or get hurt because of him.

He lost his real "dad" at young age, so he didn't like the fact that his mother and father came to "raise" him. His real "dad" was the family's butler and the only one that took actually care of him.

Sometimes, he stays up late and cries silently as if trying to find comfort in silence. The few people that knows he cries to himself are Adelio, The Ghosts, TWST Deadpool and the other war criminals.

#twisted wonderland #new students au #ramshackle #ramshackle dorm #ramshackle students #TWST Deadpool #TWST Loki #Vivo Galvan

[amazinglyegg]

Random headcanons for Paladin Danse because I love him (based on these prompts by @/silentshayshores-2 !)

How do they feel about people shorter / taller than them?

Danse is used to being taller than basically anyone else due to being in power armour 24/7. He's also just very tall (I used to hc him as short but it seems like the general fandom consensus is Tall Danse) so he doesn't mind people shorter than him. Taller than him, however? Catch his fight-or-flight reflex kick in the second he realizes that. He has been trianed to fight people / creatures taller than him, so he's not scared or amything, but it's rare anything other than a supermutant or a deathclaw is taller than him. He'll warm up eventually.

Their sexuality?

Canonically he's multisexual and I agree with that. Demisexual bisexual with no real preference

Preferred weather?

Very sunny days, little to no clouds in the sky. He likes being able to see clearly and the heat never bothered him too much, especially not in compared to rain or snow.

What's their sleeping schedule?

In theory, 11pm to 5am. In reality? Probably more like 2am to 5am, the rest of the hours spent tinkering, reading, or just laying there in the dark staring at the ceiling. Out in the field he takes turns with whoever he's travelling with. Has fallen asleep in his power armour in the past. Scribe Haylen and knight Rhys have a silent agreement not to wake him up when he does

How's their cooking?

He knows cooking well on a survival level. Purifying water, scavenging, making sure food is safe to eat. He can make meals out of basically anything found in the wasteland, from mushrooms to bloatfly to questionable canned meat. He learned this even before he was taught in the Brotherhood, it was the only way he survived on his own for so long before moving to Rivet City. Cooking for taste? Not so much. He IS a fast learner, but he'll always put safety and preserving rations over taste factor, even when you have enough food to spare

What's their sleeping position?

When he's in a sleeping bag or sleeping around others: on his side, legs partially drawn and arm resting under his head/pillow. When he's alone he will fall asleep on his stomach, starfish spread out, probably drooling. Doesn't let anyone see him sleep like that, though.

Who do they go for comfort?

Cutler used to be his number one, and the person he confided most in. Since then, while he definitely has some friends, he's not close enough with anyone to talk to them. Even if he was, he feels as if he needs to be perfect in front of everyone to be seen as a good leader, meaning he'll rarely if ever open up. He's talked to Haylen a few times, but always apologizes after.

Something small that they enjoy?

Standing at the edge of the Prydwen, watching the sun rise. He always wakes up in time for it, and it reminds him of how far he's come, and how lucky he is to be in the Brotherhood

How do they feel about physical contact by others?

He's built high walls and is very closed off in general, making most close interactions with others somewhat awkward. Even things such as pats on the back or bumping into others on the hallways stopped being common since he was ranked to Paladin. Did I mention that he's been a Paladin for ten years? Danse is too touch-starved to know what to do, and ends up silently pushing others away with his awkwardness around the whole thing. He refuses to let himself lean into most gentle touches out of fear of letting his guard down and being seen as weak (see: who do they go for comfort) but if you manage to break down those walls and give him a real, warm hug? Expect him to burst into tears immediately

What is enough to bring them to tears?

See: above. Also, the crushing guilt of feeling as though he failed his team. He'd never dare cry in front of others but in the rare times he's sure he's alone and won't be disturbed he'll let it out, blaming himself and probably getting drunk. Other than that, he has a soft spot for orphans and got teary-eyed reuniting Billy with his parents during the Kid in a Fridge quest

Biggest pet peeve?

Rude people, especially people who talk over him during a conversation. He expects to be listened to when giving orders, so somebody shutting him up by talking over him or blatantly ignoring him in a conversation is a big sign of disrespect.

How well do they take care of themselves?

He never got the chance to have good hygiene until he got to the Brotherhood, meaning while he's completely fine with getting dirty / being unable to get clean / etc., he deeply appreciates personal hygiene when available. Showering, brushing, flossing, sometimes even moisturizing and going all-out. When it comes to mental health or self-care? Not so much. He has a habit of putting other peoples needs above his own, and especially after blind betrayal he becomes a little bit too self-destructive for his own good. He'll easily exhaust himself attempting to prove his own worth via working for hours on end, ignoring sleep, food, and even water until someone steps in and stops him

What's something they like that may be surprising to others?

He really likes children! The easygoing ones are always nice to be around and the closed off / mean ones are a challenge to win their trust. He has a soft spot for most children (especially squires) and is often caught showing them his armour / weapons, or even giving them piggy back rides when he thinks nobody is looking (we all see you, Danse)

Do they consider others family?

The closest thing he's ever had to a family is the Brotherhood, but that's mainly formality rather than actual family. He's been through so much with Recon Team Gladius that he might as well consider them family, but deep down he truly doesn't know what family means. He has nothing to base it off of, and thus he really doesn't consider anyone family.

Any bad habits that they have?

He smokes, but only rarely, and never as a social act. It keeps his hands busy and his mind quiet when he starts to overthink. He also has a habit of giving people the silent treatment when he's mad at them. He'll still do any work he has to do with them, but his conversations will be even more formal (and awkward) than before, and at any slight mention of their arguement he will find an excuse to leave. Give him enough time and he'll muster up the courage to apologize, but it's tiring to wait until then

What's their idea of a perfect vacation?

Danse generally doesn't like regular vacations, since he doesn't like being away from work for that long. Taking the Saturday off to go fishing or something is probably the closest he'll get to a proper vacation, and the most enjoyable for him

Do they get lost easily? Will they ask for directions if they are?

Danse's sense of direction is... alright. Not notably bad, but not amazing. He is good at not acting like he's lost, however. He'll keep calm and collected the entire time and act like he totally meant to take that three day detour in the wrong direction, totally. He will ask civilians for directions when he gets lost, but judges their character harshly before deciding whether he trusts their word.

How well do they accept advice?

Danse doesn't like being criticized, especially by people he's not close to. He's big on standing by all his orders, so comments on his choices make him think the person commenting is questioning his leadership. When it comes to friends or close teammates, he ends up either taking criticism way too harshly, or doing what he does with most comments and ignores it. He'd much rather learn from his mistakes than be called out

How much do they swear?

He isn't particularly against swearing, but it depends on the circumstances. He'll swear often in general (usually terms like "(god)damnit" or "what the hell") but very rarely swears while directing at a person, either talking to them or about them. He'll only curse someone out if he's really angry. He's very lenient on letting others swear

Is there anything they're bad at?

Other than holding a casual conversation? He's fairly bad at anything that takes fine motor skills. He's tried picking up hobbies like drawing or knitting, but he doesn't like working on such a small scale. Also has absolutely horrible handwriting, mostly due to not learning how to read until he was at least a teenager, but that doesn't help his case

What's their morning schedule?

He has a good internal clock that wakes him up early every morning. If he's on the Prydwen he'll exercise, shower, brush his teeth, shave, whatever, and go eat breakfast. If he's on a mission he'll usually skip exercising and clean himself as best as he can and check over his supplies, power armour, and their plan for the day. He likes having the mornings to himself

Any past injuries?

He has plenty of injuries and scars across his entire body. Most notably his eyebrow scar was from a fight with raiders alongside Cutler, several months before they joined the Brotherhood. Cutler was the one who gave him stitches. He has a gunshot wound in his shoulder, deep scars on his thigh from a Yao Guai and permanently messed up knuckles from punching things (people, or inanimate objects). His injuries become fewer and farther between the more he uses his power armour, but that doesn't protect him from everything.

#fallout 4 #fo4 #paladin danse #headcanons #this was fun!! and also took me like 3 days #i refused to write this at any time except for one in the morning so its a mess #i just love danse okay #i need to get my thoughts on him out

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Intrinsic: Jameson in Therapy

Prompt from Anon:  If you're still taking prompts... "Have you tried NOT doing that?"

CW: Noncon survivor discussing future consensual spice, Jameson’s masochism, frank references to noncon and pet whump, brief internal victim-blaming, world-building detail about WRU

Dr. Berger tucks a bit of graying hair behind one ear, smiling slightly at Jameson from her place in the soft armchair she uses during appointments. “Well,” She says, thoughtful, “have you tried not doing that?”

He looks up at her from where he sits curled up on the long sofa, knees to his chest, picking absently at loose threads across the knee of his baggy blue jeans. As always, she is careful not to let her eyes move to the places where hair is slowly growing back in over bald spots where the straps of a leather muzzle had rubbed, careful not to look at the scars he wears on every inch of exposed skin - she’d made the mistake of being caught looking, however briefly, and had discovered that the newest of her clients was deeply insecure about the visible evidence of his captivity.

She’d apologized, but it had taken time to develop enough trust to come back from her initial mistake. She would not jeopardize that now, after they’ve made so much progress and she’s begun to see a shift in how he talks about and relates to his new life, his world.

He even told her the name he chose for himself, and that he’s been telling the others in the house, one by one. Accepting that it won’t be taken from him like his original name was - that it belongs to him, and is his to share or not. 

She would never, ever admit it, but... Jameson is one of her favorite clients to work with. He’s working so hard, every week that they meet he trusts more and more that the path he’s on is one that will move him forward. 

“What?” 

His voice is slightly rough - someone who has screamed enough to have permanent vocal chord damage, she thinks. She makes a note to speak to Jake Stanton about having a physician check on the potential for nodes or other issues that might pop up later. She’s not a medical doctor, but… well. She’s had a lot of clients with vocal chord damage in the sixteen years she’s been working in the pet lib movement, and you start to pick up on the little signs and symptoms they don’t necessarily declare out loud.

“My question is really just me being a little facetious, I won’t lie, but I do want to talk through the spirit of the question. When you mention feeling guilty that you are having a physical response to your housemate, that you are attracted to them and have been struggling with... well. I’d like to really dig in to where that guilt comes from. Now, I am aware that adjustment houses tend to discourage relationships between household members during their time in residence to cut down on the chance for conflict, but that’s not where your guilt lies, is it?”

He goes back to picking at the hole slowly wearing through his jeans. Dr. Berger waits, giving him the silence and time he needs to think his way through the question and the possible answers. After a long time, he says softly, “No. It’s not. I don’t give a fuck if Stanton wants me to hold somebody’s stupid hand or not.”

She has to force her smile not to widen, wondering if Jameson is aware of just how like Jakob Stanton he really is. No wonder they don’t always get along. “Okay. So can you talk to me about just what you sense of guilt, this worry you feel, is rooted in?” 

She watches with some small surprise as the angry, defiant recovering Box Boy who has spoken frankly and openly to her about being maimed, injured, treated as an object, referred to as an animal... blushes.

“I want-... It’s not the, um, the response. That I hate.” He won’t look at her now, and he’s one who loves to stare her down whenever he thinks she’ll be shocked or disgusted by what he has to tell her. But this… this, he’s ashamed or embarrassed to say. “They’re fucking gorgeous, that’s... anybody would like them. It’s… it’s what I want from them that... scares me.”

“You are accustomed to a certain level of unwanted physical attention, it’s not at all uncommon in Romantic rescues to continue to feel sexual attraction and desire after freedom-”

“No. It’s. It’s not that I-... I know that’s normal. It’s… I want…” He shifts, uneasily. “I want… I want Allyn to hurt me.”

The last sentence is whispered. It’s not sharing a thought, it’s confessing what he feels is some kind of sin he is committing or intending to commit. Dr. Berger sometimes feels like a priest in a confessional booth, although she’s never been one to suggest atonement - no, fear of oneself is where the core of most of her clients’ pain lies, in her experience. Instead, she works on reconstructing the impulse or fear from its foundations, breaking apart the horror of its weight and reconfiguring it so it’s easier to understand. 

To take control of, to direct.

She helps them to own themselves, not to fear the prospect but to see in it freedom they have always deserved. 

Fear is the absolute last thing any of her clients should ever have to feel again. They have been taught to devalue and debase themselves, to fear what their bodies can be made to do. If she does nothing else, Dr. Berger hopes she is able to help them be just a little less afraid of the bodies they live in.

“You want your housemate to hurt you?” She asks, gently. “Do you mean in the sense of a serious injury, or…”

“No. Um. No, I fucking… I think about them, um. Hurting-... like… like they used to do. Biting me, or... or scratching... I th-think sometimes about Allyn h-holding a... never mind. Just. Hurting me. I’m-... made to be hurt.”

“You are made only to be yourself,” Dr. Berger reminds him, her voice low and without any hint of judgement. “We’ve talked about your captors before and how you were held. You believe that you were made into a masochist as part of your training, and so you’re frightened that your mind is thinking about your housemate in ways similar to how you were once forced to think about your captors.”

His nose wrinkles - he’s more dismissive than most of the language she uses, and early on delighted in insisting on using words like owner, handler, master. Things he thought might shock her. But Dr. Berger has heard nearly everything she thinks there might be to hear, by now. She only smiles slightly at his expression, jotting quickly down on her notepad a few notations. 

Finally, he offers hesitantly, “I-I guess. Allyn is… good. They’re soft, and nice, and they’d never-... but I want them to. And it’s-... it would make-... them be like Robert, or… wouldn’t it? It’d be… treating them like… I don’t ever want to be what I was again, so why the fuck can’t I stop thinking about it?” 

He is so rarely vulnerable. Dr. Berger doesn’t take for granted the gift he gives her by letting her see past the wall of anger and derision he has built to keep himself safe. In many ways, he reminds her of when she saw Jake Stanton after his own brush with WRU’s handlers and their methods. Bristling, defensive, and with wounds that cannot be bandaged. They instead need to be exposed to the light.

“Intrusive thoughts that contain elements of your captivity are absolutely normal. You are still in the early stages of making progress, and progress is never linear, Jameson. There is no starting line, no ribbon at the end of the race. There is only moving forward, bit by bit, even if sometimes we move back.”

“You mean I move back,” He says, sullen now. “You don’t do shit. You’re already fine.”

“Mmmn, that’s not… quite accurate. I actually see someone myself, you know.” Dr. Berger smiles at his obvious, visible surprise. “My mentor once told me he never trusted a provider of therapy who did not themselves seek it out. I have my own progress to work towards, just as you have yours.”

“Problems are probably real fucking different, though.”

“Well, that’s true.” She allows herself a warm laugh - and is rewarded when he doesn’t bristle or assume mockery like he used to, but relaxes and even gives her a very small smile in return. “But I would advise you not to compare yourself to others. Your situation, while not unique in some ways, is still unique to you. You’ve been through a kind of horror that no one else has - even if others have experienced some similarities, the traumatic events they experienced will never be entirely like yours.”

He nods.

“But-” She holds up one finger “That doesn’t mean we can’t use what we know as a framework, a foundation you can build your own way on. Think of an ancient Roman road paved into a highway in modern Italy, for instance. The foundation was there, a path laid by people who came through before. But you can take what you need and use it to find your own way. I know that you’re scared of your thoughts, I know that you are frightened of wanting to find gratification or satisfaction in pain because you think it means a return to how you were treated before, or that you are inherently changed in damaging ways by your captivity, but…”

When she trails off, he leans slightly forward “But?”

She chooses her words carefully. “Jameson, would you be willing to consider something that may make you a little uncomfortable?”

He looks at her, depths of feelings in his brown eyes, and slowly nods. “Why not? I’m already fucking uncomfortable. All the time.”

His thin shoulders under the oversized band shirt he wears make angles under the fabric as he shrugs, although in the time she’s been seeing them those sharp edges have already begun to round out, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones are softening.

She’s seen it over and over again, the physical changes reflecting the rebuilding of an entire life. It never ceases to amaze her, how hard each and every one of them works. 

“Okay. This may be hard to hear at first but I think it will help you.”

Eventually he nods. “Yeah,” He half-rasps. “Yeah, okay. Just say it. Everything… everything else you’ve said has helped. Go ahead.”

“Okay. So, what I would like you to consider… perhaps what you see as an enforced flaw, a crack that was put into you, a danger you present to your housemate due to your conditioning and mistreatment… it might be in fact an intrinsic part of your sexual expression, and simply an aspect of your attraction to them, and the wish you stated to me to perhaps escalate your current relationship.”

He swallows. The color drains from his face, except for two spots of bright red high along his cheekbones. “What?” His lips barely move. 

“Jameson…” Her tone dips, reassuring and soothing. “I know what you were told. I know you were likely given a series of half-truths and whole lies designed to engender dependence and teach you to loathe yourself and therefore disconnect from your body. But… that body? It’s very real, and it’s entirely yours. I think that we need to look into the possibility that you already had certain tendencies that were exploited and twisted. Those tendencies are not inherently unhealthy or damaging if you learn to pursue them in a safe environment.”

He blinks, once, twice, his eyes glittering. 

She’s made a misstep and she knows it immediately, clear as the tears Jameson never allows to fall. She didn’t time it quite right. They should have spent more time working up to it…

“Are you saying I’m just-... like this?”

“Not the way you are suggesting,” Dr. Berger says softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t express myself clearly enough. Please let me elaborate a little.”

“I fucking hope you d-didn’t mean that I’m-... that I’m just fucked up,” He says, looking away from her, down at the floor. She pretends she doesn’t see one hand go up to curve around the side of his neck, recreating some of the weight of the collar they are so often taught to rely on for a sense of safety.

“I absolutely did not mean that. One thing WRU excels at - one of the reasons they have been so successful - is that they utilize very effective techniques that encourage a sense of complicity and responsibility in the people they abuse and violate. I’m going to hazard a guess that you were told that you chose what happened to you.”

“I signed up for this,” Jameson whispers automatically, rote and robotic, without hesitation. At least, Dr. Berger thinks, she’s been doing this job long enough that hearing that no longer gets to her like it used to. “I wanted to be some rich asshole’s-”

“Yes. That. One way I think they are able to convince so many individuals so thoroughly isn’t only because of the standard methods of sleep and nutritional deprivation, the repetition, memorizing, the mistreatment… no, I think one thing WRU does is find in each of its victims a core truth they can exploit and cause you to fear in yourself, making you more vulnerable to the idea that this company is somehow saving or helping you by ‘making use’ of it. They find your weak point and use it to shatter you, but what WRU never realizes is that the very weakness they exploit is also often the same piece of you we can recover, that we can reclaim. In your case… Jameson, have you ever heard of consensual masochism?”

He’s hooked, she thinks, on this line of logic. On the lifeline she’s thrown him, something to grab onto. A way to begin to believe, in some small way, that he isn’t ruined. They all think they’ve been ruined, by the time she meets them.

None of them is.

“No, I-I haven’t. Does this mean… there are people like me who aren’t, you know, fucktoys-”

“Recovering Romantics,” She corrects, gently. “And yes. Masochism is a not-uncommon mode of expression that many people engage in consensually in the context of healthy sexual expression.”

He swallows, hard. She watches his throat move. Sees the look in his eyes, the minute changes in his expression. The hand pushing against the side of his neck slowly drops. She can see the gears turning within him, a shifting point of view maybe. She can see what he doesn’t want to speak out loud.

There’s another silence. This one is more comfortable, and as always she gives him all the time he needs. 

“How-” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, blinking rapidly again. His knees slowly uncurl and his feet, clad in old hand-me-down sneakers, find their way to flat on the floor. Without his ever-present scowl, he looks years younger. Terrified.

Hopeful.

“How can I-... how do I-...” He takes a deep breath. “If it’s just… part of me… how do I make it safe?”

-

@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @moose-teeth @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @vickytokio @whumpfigure @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump

#whump #recovery whump #referenced pet whump #recovering whumpee #wru #bbu #box boy #box boy universe #masochism tw #condtioning #deconditioning #jameson bb #dr. berger #trauma recovery #noncon survivor navigating consensual spice #referenced consensual spice #referenced noncon #internalized victim-blaming #whumpees in therapy

[anthemxix]

Fierce deity wars aftermath? :o (I'm sorry if this comes across as demanding or rude, was just excited to see the fic and was curious how what happened after might go, it was really good!)

this isn't rude at all, my friend! i'm flattered you enjoyed my fic enough to ask for a follow-up! thank you ;w;

this picks up right where the previous one left off (here's the first part)

"Injuries?"

"Nothing major."

Voices drift through the dreamless void, which clings to Warriors like cobwebs: wispy, malleable, adhesive.

"Is he awake?"

"Maybe. Not aware, at any rate."

The words seem insubstantial, impossible to grasp, like specks of light.

"Captain? Can you hear me?"

"Time to wake up, Pretty Boy."

Like a borealis, the voices shimmer above him. Though tangible, they shy from his reach.

Warriors concentrates on forcing his eyes open, and his lashes scrape against red cotton.

"Hey, Captain? You with us?"

The stench of death saturates the air, so he must still be on the battlefield. He tries to lift his head, to see his surroundings, but all he glimpses is red.

"Hey. Pretty Boy. You awake?"

Still, he pieces it together by feel. His side is pressed against someone. His head is lolling on their shoulder. Their arm is around his back, fiercely gripping his sleeve.

"Captain, can you look at me?"

He's being held. Huh. That's a nice feeling, being held. Safe. His eyes begin to slip closed again.

"No, Captain. Stay awake. Look at me."

Always one to obey orders, he drags his head around a fraction, searching for the source of the voice. His vision is blurry, but he can see a green tunic, brown hair. The Traveler.

Something cool brushes against his hand. Glass. A bottle. His fingers automatically hook around it. Something warm wraps around his hand, affixes it in place.

"Drink this for me, okay?"

Warriors' bones are infused with lead. He watches the Traveler guide the potion to his mouth, but his body won't cooperate. His throat muscles seize, and he coughs out the liquid. It speckles across the red tunic he's cuddled up against.

"Don't make him choke!" someone outside his line of vision squawks. That's the Sailor. He knows the little Sailor's voice.

"Sorry," Hyrule laments, and cups a hand under Warriors' chin, tilts his head back. Tries again with the bottle.

This time, Warriors downs two gulps before his throat locks up and he coughs out the rest of it.

"You're getting my tunic wet." A gripe, but the grip on his arm tightens, protective. The Vet. That's the Vet, holding him. Red tunic. Right.

A thought emerges from his mental haze. Twilight. Hadn't he been with Twilight? Warriors wishes he could ask, but he's so tired. He closes his eyes again, sinks back into the void where his friends' voices echo around him. It reminds him of being trapped in the Great Fairy's bottle, the way everything is muffled and obscured and looming.

Warriors lets their voices wash over him, idly picking out words when he can and examining them like puzzles in need of solving.

"There's caves that way, half a mile or so."

"He can't walk."

"I can carry him."

"No. Traveler's magic may have stitched your wounds up, but your body still needs time to recover."

"Here, I can do it."

There are hands on him, and he's getting shifted around, and he wishes he could move. Instead, he completely retreats to the empty dark space in his head.

Then the concept of time becomes as ephemeral and elusive as his friends' voices around him.

Sometimes when Warriors opens his eyes, there's sunlight, and sometimes there's only the hazy glow of embers or the flicker of a lantern. He can't shrug off the mental mire that pins him down, can't ever keep his eyes open long enough to fully process where he is or what's going on.

That would feel more disconcerting if not for the constant, comforting presence of his friends. One of them is always right at his side when he wakes. The little Sailor, snuggled against him. Sky, carving wooden figurines. Four, polishing weapons. Even as he slides back into the dreamless dark, he feels safe.

That is, until the dark stops being dreamless.

Memories begin to unravel before him, unspooling into formless shapes and colors. At first, all he can see is blood-drenched chaos; he hears dying screams and clanking weapons, smells copper and iron. Slowly, the memories come into focus, draw together into distinct scenes. He can distinguish certain moments: a lizalfos sliced in half at the waist; a darknut's chopped-off head thunking to the dirt; a bulbin slipping on spilled moblin guts as it tries to run, then shrieking as it gets skewered.

These memories aren't his, per se; they belong to his body. His body, which he can see morph into someone else's. His hands, which are someone else's hands, brandishing a double-helix sword that cuts through monsters with no resistance.

Although Warriors has witnessed much more gruesome atrocities, these memories steep him with burgeoning unease. The violent images burrow under his skin like termites, boring tunnels into him from the inside out, as he watches them play in a loop, over and over. They continuously reignite in the dark like poe lanterns, haunting and undead.

Oblivion shifts from a refuge to a prison. Warriors starts to jolt awake with startled gasps, his terror wrenching him back into consciousness. In these moments, he often finds Time next to him, stroking his hair, murmuring soothing platitudes that Warriors can't hear over his pounding heart.

Once, he lurches awake with a shout, wide-eyed and shuddering as detailed visions of massacre still float through his head. Time gently shushes him, tucks him back into his bedroll, and pulls out the banged-up wooden ocarina he used to play as a child.

Warriors curls up on his side, hearing the distant whispers of rainfall beneath the unfamiliar melody that Time plays. The tune is wistful and haunted, layered with tragedy, like its player. But it massages away the tension rigidifying Warriors' muscles, calms the frantic adrenaline buzzing through his system. When he falls asleep, he doesn't dream anymore.

- - -

Sighing with relief, Warriors slumps back against the door. The past few days, he's managed to stay awake for longer and longer stretches, but constant fatigue still holds him hostage. Finding a town with an inn feels like a miracle, and even though he could easily collapse right here on the floor, he is eager to finally sleep in a real bed.

With effort, he straightens and shrugs off his shield, sword, and bags, depositing them by the nearest bed. The weight of his equipment has never felt so burdensome before; he's concerned that this debilitating exhaustion is atrophying his muscles and permanently docking his stamina.

But like every thought lately, he can't keep hold of his concerns for too long. They slip away from him, and he gladly lets them go, concentrating instead on the unnecessarily arduous task of shucking all his armor.

As he loosens the leather bracers on his arms, Warriors absently scans the compact rented room, which only contains two twin beds and a shabby dresser. He blinks at the dresser mirror, freezing as he registers his reflection.

Armor temporarily forgotten, Warriors strides across the tacky rug and splays his hands on the dresser. Most mornings, he spends what the others consider an unreasonable amount of time fawning over his hair in his hand mirror—personally, he thinks none of them spend enough time on making themselves presentable—but lately, he's forgone that ritual, only casting cursory glances at his reflection to ensure he's not overwhelmingly unkempt.

He hasn't gotten a proper look at himself in days, which is why the sight of the mask's red and blue brands give him such a shock.

Though their colors have already begun to fade, the sharply angled lines remain prominent. No wonder the other heroes, who have been treating him delicately, like he's liable to break, can't look at him without staring at those marks. What do they think, when they see them?

Warriors find them abhorrent. Finds that looking at them triggers unease and discomfort and nausea.

He turns away from the mirror and resumes removing his armor, gracelessly dumping it on the floor and topping the pile with his sloppily folded scarf. As he flops onto the bed, he sighs again, the relief of getting off his feet immediate and encompassing. The mattress is thin and there's a rogue spring jutting into his lower back, but goddesses, does it feel good to lie down.

Lazily, he drapes an arm over his eyes to block out the afternoon sunshine filtering in through the flimsy curtains. He doesn't feel sleepy, exactly, doesn't feel like he'll get dragged into unconscious oblivion like he was for several days right after donning the mask, but he truly is exhausted.

Physical exertion, sparse as it's been, contributes to Warriors’ fatigue. Progress across this Hyrule has been slow; the distance the heroes have covered over the past few days could be crossed, under normal circumstances, in half the time.

Warriors didn’t even walk for much of that distance. He couldn’t. Along with his sluggishness, his legs wobbled like a newborn deer’s and his sense of balance was skewed. Wind continually remained next to him, catching him when he stumbled and preventing him from toppling over.

When walking became too infeasible (and he was too tired to care about pride and dignity), he'd ride Epona. By that point, he'd usually feel so weak and shaky that he would require a boost from Twilight just to mount the horse, and from there it was a perpetual struggle to stay upright.

Fortunately, he's steadier now, able to walk without feeling constantly on the verge of collapse, but the fact that he is not okay is tremendously self-evident.

He hears the door to his room open and close, but he doesn't bother uncovering his eyes. He's certain it's just whoever decided to room with him this time—probably Wind or Legend—dropping their belongings off before venturing into town.

A lengthy moment passes before he recognizes the sound of heavy plate armor clinking. Moving his arm a fraction, he peeks out to see Time shedding his armor, setting it aside with more care than Warriors had mustered.

Warriors blinks in surprise. Time is the last person he expected to see here.

The other heroes' behavior around the Captain is subdued, and they speak to him quietly, like he's an animal prone to startle. They act so sad, he thinks now. Like they're grieving. Like they've lost something.

But Time... He was there for those horrid days when Warriors was drifting in and out of consciousness, trapped in nightmares, but ever since then, he's kept a distance. He won't even look at Warriors most of the time.

It would be unfair for Warriors to be bothered by that, though. Like a coward, he's been reciprocating the cold shoulder treatment, because he can't bear it.

He can't bear thinking about his little Sprite using that cursed mask. How old was the kid when he first used it? And what was the aftermath like for him? Was he alone? Did he have someone to comfort him through the nightmares? To help him walk or tend his wounds?

How many times has Time used this mask for those marks to permanently smirch his face?Is the aftermath of using the mask always this dreadful? What if it's not, because Time has gotten used to the effects of the damn thing?

And if Warriors feels so strange after what must have been mere minutes with the mask on—if he feels like his very essence has been ripped apart and reassembled—if he feels like some of his pieces are missing, or that now there is something new inside him, something he can't quite identify or describe—then how must Time feel, having used the mask for decades?

How does it feel to sacrifice yourself over and over, to let an inconceivable power destroy and rebuild you however it pleases, and then carry that weight alone?

With his armor off, Time turns around and catches Warriors' gaze. His neutral expression doesn't change. "I thought you'd be asleep by now."

Warriors breaks eye contact, repositioning his arm over his eyes. Coward. "I thought you'd be making sure the kids don't set the town ablaze."

"I'm sure the Rancher can handle it."

For some reason, this statement pricks at Warriors' heart. "I know he's your favorite, Old Man, but don't misplace your faith. He can be as much of a troublemaker as the rest of them."

After a long stretch of quiet, Warriors feels the thin mattress sink. He peers under his elbow to see Time sitting at the foot of his bed, leaning forward, elbows on knees. Hands folded, he's looking at the opposite wall, expression still deliberately blank. "Is that what you think?"

"Yeah, I do. Didn't you hear his arson story?"

Time huffs a soft, startled laugh. "No, I meant...you believe he's my favorite?"

Warriors shifts, pulls his arm away from his face. "Well, yeah? It's not up for debate, is it? It's obvious."

"Hmm." Time looks down at his hands, and his mouth flickers between a slight smile and slight frown before settling on the latter. When he speaks again, it's stilted, like a formal recitation. "Captain, I owe you an apology. I've left you to deal with the mask's effects by yourself."

Dragging himself to a sitting position, Warriors says, "That's not true..."

He's suddenly struck by a vague memory of a recent night where he fell asleep as soon as the heroes found a campsite. Tired beyond caring, Warriors had promptly slid off Epona and settled in the dirt a few paces from the horse. Prone on his stomach, he pillowed his head with his arms, despite his bracers digging into his cheeks.

Later, Time roused him, herding him upright. He was still half-asleep, struggling to keep his eyes open, as Time worked on taking off his protective gear piece by piece. Warriors' chainmail had pressed grooves into his torso; it was a relief to have someone else guide the heavy armor over his head and set it aside.

"Come to your bedroll," Time had said softly, and he ushered Warriors into his sleeping mat, which lie ready and waiting. Exponentially more comfortable now, Warriors had dropped off to sleep almost instantly, but still, he registered Time gently tucking the blankets around him.

Weary, Time sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. "It is true. I've been selfish. I shouldn't have left you to figure this out on your own. I know how it feels. How...confusing it is. How strange it is, like your body isn't quite right anymore, or like you're not quite the same. How..."

He flexes his fingers, searching for his words, and a mournful look breaks through his stony facade. "How...broken it makes you feel."

After a silent, somber moment, Warriors shifts to sit next to Time, dropping his bare feet to the warped hardwood. The mattress creaks. He feels another damaged spring jabbing into him.

"I'm sorry that you've always had to handle this alone," Warriors says. A lump hardens in his throat, and he swallows. "I'm so sorry, Sprite."

Time looks at him then, really looks at him. Slowly scans the red and blue lines before re-locking eyes. He smiles, sad and small but genuine, and sets a hand on Warriors' shoulder. "I'm proud of you, you know. I've always been proud of you."

Warmth blossoms in his chest at the unexpected words, and Warriors has to turn away.

"Perhaps you should get some rest." The smile lingers in Time's voice. "We can talk when you wake up."

With Time's hand still on his shoulder, Warriors says, "I can stay up a little longer. I think we have a lot to talk about."

#catch me once again only hinting at emotional closure but not actually providing it :D #i gave time and wars a cute moment though #oh yeah ps. i like the idea that wars is a lil jealous of time and twi's relationship #like idk how true to character that is #but i like it #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu #lu warriors #warriors #lu time #time #fanfic #anthem answers #anthem writes

[mae-gi-writes]

Obtuse | Bang Chan (Stray Kids) - PART TWO

Summary ☆ "I don't know. I want to be his friend but then again, I don't. I mean, how can you simply be friends with someone when every time you look at them, you're thinking about how much more you really want?"

Genre ☆ bestfriends to lovers au, angst, slowburn, suggestive themes, college au, fluff, soft Chan x oc (Micha)

Word count ☆ 

. ° ☆ ° .

PART ONE | PART TWO

. ° ☆ ° .

Idiot, Micha kept on replaying the words like the words to her favourite song, Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

There she sat in the hospital chair beside her mother’s unconscious body, her life hanging by a thread with the help of the machine that beeped obnoxiously in the corner, and all she could think of was of the messed up realization that she was in love with her best friend.

Chan hadn't spoken a word as she'd sobbed and sobbed, even though she wasn't sure what she was crying about exactly. He'd only wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in to rest his head against hers in an embrace so firm and filled with warmth that her heart tugged in pain. He was so close that it pained her, the realization that he was so close yet so far was a blow that left a permanent bruise.

So she'd pushed him away, wiped her tears and gestured him to follow her.

He said nothing as he sat beside her, shifting every now and then as he succumbed to the dreadful silence filling the room.

And she hated it, that he was here as if this was the most normal thing for him to do. Because it wasn't. As if on impulse, Micha couldn't help but glance at his attire that confirmed her suspicions he'd just gotten out of the gym, probably having dropped everything to rush to her side.

"Who told you?" Micha asked. Her voice felt weird, strangled as she spoke.

Chan shifted and she felt his eyes on her face, the warmth of them permeating through her skin, "Felix called."

A stagnant pause ensued. In the silence, Micha forced herself to swallow down the lump of emotion stuck in her throat, forced down the feelings that seemed to have erupted through her every pore like she had just opened up a pandora's box of truths.

Go away, was what Micha's brain screamed. Go away.

But her heart protested. Please don't leave me.

Her brown orbs lifted to his side profile. Please don't leave me.

Even if I love you.

"You should go," is what she murmured out instead, "you're wasting your time."

"Don't say that," he replied, tone firm.

His silent assurance, that made it even harder to push him away. Micha didn't know how to feal with these feelings and though she wished she had stayed blossfully ignorant of them, there was no denying the cold hard truth that now blared atop her head like a red alert sign.

At some point, Micha's eyelids had fluttered closed for the next thing she knew she was squinting, disoriented and cuddled into a warmth that smelt of familiar pine and boy aftershave. Chan.

It was so familiar, laying on his chest and smelling that comforting scent of his, a scent that reminded her of home. She couldn't help but notice how well she fitted against him, the warmth of his hands casual on her waist and his nose nudging her temple and her heart skided to a momentary halt.

This was Chan. Just Chan, her best friend. Nothing else, nothing more.

So it was a relief once the doctor slid through the door, causing her to instantly jostle Chan out of the way. He stated that while her physical injuries would heal in a few weeks, though the one thing that worried him the most was the fact that her mother might not wake up from her vegetative state.

Micha would've fainted if not for Chan's strong hold on the back of her elbow and at some point, her father ushered her out with firm orders that the young man take her home.

"Here," he stuffed a few dollar bills in Chan's hand despite the latter's protests, "get some dinner. I insist."

The next few weeks were a blurry mixture of visiting the hospital while helping her father to run the family restaurant whenever she could. They took turns sleeping and watching over her mother's unconscious form, talked about the happenings of their everyday life in hopes that it would trigger something, anything.

The unforseen circumstances caused Micha to push back her internship by a semester and that so meant that she was permanently home and permanently swamped by none other than her best friend.

"What are you doing here? You’re supposed to have class," Micha asked upon noticing him slide out of the the kitchen with two sets of noodle bowls on a tray. It was no understatement to say that NomNom Noodles Restaurant was bustling with hungry customers as it was a Friday evening. What Micha hadn't expected though, was to see Chan's sloppy smile and sweaty forehead.

He shrugged, "your dad told me you could use the help."

Her heart tugged, partly churning with affection followed by this burning annoyance to get him out of her sight.

And he was helpful; he was a charming waiter that cracked jokes whenever he could, grabbing the dishes from her hands the moment she walked out of the kitchen, wiping tables he wasn't even assigned to. And all that made it harder for Micha to push him away. Oh how she wanted to ignore him, to make him understand that she needed a space, and a lot of it.

But she didn't want to hurt him. Not when he deserved so much better.

"Oi."

Micha was whipped back to reality when she felt Chan's finger poke her forehead, only to be faced with his dimpled grin, "earth to Micha. Customers are waiting."

Heat flushed through the back of her neck. She swatted him away, "don't touch me with your greasy hands."

"Aw shut up you," he made a move towards her, causing her to sidestep with ease, "stop it, Chan--"

She whipped around, almost bumping into one of the chairs as Chan's arms circled around her shoulders to pull her back to hug her close, "Chan!"

"Don't I smell nice? I'm just sharing it with you!"

And as if on cue, the door chimed open, both their heads whipping up with welcoming grins.

Only to face Ayeong's smile.

"Ayeong!" Micha all but shoved Chan away as she noticed the slight, barest slip of the said girl's smile.

Chan whooped and ran up to his girlfriend, cheeks flushed and eyes crinkling into crescents, "baby girl! You came!"

"And I brought company," she allowed him to kiss her cheek just as the door opened to reveal Minho and Seungmin bundled up into their coats.

Swalllowing down the sudden lump of pain, Micha went forward into Ayeong's open arms, "hey, it's been a while."

"I know!" Ayeong hugged her tight, so genuine that tears threatened to fall. Micha squeezed back slightly before quickly diverting her attention to greet the two other boys.

The restaurant was empty by the time their noodles were fresh out of the pot, meaning that they had the restaurant for themselves as they caught up on life and remembered their high school days. Micha learnt that Minho was interning at another restaurant, Seungmin had passed his Design projects with flying colours, and Ayeong had already signed a contract with the business hotel that she had trained with.

"That's amazing,” Micha said to Ayeong, "do you like it?"

"I do," Ayeong beamed, "and my superiors are nice too. They're all a bunch of guys so they aren't complicated."

"Careful Ayeong, one might think that you're gonna change boyfriends," Minho teased and caused the girl to stick out her tongue at him before leaning against Chan's shoulder.

Micha's eyes instantly shot away, swallowing hard at the knot forming in her stomach. She couldn't help it. It was like second nature to hurt herself by catching small glimpses of their entwined hands, of the adoration dripping from their eyes and she wished she could just make all the pain end.

It seemed like Minho noticed her unusual demeanour, for as they were leaving the restaurant after washing up the dishes, he'd stopped by the door to shoot her a concerned look.

"You okay, Micha?"

Surprise flitted through her face for a few seconds, "uh, yeah. Yeah I'm fine."

She saw him glance at Chan's figure before looking back at her with pursed lips, eyebrows knitted together as if deep in thought, and shook her head.

After all, who could deprive Chan of his happiness?

. ° ☆ ° .

It was safe to say that Micha fell into a routine; waking up to visit her mother in the early morning hours, replacing her father at the restaurant when it was his turn to sit at her mother's bedside, avoiding Chan at all costs even though he was practically throwing himself in her way, and locking up at around ten, nine earliest if the restaurant was void of clients.

She would've made a much greater effort at pushing Chan's helping hand away if not for the fact that her mother was mostly occupying the forefront of her mind. The truth was, a small part of her was actually relieved that Chan stayed no matter how angry she seemed, how cold she was to him. He was a big puppy constantly coming back for more no matter how much she kicked at his countenance.

And that made her feel even worse.

"Me and Aejong made pancakes the other day," Chan chatted on one late evening as they were clearing the tables, with Micha responsible for wiping them down while he mopped the floor, "she's a horrible cook. As unbelievable as that sounds."

"Why? Because she's too good at everything?" Micha knew she sounded bitter, but her tongue seemed to have a mind of its own, lashing out without control.

Chan, as oblivious as he was, didn’t seem to catch her sense of mockery, “maybe not everything. But she’s definitely very talented in many ways. I never knew she took piano lessons until she was seventeen. She passed the exams and all.” 

"Good for her.” 

“You know what’s the best thing though? I really like that she never boasts about herself. That, I admire that--”

“Yes Chan, I get it,” Micha finally snapped.

Chan paused in mid-mop, “What? What did I do now?” 

Her teeth sunk onto her lower lip as she kept on wiping down the tables instead of answering his question. 

“Why are you angry with me?”

"I’m not angry with you,” she folded her dishcloth a little too aggressively and turned to the other table. 

“Then why are you talking to me like that?” 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Micha.” 

“I said it’s nothing!” Micha finally whipped around to scowl at him and maybe it was the mixture of saddened pain whenever she thought of her dying mother along with the continuous stab, stab, stabbing of knives that pinched her heart every time she saw Chan so much as utter his lover’s name, a name that wasn’t hers, that brought tears to her eyes despite her not wanting to let him in, not anymore, not when he was one of the sources causing her pain. 

But the young man’s frustrated expression gave way to instant worry the moment he caught her eye. He made a move towards her. 

And that was when she burst into a fit of angry, heart-wrenching sobs. 

It was as though all the pain and the pent-up emotion that she’d stuffed at the back of her heart like an unused closet she could throw away the key suddenly burst open without warning, for once she started crying, Micha found that she couldn’t stop. Her tears only heightened upon feeling the warmth of her best friend’s embrace, pulling her closer and allowing her to sob her way through the tides of pain and worry and sadness that seemed to have taken over her countenance. 

Cheek pressed against the side of her head and hands softly rubbing comforting circles along her back, Micha just allowed herself to feel sorry for her state, if only for this one night where she thought that everything was slipping through her fingers; her mother, Chan. Her career. Her future. 

Once Micha had cried all the tears from her body so that there were none left, she could only rest against Chan as he rocked her from side to side, the only comfort that was holding her broken pieces together at this point. She hated it, loathed it. His kindness, his genuine concern for her. 

It made it so much harder to push him away. 

“How long have you been holding this in?” came his softened murmur against her hairline. She shivered unconsciously, hating the way her heart seemed to beat a little faster merely for his alto. Or maybe it was the closeness, the intimacy of his touch, especially in the dim lights of the restaurant with only the soft distant sounds of traffic in the distance to keep them company. 

“It’s not about how long,” Micha’s fingers unconsciously gripped the back of his hoodie, hoping to extend this moment for a little longer. Just for tonight. She continued in a mumble, “everything is...everything is just so overwhelming.”

"Want to talk about it?” 

Micha’s lips pressed into a thin line. When she spoke after her slight bout of hesitation, her voice trembled, “it’s like I’m not even in my life anymore. I feel like I’m in a nightmare-- and I can’t wake up.”

He hummed in reply, hugged her just a little tighter and kept rocking from side to side. That was all the encouragement she needed. 

“I mean, my mom’s a vegetable and she’s--dying,” a small sob echoed through her throat, “I know how these patients end up. I see no other solution. She’s going to wither away in that bed and I can’t do any fucking thing about it. And then there’s my degree which I’m not completing because we obviously need the money for mom so I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, to my life and to my career and just, I just can’t breathe Chan and it scares me, it scares me so damn much--”

“Hey hey,” he pulled back just enough to see another path of tears dribbling down her face, thumb reaching up to brush it away, “it’s okay, shh. Enough crying, hm? You know I hate it when you cry.” 

That only incited her to cry some more and Chan made a noise of protest before he cupped her cheek, gently wiping them away as they fell, “I know that everything sucks right now. I--I can’t even imagine how impossible everything must be for you, and I can’t tell you that things will sort themselves out because we never know what might happen.”

“But,” he continued with a gentle squeeze to her hip then and she tensed slightly at the intimacy of his gesture, “I swear it gets better. I swear it on my heart. And if you want to cry then cry, I’ll be here. If you need to shout, to scream, to punch someone, I’ll be there Micha,” tilting her chin up so that she had no choice but to gaze at him, he cracked the softest of smiles that left her all giddy inside, “I’m not going to let you go through this alone, that I can promise you.”

Swallowing thickly, it was hard not to squirm underneath the soft glimmer of his soft maroon-eyed stare. So she dropped her eyes while mumbling out a soft, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he whispered back.

“You don’t deserve to be here, you-- you’ve done so much for me and I don’t even know how I’m supposed to repay that--”

“There is nothing,” he cut her off firmly while his hold tightened unconsciously, “to be sorry for.” 

Still, Micha’s eyes suddenly found interest in the patterns of her best friend’s shirt, knowing that there was no possibility of eye-contact now, not if she wanted to keep her self-control in check. Maybe it meant nothing for Chan to hold her so casually in his arms, but there was no denying the fact that anyone looking through their restaurant window could mistake them for a couple, and the thought caused Micha to reel back in self-disgust. 

As if sensing her inner turmoil, her best friend’s hand went up against the back of her head before he nudged her to his shoulder. And while Micha’s brain was shaking in disapproval, she couldn’t find the strength to fight against what her own body yearned for, returning back into his arms and telling herself that it was just for tonight. Tonight, she would push everything at the back of her mind and just for now, would enjoy the mere warmth and comfort that came with Chan’s arms.

Burrowing her face into the crook of his neck and taking in his scent, Micha allowed her eyes to slip closed for a moment, trying her best to engrave this into memory. 

Just for tonight, she promised herself inwardly. Just for tonight, she would be selfish. 

Just for tonight, she would imagine that Chan was hers. And no one else’s. 

. ° ☆ ° .

"Do I have to be there?"

Micha caught Minho's eye as he helped her hand through her coat sleeve. The said young man's eyebrow rose at her question as if she'd never asked a thing so dumb, "yes you do."

"But why?" She stomped her feet while whining, "I don't even like to drink. Or dance."

"It's my birthday. I call the shots."

"I hate you."

"Aw, me too," he pinched her cheek with aggressive fondness and Micha batted him away with her hands, scowling and muttering a string of curses under her breath as she trailed after him towards his car.

Minho's birthday was to be special as he was turning twenty-two, the perfect excuse to go out and drown themselves in alcohol. Felix, Changbin and Jisung had even rode all the way from their campus to stay over for the long weekend, taking advantage of the public holiday to party the night away.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Minho asked as he slowed to a stop at a red light.

Micha turned to him, "yeah?"

He hesitated for a few seconds. Then, "do you like Chan?"

It was so sudden, like ice running down her back and making her go tense, fingers curling onto the material of her dark pants. Micha gazed out at the stop light until it went blurry, not knowing what to say to make it sound truthful.

"No--"

"I know he doesn't see you," Minho spoke up hurriedly, "but I see the way you look at him. I couldn't help but ask."

It wasn't like she had planned to let her secret out so soon. But he'd caught her red-handed. Her shoulders slumped, followed by the softest of sighs escaping her lips.

"You caught me," was the only thing she said.

Another pause that allowed the words to settle between them, before the light turned green and the car moved forward. A good distraction against the awkwardness sticking to Micha's heart like sweat.

"Do you..." Minho paused, "do you think you should tell him?"

"No."

"Don't you think he needs to know?" Minho turned his car down a street lined with pubs. They were slowly approaching their destination, “It’s not fair to him.” 

She kept her gaze out of the window, partly too embarrassed to face him and partly to keep herself from crying, "what good would it do?"

She was glad that they had reached the parking lot of the restaurant bar at that point, for she had no intentions of continuing a conversation that led to nowhere and, ignoring Minho’s call for her name, quickly jumped out of the vehicle and strode right up to the doors of Seniora’s. 

The restaurant was already full and she was glad that they had at least booked a private VIP spot in advance, thanks to Seungmin’s amazing organization skills. Micha weaved her way through in the dim spotlights shining atop dark mahogany tables that blended in with the darkness, trying to find their respective table among the throng of pretty, made-up girls in too-short dresses and guys who had no problem puffing out their cigarettes right into her face. 

“Guys!” Felix’s voice boomed through the jazz notes floating through the air, and Micha turned towards his voice to see him waving frantically, a huge grin on his childish face, ‘over here!”

His excitement was contagious as it caused her own lips to stretch into a mirroring grin. She bounded into his arms without hesitation, “Felix! You made it! You said you had an assignment to finish.”

“You know how convincing Minho hyung gets once he sets his mind to it,” the freckled man gave her a once over before he whistled, “don’t you look--”

“--Fucking gorgeous, Micha,” the pair turned towards the voice, seeing Changbin with open arms while she squirmed at his compliment. He was being too kind, though her sleek black jumpsuit that clung to her curves was definitely a contrast to her usual sweater and jeans. Behind him stood Jisung and Seungmin, as well as a few other of their classmates, girls and boys included.

Her eyes suddenly locked onto a familiar pair of dark orbs. Chan. 

“Hello! Hug, please?!” Changbin’s hand brought her attention back as he waved before her, scowling in mock annoyance. Micha grinned, wrapping her arms around his neck, “come here you big baby.” 

“Careful Mi, he might have wandering hands now that he sees you’re more than just a replacement for Chan,” Seungmin commented while giving her shoulder a squeeze. 

That earned the latter a glare from the said muscled man, “what? I’m just stating how beautiful she looks.” 

Micha made her rounds of greeting -- did Minho’s friend group triple by tenfold since she was gone?-- and was exhausted by the time she finally stumbled before Chan.

“Hey, look at you,” Chan offered her a dimpled grin and she swore she wanted to coo at how cute he was. Stop that, Micha gave herself a mental slap as he continued, “all I’m gonna say is, stay away from Changbin tonight.”

“He’s not going to do anything,” she rolled her eyes, “I’ve known him long enough. I’m basically his brother.” 

Her best friend said nothing, only gazed at her in that undecipherable way of his, like he was trying to solve a puzzle that couldn’t be solved.

“What?” she asked. 

“Uh--nothing,” he dropped his gaze, looked away just in time for their attention to be diverted by Minho calling for a round of shots, “alright alright everyone! I’ll open up the party, shall we?”

Before she knew it, Micha had been tugged along by none other than Felix only to be dragged to the counter where a row of shots were being filled to the brim. She didn’t have to ask, knew instantly by smell that this was definitely not water. Her nose burned at the sting of vodka permeating her nostrils and she cursed under her breath as Minho handed her one with a teasing, yet sympathetic grin.

“I think you’ll need it tonight,” Micha couldn’t stop herself from scowling at the underlying meaning in his words. She swore at him, “dick.” 

Micha hadn’t realized how monotonous, how boringly routine, her life had become ever since she flew back to her motherland. What with her mother’s situation in hospital and her running around trying to cover up all of her father’s blind spots, Micha had forgotten how it actually felt to be young, to be as carefree as she usually would be during university in-between her constant flow of assignments, how she used to get into this ‘fuck-it’ mood and hit up the arcade with the rest of the boys before winding up at one of the local bars, beers in their hands as they competed on who could chug down their drinks faster. 

So she took advantage of Minho’s birthday to let herself relax and actually pay attention to what was happening to her, around her. Just in this moment. Nowhere else. And it felt good. It felt...alive. Free.

She danced along to the music, chatted with the other girls who she now realized were quite cool and sassy in their own flirtatious ways, drank shot after shot every time another one of her friends dragged her back to the bar without realizing that maybe she should’ve kept count.

Until it was all too late. The alcohol didn’t have any effect. Until it hit her like a tow truck.

And maybe this sudden rebellious streak had manifested itself the moment her eyes lingered over the familiar pair of figures on the dance floor, chest clenching and heart crumbling at the sweetest brush of Chan’s fingers against Ayeong’s forehead. Micha turned away just in time to halt the tears burning through the corners of her eyes and she impulsively made a grab for Changbin’s arm before pulling him along with her, “let’s get another drink.” 

“Are you sure Mi? You kinda look tipsy already--”

“It’s on me. Now stop being a wuss and come on.”

Seniora’s was filled to the brim now that it was almost past midnight and the sea of bodies aided to calm the storm threatening to split her heart into. It made it easier to breathe, easier to push back the thought at the back of her mind as the alcohol paved its way through her blood and thrummed against her veins. 

It felt good. Too good. And Micha wanted this numbness to last forever.

. ° ☆ ° .

Unfortunately, it didn't.

"It's alright, you're alright," Changbin's soothing alto comforted her as she kept on throwing up the contents of her dinner, continuously dragging her hair back to hold it up and out of the way.

"Oh god--" Micha's stomach lurched "I'm sorry--" she couldn't stop herself from vomiting once more and boy, was she glad that Changbin had dragged her out of Seniora's just in time.

"So?" Felix called from the corner of the small street in which they were hiding from curious eyes. No point in giving people something to talk about, "how is she?"

"Holding up," Micha called back despite the sour taste in her mouth. When it felt like she wasn't going to pass out anymore, she slowly dragged herself upwards, throwing Changbin's concerned expression a weak smile.

To which he replied, "you look like shit."

"Thanks Changbin. That's exactly what I need to hear," Micha rolled her eyes, feeling his strong arm wrap itself around her waist. She allowed herself to lean into him just this once, fearing that she might trip over her feet and fall flat on her face if she wasn't careful.

They stumbled over to Felix who, upon giving Micha a once-over, stated that she was to be sent home at once.

"I'm fineeee guyssss," Micha whined through slurred words, "pluss, I really wanna...dance y'know?"

She swayed a little for good measure, only to stumble and she would've landed flat on the sidewalk if not for Changbin's arm holding her upright.

"I'm bringing you home," Changbin's tone was firm.

"Nooo, I don't want to go home yet!"

"Micha, you and I both know that you're too drunk to make those decisions right now."

"But Changbinnieeee I just--I really want to--" and as soon as the picture of Chan's face flashed before her eyes, she felt her resolve crumbling into the form of tears, "I want to...forget about him--"

It hurt too much. She couldn't keep it together. It was like she was forcing herself to hold in the pain burning through her loins and no sooner had had she tilted up to meet Changbin’s eyes that she burst into wretched sobs.

She felt him still for a moment, arm hesitantly tugging her closer, hand wrapping around her head in comfort, “h-hey,” he peered into her face, slightly panicked at her outburst, “what--what’s the matter?” 

“Mi?” Felix’s voice joined in. Warmth swept over her side, “Mi, what’s wrong? Do you not feel good? Do you want to go home?” 

Micha nodded, and felt herself getting tugged to Changbin’s chest. That made her cry even harder, for while his scent was nothing short of comforting, it wasn’t the warmth she was looking for.

All she wanted was for Chan.

But he wasn’t hers. And he never will be.

“I got her,” she heard Changbin’s words over the raging storm tossing her heart aside. Warmth circled her shoulders -- his leather jacket, no doubt -- and she allowed his hands to steer her away from the loud bass beats of the restaurant bar and she had to give that to him. No matter how much of a bad boy he was, no one could possibly deny him of his heart of gold. That Micha was pretty sure of.

They were halfway up the street with Changbin flailing for a cab when a familiar car pulled up their street. Its window rolled down, causing Micha’s breath to halt in her throat.

“Need a ride?” Chan’s eyebrow was raised in amusement, only to drop in concern upon noticing her pale composure, “what the--Micha?!” 

“No,” Micha quickly stuffed her face into Changbin’s shoulder, “Changbin, please...” 

The latter, as confused as ever, nudged her towards the car, “come on Mi. Chan’ll take you home.” 

“Nooooo.” 

"Not the time, Micha. Seriously, get in the car.” 

“I said noooo--”

Too late, for Changbin simply whipped her up in his hold, walked right around to the passenger door while ignoring her trying to sock him one, before plopping her into the seat. He slammed the door in her face and waved goodbye, “see you tomorrow, loser!”

Great. That was exactly what she needed. To be alone with Chan.

“Well someone drank a little too much tonight,” was the first thing he said the moment he pulled onto the street, a little smirk sent in her direction. Micha only sighed heavily, before leaning away to look out of the window pane. 

This was painful, sitting here with Chan with all those unresolved feelings burning her loins while he sat, totally oblivious and charming and just so breathtaking that it physically hurt her fingers from stopping any attempts to hold his hand, just touch his skin, just-- feel him. 

“Where’s...Ayeong?” she mumbled against the glass.

Just the name caused her chest to tighten. 

“I dropped her off with the other girls. They’re having a sleepover or something.” 

“She’s not spending the night with you?” 

“No.” 

“Ohh how dumb of her,” the words rolled off her tongue so easily now that there was alcohol swimming through her veins. It actually felt good to know that Ayeong was not to be with Chan that night, “it’s her-- it’s her lossss.” 

“Oh you are so drunk.” 

“I am...” she hiccuped and threw him a scowl, “not drunk!” 

Chan chuckled, reaching over to ruffle her hair playfully and that simple act merely got her heart racing, “I’ll see if I have some extra aspirin to give you for your headache tomorrow--” 

"Chan, can I--can I tell you something?” 

He stopped at the red light and as his head turned, eyes finding hers in the darkness of the morning hours, a surge of courage suddenly overtook her.

She wanted to blame it on the alcohol even though deep down Micha was certain a small part of her had always wanted to let her best friend in on the most deepest, darkest secret she wished she could carry to her grave.

But this secret that had been eating her from the inside out, was something that was making her heart to burst at the seams. And while she never even imagined of hurting Chan that way, she knew that this was inevitable. It had to be done, for her to move on from it. Because she’d realized then and there, that it would be impossible for her to just bury those feelings away, no matter how hard she tried.

So that left her with no other choice.

“I think that,” her hand rose up as if on instinct to poke his cheek then, eyes drooping with sleep, “I think I....might be in love with you.” 

-----

Tagging: @allyg-onz​ @elysianxshepherd​ @rindomo​ @freckledquokka​ @maedesculpaeusoubi​ @missskzbiased​ @seungoclock​

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[lizzyverydizzyyo]

D.E.A.N | Chapter 7 - Revelation

Masterlist and overall summary of the whole novel is here. | Prompt on trope-appreciation-tuesdays that inspired this is here. | @whumptober-archive

Fandom : Original Work

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)

AO3

A/N sorry for the long delay of update, but life was, uh, happening and my laptop also broke, but here is two updates for you guys (with chapter 8) as a celebration for ides of march where stabby stabby happened and whump update seems like the perfect celebration

Wordcount: ± 3247

TW : Slight Mention of Homophobia, Discussion of Underage Sexual Assault (noncon), Discussion of Human Trafficking, Discussion of Kidnapping

To distract themselves and try to be productive, the team tries to discuss and solidify some future plan and tactic. They end up discovering more about the tragic fate of their now rescue instead.

Whumptober 2021 Tropes:

Day Alt. 23 — Regret

Day Alt. 26 — Tragedy

This story is set in the last half of 2016.

------

When the team discusses some plans or scant intel from tactical intelligence team in routine meeting, everyone can feel the unsaid tense feeling and deep worry for their now rescued captive.

“Okay, we’re scared for him. He is dying. Can we move on and discuss the matter at hand now?” Anderson finally snaps.

“What matter at hand, exactly? It’s not like tactical intelligence has something new for us,” Luke bites back with just as much sharpness.

“At least, actually discuss it. Maybe looking at the information we currently have in different way can give us some vague plan.”

“And how to discuss it properly, oh the smart one?” Anna replies this time.

“Shut the fuck up, you bitch. All you do is just be cynical and sarcastic.”

“Maybe if everyone stops being a little bitch themselves and hovering over our oh-so-fragile informant, then I’ll stop being a bitch.”

“He’s our rescue now. How many times do I have to tell you?” Horace says while massaging his temples.

“No, he fucking isn’t. You’re all just naïve.”

Mark can’t take her cynicism anymore and leans forward in his seat.

“Do I need to fucking slam your face to the fucking screen of his MRI result so that you get it in your thick skull, Anna?” he starts with the most venomous voice he can conjure up.

“He has numerous signs of years of extreme physical abuse, even months old injuries—and you know he’s only been with us in less than a fucking month—that are still there, either healing or still permanently damaging his body,” he punctuates each of his words with raging fury filling his eyes.

“What else do you fucking want, huh? His torture footage? Or is that just gonna make you think he is so loyal to them that he was willing to be tortured for their amusement?”

Anna looks back at him sharply, although he can tell there is humiliation buried under there.

“Just… let’s just leave out discussion about him for now, please,” Lena finally says with desperate voice.

“Then stop toeing around our important discussion just because you’re all attached to our stray rescue pet.”

“Anna, I swear to god—”

“Mark, sit down.”

Luke bellows.

“Why the fuck did he choose you to be the next deputy commanding officer? You have no fucking soul,” he still bites back at Anna.

“Why the fuck did he choose you at all to be here, you naïve asshole? Oh, that’s right. Because he fucked your mom.”

Mark rises again towards Anna with his fists balled up on his sides. Luke immediately rises too with George to hold him back.

“No wonder we all constantly get stumped by Helga. You’re all fucking children,” Anderson murmurs.

“Look, uh, maybe we can look through what he said to us before he got sick. Victim or ex-member, he might still have valuable information,” George unsurely chips in.

Luke exhales.

“Well, all he said is that he didn’t know anything, that he was kept in his… ‘pen’” Luke cringes, “when they weren’t using him, and he was with them for over three years. Basically since he was kidnapped,” he says dejectedly.

“Use as in getting fucked, probably, so that isn’t important.”

Everyone stares at Anderson sharply.

“What? People are queer, even criminals. He might be their taste so he was kept as permanent pet.”

“Can you not,” Horace rubs the bridge of his nose, “be so crass? For once?”

“I’m just saying.”

“So gay people are predator, is that what you’re saying, Andy?” Mark asks pointedly.

Anderson holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, I guess that’s homophobic.”

George looks deep in thought, then like a metaphorical lamp is suddenly light up in his brain, he straightens up.

“Maybe he was used for something else.”

Everyone rolls their eyes.

“No, I mean it. Do we know if he has any specialized skill? Or connection to someone important?”

For once, everyone looks willing to engage, if a little bit hesitant.

“Look, all this time, we have never seen any connection between the kids they took. Mostly because we weren’t sure it’s them who kidnapped these victims. But also,” he looks to the side as he considers his next point, “all of the victims seem random. All age, at least between 15 and 20, all race, all gender, all nationality and residency status, all locations, states, countries even. Basically, from all walks of life. Some of them ended up found dead, but most of them aren’t ever seen again.”

“Your point being?” Luke asks tiredly.

“What if these kids were chosen specifically for something? Physical attributes, strength, medical history? Or even skill?”

“Nick might be a fluke.”

“Yes, maybe. But maybe there are others like him, the ones who are kept around by Helga for a long time. So for what exactly? If they’re not the norm, what makes them different? And if they turn out to be the norm for Helga’s victims, why? What are they using these kids for?”

Anderson rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, but George beats him to it.

“Yes, yes, I know. Most likely for sexual slavery, but Helga is more complicated than that. Maybe they are used for sexual slavery, but when they are not used for that, what are they used for, on the side?”

All around him, the freckled man sees that everyone is genuinely considering what he says.

“How was he before Helga got to him?” Don asks finally.

“Well… it’s not like the missing person profile is detailing his MBTI or love language and shit,” Luke chimes in.

“But what about his online presence? Social media has been booming since late 2000s. Maybe he has some accounts. He was 17 when he went missing, right? That’s the age when kids like to be social online.”

Mark turns around on his seat to look at his laptop, going to hidden mode like the usual protocol when D.E.A.N agents go online.

“What’s his profile name? Should we just google him?” Horace asks over his shoulder.

Mark puts in ‘Nikolai Khiem Belyaev’ on the search bar and clicks enter.

The first few results are unfortunately about the many articles covering him as a missing kid, linking him to the wave of other missing persons happening lately.

One headline catches his eyes, so he clicks it.

Computer Science Prodigy Missing, Adding Another to The List of Young Bright Minds Taken Away Too Soon

On the top of the article is a picture taken in seemingly a site for a competition. Teenager Nick is on the forefront holding a medal that’s looped over his neck as he is sporting a smiley and smug face.

He keeps reading the article, as does everyone who looks over his shoulder.

February 20th, 2013

As with the wave of missing young people that has been happening for months, the young Vietnamese-Russian descent coding genius is now the newest victim since two days before Valentine’s day this year. Supposedly meeting with a friend that evening, Nikolai Khiem Belyaev never showed up to the agreed location in the nearest fast-food franchise location, says his friend initialed VL.

Nikolai Belyaev, a prodigy in programming, having won first place in countless programming and robotic competitions from county to international levels, has been reported missing by his parents after he did not come home for three days. The 17-year-old is supposed to join the fall matriculation quarter in Stanford after getting his Early Decision letter of acceptance last year in December.

“So, he is smart, good for him,” Anna quips in sarcastically.

Mark rolls his eyes without responding.

“Fellow alumni too with you, Mark, if he didn’t join Helga,” she adds again.

“Shut up,” everyone says in return.

“He was supposed to go to college this year. He already applied for financial aids too. He said he wanted to go to Stanford for years but doesn’t want us to be too burdened. It’s almost a week now, and he isn’t home yet,” his mother told our reporter tearfully as she was interviewed two days ago in their residence in Oregon.

Mark skims over the next few paragraphs as they don’t contain useful information other than some standard he is a happy-go-lucky kid or he is a good kid and maybe even he had so much potentials peppered in.

He immediately skips to the telephone number for people who want to give tips to the authority or his family.

Not useful.

They are definitely not contacting his parents. There is no way Helga isn’t keeping track of them and not notice non-civilian calling them.

“There is not social media username,” George says dejectedly.

“Wait, let me scroll down further.”

He clicks ‘back’ and scrolls down further the list of articles aggregated by the search engine.

For three pages, those are all there is on the search result list, but Mark keeps clicking next page until he finally reaches the ones not about his missing status.

It’s a twitter account named @NickyBoo with over 2000 followers.

“Is that him?” Horace questions.

Mark clicks on the profile picture to enlarge the image.

Though younger and a little chubbier looking, it’s definitely their Nick.

“Gotcha,” he whispers.

“He has lots of followers. I guess he was pretty popular, huh?” Luke points out casually.

“Probably morbidly curious or sympathetic people following his account after he went missing,” someone else, Mark doesn’t pay attention who, replies to Luke.

Out of curiosity, he opens another tab and goes to a site that usually keeps track of the statistics for people’s social media accounts. He enters Nick’s username and clicks enter.

“Uh, no. He was already popular before that. He had 1400ish followers before February 12th 2013,” Mark says, then he goes back to the tab showing Nick’s social media profile again.

He scrolls down the profile, seeing what Nick was up to, trying to get to the oldest possible post.

“Stop, not too far back.”

He stops scrolling and looks at his commanding officer then back to the screen.

It's predictably filled with teenager musings like how his parents suck, that he is bored, what music and bands he likes, or some insults thrown here and there towards people he doesn’t like.

“What’s the point? There is nothing important there,” Don says cynically.

“No, wait, wait scroll back a little.”

Mark tries to scroll back slowly to see what Luke saw.

“It’s his winning photo for that robotic competition. It was in that article. What’s so special about it?” Anna says rudely.

“How old was he there? That’s a national competition, right?”

Mark minimizes the encrypted browser and brings up D.E.A.N database program instead to see the missing person profiles again. He clicks back until he gets to Nick’s profile, another wave of guilt and cold sensation passing through him.

They look at the information there for a while to count back the birthday as it wasn’t included in the profile, only the age when he went missing.

“Oh, fuck. We’re all going to hell,” Luke mutters dejectedly after a while.

Mark furrows his eyebrows in confusion before blanching in the same realization.

“Oh my god, he turned 21 when we were beating him up.”

He hears Lena horrifyingly says as he, too, counts back to the day Nick was found and the day he supposedly turned 21. It was August 3rd and August 7th respectively.

“That’s… that’s rough. He should be going to bars for the first time instead of bleeding out in our dingy cell,” George says pitifully.

“It’s, well, it’s done. We can’t—” Horace sighs, “Well, we can’t turn back time. We’ll just give him cake when he is recovered.”

Mark doesn’t think it is equal to everything they’ve done to Nick, especially on his birthday, but he hopes Nick likes cake anyway.

“Okay, how old was he in that picture?” Angie says, trying to get everyone out of their regretful musing.

The date of the post says November 15th 2010.

“15? Already national champion?”

“Many kids won earlier. He isn’t special,” Anna quips in again, much to everyone’s irritation.

“There is another one less than a month later,” Mark points out absently as he looks at the picture and the caption.

Suck it Massachusetts. Better luck next time lol

Below is a picture of teenager Nick finger-gunning the camera with one raised eyebrow in smug face as he stands beside a certificate saying that he won first place in a national coding competition.

“He certainly isn’t humble about it,” George points out.

“Sounds annoying as hell, true,” Anna responds.

“You’re biased. You aren’t allowed to have opinion on his character,” Mark retorts.

“You have a crush on him or something?”

Mark rolls his eyes.

He scrolls up again to see newer posts, mostly showing pictures of him on competition sites with smug and arrogant face, complete with annoying sounding captions. He is not going to lie, he does feel a little irritated by younger and naïve Nick. That is, until he stumbles upon one that he misses when he scrolled back before.

It's from September 23rd, 2011.

Lmao Pentagon suckass. Yall need to fire your IT guys

Below that is a picture of boyish Nick from the side of the frame, looking like he is cheekily poking in with his head into the frame, while behind him is a computer screen showing lines of codes and the unmistakably unique UI of Pentagon network. Some of the lines and other parts of the picture are scrubbed out haphazardly with a feature reminiscent of classic Microsoft Paint.

The next day, there is string of posts from Nick.

FBI guys just came into my house and now my parents grounded me hahahaha

they really think they can stop me with their garbage security kiss my ass xoxo

(im kidding dont jail me mister fbi)

“You know what? I’m thinking he definitely deserves to be kidnapped. Otherwise, I���m gonna punch that little shit myself,” Don retorts with irritation.

“Were you not an asshole little shit when you were 16?” Luke shoots back at the bald man.

“I didn’t air out my assholery to the entire world like this.”

“That’s because you’re a baby boomer, you fucking dinosaur,” Mark retorts back this time, clearly hitting a sore spot in the heart of the 40ish year old Navy veteran.

“Look, he may be an asshole, but he still bypassed Pentagon security at 16. That’s gotta mean something,” Mary points out.

It's true. It definitely shows that Nick wasn’t an ordinary 16-year-old. And maybe still not an ordinary 21-year-old now.

He continues scrolling up, seeing again the teenage musings he saw before (now with slight annoyance as he started to notice how aggravating teenage-Nick could be at times) until he sees another post that immediately pulls his attention.

On September 1st 2012, Nick posted a picture of him exaggeratedly presenting a framed certificate with his hands. The certificate says ECSA. Above the picture says a caption:

yo @Apple hit me up

“You sure that’s ECSA?” Anderson immediately leans forward over everyone else now that a serious cybersecurity topic pulls his attention.

It’s no question as Anderson is the only one in the team given a choice to either be in tactical intelligence department or offensive department when he was first picked as D.E.A.N agent. Which means he has both the brain and the brawn.

In terms of cyber system prowess—as annoying as he is sometimes—he does surpass all of them despite all agents being given intermediate training in cybersecurity and system penetration skill, regardless of what department they are, just like how all agents are given at least intermediate combat and marksmanship training along with intermediate first aid skill and knowledge.

Maybe that’s just how IT experts are. Pretty annoying.

“Yeah, it says ECSA,” Mark says.

“Not CEH?”

“No. It does say ECSA.”

Anderson widens his eyes. “At 17?”

“Yeah. I mean if that’s legit.”

“But aren’t underage kids not allowed to take the exam?” Lena questions.

“They can if they get permission from their parents and recommendation letter from an accredited university,” Anderson explains again, all while he snatches the mouse from Mark (and earning a frown from him) and zooms in the picture.

“He was still in high school, though.”

“Maybe he was taking additional college level classes usually offered to ambitious kids in several universities. Or community colleges,” Anderson absently replies, his hand quickly scrolling up and down the screen and quickly typing on the keyboards.

The screen flits around so fast, too fast for Mark to follow, if he is being honest, until it eventually ends up in database full of names and other information that he doesn’t really get.

Anderson scrolls down until he gets to N then slowly scrolls down again.

“That’s his name. It’s legit.”

Anderson straightens up, his face looking awed, if hidden and pushed down a little. There is almost silent respect in his look.

“So, he is a programming prodigy.”

“Not just programming. It’s almost all skills needed in cyber security and system penetration for varying systems, network type, and OS, at professional level. Not everyone can pass that, not even all of NSA, let alone a 17-year-old kid,” Anderson explains again as a response to Lena.

Anderson goes back to the tab showing Nick’s twitter profile, absently scrolling up and down to see what’s more on there. One post around December 2012 shows Nick beaming as he presents his own laptop to the camera showing the aforementioned Early Decision letter of acceptance from Mark’s former undergraduate university. It’s then followed by another musing about how he just broke up with someone and was feeling a little lonely.

If Nick were to go there instead of getting kidnapped, Mark might have had the chance to meet him there while he was still in college as he was of class 2015 and Nick would have been of class 2017. Hell, they might even be in the same faculty of engineering. Nick would have had his commencement next year.

Funny and tragic how it turned out for the heterochromatic-eyed boy.

“Helga wouldn’t pass that up,” Mark says in realization.

“Wait, there is another tweet from him back then.”

It’s now entering the year of 2013 on Nick’s twitter profile, and Lena points at a particular post.

there are some truly weird ass and twisted people out there, especially on the deep web damn

It was posted on 5th of February, a week before he went missing.

Something tells him, Nick might have stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have seen, his teenage arrogance leading him to a place where he realized he was in over his head.

It is followed by normal teenager musings next, this time a little less annoying and more… subdued, somehow.

The last post he made is from 11th of February 2013.

really nervous about this lol, really hoping this works out cuz i miss holding someone’s hand

And then it’s over. There is no more post from him at all from then on.

Of course, they all know why now. It’s because Nick was taken by Helga the next day when he was about to go on what sounded like a date.

They all turn to each other in common realization.

“So that’s why Helga took him?”

Without getting answer, Horace understands it anyway, as does everyone else in the room.

Helga hit a jackpot with Nick.

***

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)

#whump #whumptober2021 #whumper turned caretaker #OC #oc whump #D.E.A.N #no.5 #i've got red in my ledger #misunderstanding #multiple whumpers #whump prompt #prompt fill #writing #english #repost for whump sideblog #whump community #me #completionist #whumptober #me write

[creativeashproductions]

Permanence // Luke Patterson

Summary: On the run for most of her life the reader had been accustomed to being a lone wolf in world with eyes everywhere. Living in the age of technology and life online makes it hard for a girl stuck in a permanent state at nineteen physically. All things change when the reader moves next door to a healing teenager and her ghostly band.

Warning: Swearing, loss of death, talk of injuries/hospital,  angst, and fluff

Words: 5.1k (yikes)

A/N: Loosely based on the film Age of Adaline. Also includes a scene using the BBC show Call the Midwife as well. I’ve been MIA due to this fic. I love it.

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX PLEASE!

Masterlist

The love tingled in your lips as the taxi pulled away from the curb leaving behind the white-haired woman. Your hand raised to wave as the woman turned into a speck in the review mirror but never far from your heart and thoughts.

“Going on a trip?” The taxi driver questioned taking a right turn with a jarring sensation. His brown eyes speedily meeting yours, “Does your mom grandma live in San Francisco?”

A mournful smile appeared on the wrinkle-free complexion, “Something like that.”

The reply didn’t faze the driver in a big city he had chosen to make his living with for his family, he had heard worse. The airport reared its head with the big heavily populated by tourists and loud machinery of transport.

The royal blue wool jacket concealed the black blouse tucked into the grey, and black tartan fitted trousers. Paired with the black velvet kitten heels that had been in your possession for a very long time. Hair left down in the soft waves and makeup natural for the plane right.

The flight was over quickly for the young woman with her carry on, and purse collected you immediately headed to baggage claim. The suitcase was easy found and lifted off the conveyor belt with little trouble. Your expressive eyes finding the taxi, some may call you old fashioned for not ‘ubering’, but it was a nostalgic action.

“Where to?” The taxi driver asked with pretty blue eyes shadowed by the crows’ feet at the corner’s of her eyes. Swiftly you listed off the address to the house you had bought with your vast savings, “Half hour ride.”

You settled back into the leather seat as the city passed by with the memories staunchly kept in a locked box escaping. Los Angeles had been the location of the only family trip you had had in your late teens.

Los Angeles, 1936

“Darling! This Samuel, he owns the restaurant up the beach.” Theodore’s bright white smile gleamed as he returned to your side, “He’s personally invited us to celebrate the first night of our life together.

The pleated cark charcoal pants held up with black suspenders snuggle atop the button-down shirt of denim blue colour. The shirt left with the top two buttons undone revealing the white undershirt. Shiny polished black shoes on Theodore’s feet he was dressed as perfect as the day he caught your runaway hat.

“Oh, thank you.” You told the shy man as he led you up to the well-known restaurant with the gorgeous view of the water.

Samuel went further by providing his best table in the house, leaving the host annoyed at the interruption. The dinner was spent with Theodore listing off the itinerary for the week in the city. From visiting the museums to watching a film at the Los Angeles Theatre recommended by Theodore’s connection from work.

“You like to share a dessert Darling?” Theodore asked tenderly holding your soft hand in his smooth one. His smile never faded as you declined his offer satisfied with the large meal from the five-course dinner.

“I’d much prefer the comfort of our hotel room.” Your lips ended the words with a smile that paired well with the glittering eyes. Theodore’s heart expanded as his wife’s smile, he had fallen in love with first.

“The hotel placed a nice bottle of champagne in our room,” Theodore spoke once the bill was taken care of. He pulled your chair out to help you slip on the navy blue wool jacket on from the back of your chair, “You are absolutely beautiful.”

“Still as charming as ever.” You whispered gazing up at him with such love. 

You had loved Theodore from the first chaperoned date at sixteen with the handsome eighteen-year-old that had saved your hat. The wind that day had been unbearable as you walked the beach of San Francisco with your mother. At seventeen, you wed; a mere few days previous. Theodore came from a well-off family but worked as an engineer for the city.

“We’re here.” The taxi driver spoke as the car pulled to a stop at a pretty house painted a blue with white accents.

Mumbling a thank you the driver took off once your belongings found ground on the sidewalk and the fare paid. The house door unlocked with a click revealing the furnishing you had sent and hired a company to build. The boxes of personal belongings had arrived in boxes the previous day and awaited unpacking.

The first order of business on your to-do list was changing the locks as well as testing the safety alarm. The next few hours you unpacked your kitchen and clothing as the locksmith took his time finishing up previous appointments.

Your hand hovered over the oval golden framed photo of your wedding day with Theodore with a smile on both your faces. You didn’t look a day older than the day you married Theodore even if it had been so long. The familiar clench at the sight of the man happened every time you saw the photo.

“You’d be so proud of Rosie.” Your index finger caressed the elegant picture of your first love with a mournful emotion.

Pulled from the sad memories as the doorbell rang signalling the arrival of the locksmith. The appointment was swift before you finished unpacking the living room from the bookcase to the picture frames. As the minute handle circled the clock face, you settled in for the simple meal.

“Tea on the porch.” You sighed curling into the cherry red Adirondack chair in the front porch watching as children went inside their houses.

It wasn’t how you had anticipated your life dreaming of a life with a family in a lovely home. You never expected to live in fear for your life, and your child’s as the second World War reared its ugly head. You never envisioned having to move every few years to keep safe. Lastly, you had never foreseen watching Rosie’s hair turn white before your own. You thought you’d be buried beside your husband after a long life. So far, it had been too long at this point with your childhood friends all dead.

 “Hi.” The voice of a teenage girl spoke. Your gaze left your lukewarm tea for the girl at the bottom of your porch.

Strands of her curly textured hair pulled away from her face it revealed her clear tawney complexion. The most expressive brown eyes framed with thick lashes that took your breath away with the kindness in them.

“You just moved in right?” The girl asked as you climbed down the steps to the younger teenager, “I’m Julie Molina, I live next door.”

 “Hello Julie, I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” You spoke, shaking the extended hand of the young girl inspecting her.

Her fashion was obviously of the current time whereas your own style was a mixture of different eras. The style fits in but touches to bring in the past decades you had lived through.

“Where are your parents?” Julie asked with a furrowed brow.

“I live alone.” You replied sighing as the confusion flashed in the younger teen’s eyes before you elaborated, “I’m nineteen. I bought the house, my parents live in my home state.”

They weren’t living, but they were buried in the cemetery with the other family members that had since passed. Unless a freak accident happened, your plot near your husband wouldn’t be filled. The only person who knew the truth was Rosie, she was your daughter.

“Wow! That’s cool.” Julie beamed glancing over her shoulder as her phantom friends poofed in behind her.

The sudden appearance startled you and while it was confusing you had become well acquainted with weird. You hadn’t aged a day since a stormy night on the country roads in 1938 heading to pick up Rosie. You barely flinched at the appearance.

“Oh damn, Julie’s neighbour is hot.” The leather jacket one spoke scanning the newcomer with an awed expression.

The boy with the sleeveless top sharing the same awed expression. Whereas the blonde in pink’s breath released in an exasperated sigh. Only a corner of your lips twitched up at realization this must happen quite a bit.

“I should head back inside. I have a few more boxes to unpack. It was lovely to meet you, Julie.” Your eloquent words taking the boys by surprise from the lack of modern language and slang. You didn’t use any of the terms that Julie and Flynn spoke in.

Luke followed Julie with glances over his shoulder to the back of the mysterious girl closing her front door. It wasn’t often Luke was intrigued by anything other than his music. Still, something about you was the most interesting thing. Not even touring some of his favourite bands’ personal homes was as interesting.

“C’mon Luke!” Reggie called out to the lingering teenage ghost. Unbeknownst to the retreating guitarist, your curtain had been pulled away as you peeked at him.

Over the next few weeks, you had become acquainted with Julie, even admitting to seeing the boys. It was a mess of Reggie blushing at your revelation of hearing his comments on your beauty. It wasn’t earth-shattering, but it was a friend group.

Two months later, over the course of a week, you withdrew from the group for the comfort of your living room. A garbage bin for used tissues as it sank in once more that the anniversary of Theodore’s death rolled around. 82 years since he was tragically killed.

You looked a mess and barely reacted when the four friends to it upon themselves to enter your home. Your hazy mind barely caught onto the arrival as Julie ushered your saddened form to the bathroom.

As Julie helped dress you, taking it from the extensive closet, the boys cleaned up the living room, and Alex poofed out. He returned with a pizza he began cooking coming to a stop at Luke’s gaping gaze at the mantel above the fireplace.

“What’s wrong?” Alex demanded rushing to the guitarist side equally shocked. Perfect timing as you came back into the living room with Julie.

“That’s Theodore.” The words came out gravely from the lack of use for the past few days. Your feet brought you to the side of the three boys, “It was raining the day. The sky broke when we left the church.”

“That’s you?” Reggie inquired frantically glancing between the old photo and your exact replica of the picture.

Julie gasped at the sight picking out the scar on the edge of your forehead barely seen in the photo but the matching appearance remarkable. The soft smile appeared as your hand came to grab the frame remembering the lovely day—the beautiful ceremony and the small reception before heading out for the honeymoon.

“Theodore Prescott was eighteen when I first saw him on the beach in San Francisco. Mother and I chose a windy for a walk; my hat blew away. Straight into the trousers of a young man that I would fall in love with instantly.” Your smile grew as your form settled back on the couch, having traded the frame for an old album. The four people were quiet.

“We married a year later in 1937, I was seventeen years old. Theodore whisked me off to Los Angeles for our honeymoon. We dined at fancy establishments, caught a film at the Los Angeles Theatre.” Your smile faded, leading Julie’s heart to clench as she knew that expression from seeing it in the mirror, “He was an engineer.”

“What happened?” Julie questioned grasping your soft hand in her own hand, focusing her eyes on your face. Your face remembering one of the most challenging times.

“Theodore was an engineer for the construction of the Golden Gate Bridge. A section of the bridge collapsed taking three men down. Theodore was one of them.” A lone tear travelled down your cheek, “It was difficult grieving my husband and caring for our daughter.”

Luke’s gasp was audible, “Are you a ghost?”

“No.” You told the seventeen-year-old guitarist, “I’ve been nineteen for the last 83 years.”

“Eighty-three years?!” Reggie exclaimed completely taken aback blinking fast to take it in, “Did you find a fountain of youth? Some special French creams?”

“Reg, shut up.” Alex elbowed the raven-haired teenager in the side with an apologetic smile, “I’d apologize and say he isn’t normally like this…but you know us too well.”

“It’s alright Alex,” You told the drummer fiddling with his ring as you returned back to Reggie, “It was storming in 1938, but I had promised to meet my parents and Rosie at the cabin. Visibility got worse, and I fishtailed right off the road into the ravine. I’m not sure the science but I know I died, and then I woke up.”

“This so weird,” Luke mumbled listening intently to the story with wide eyes that quickly matched his friends.

“Believe it’s shocking when your daughter graduates from college with her mother looking younger than her.” The bitter chuckle couldn’t be held back, remembering it as the first time you were retitled as Rosie’s sister.

“I just got used to being a ghost.” Alex sighed, settling into the armchair to the left of the couch. Luke sat on the couch next to you while Reggie took the armchair across from Alex.

As the sun rose higher and began to set, you enthralled the teenagers with stories of your long life. Luke was the most interested in the music you have seen evolve over the course of time, and the musicians you had met. In telling them stories, it allowed you to step out of the dark abyss of your mind.

“Freddie Mercury?” Luke asked from the other cherry red Adirondack chair turned to see you in the matching one.

“I had coffee with him in a little hole in the wall coffee shop in New York. He loved whip cream, but he didn’t like the dairy they used. The shop is now a Starbucks.”

The giggle escaped at Luke’s look of absolute awe, “That’s so rad.”

“Rad. Haven’t heard that in a long time.” The sparkle for sure would have sent Luke’s heart thudding like Alex’s drumming in Now or Never; if it still beat that is.

“…so do you think people can fall in love more than once?” Luke had been very undecided in asking the question. Everyone around could tell he felt something for you so unlike any other relationship.

You kissed your teeth, thinking about how to properly articulate your thoughts on such a heavy subject. It was clear that you felt something for the teenage ghost even if you had lived far longer than Luke had.

“I think it’s possible. Luke, I’ve lived a long time and while I’ll love Theodore for as long as I live that doesn’t mean I have been alone.” You revealed to the ghostly guitarist stepping back in a part of your history buried incredibly deep.

“The way you were torn up made me think-“

“I’ll always mourn Theodore, I had a year, and that was never enough. I worked as a midwife in England in the late 1960s.”

Poplar, London, England circa 1960s

The blonde-haired bombshell marched her way through the crowded Poplar district in London scanning the late-night Christmas shoppers. Beatrix, Trixie to her friends, had a young mother a mere street away. The only available midwife to help her happened to be off duty shopping for gifts. 

Trixie was thankful for the American accent that distinguished the midwife from the crowd, pointing her towards a store window. Your eyes dragged away from the lovely young mother giving her thanks for delivering her baby a few months prior.

“Trixie!” You beamed, revealing a white smile that lit up your pretty eye colour. Trixie’s anxious expression dropped the smile, however, “Is something wrong?”

“Jenny Turner is in labour. Tom is with her right now, but I need help. Everyone is further away.”

In seconds you had pulled the charcoal cape secured by the bands crisscrossing your shoulders to properly rest. The cloak had armholes with material covering the holes, no sleeves seen. The cape covered the plain light blue nurse uniform with the white-collar and the maroon red cardigan.

Trixie led you to the small apartment housing twenty-one-year-old, Jenny, with Reverend Tom Hereward waiting. This would be Jenny’s second child with her husband Roger leaving the midwife’s nervous after her first pregnancy.

“Hello, Jenny.” You spoke stepping closer to the woman, “Trixie said you requested my presence.”

“You delivered my first baby. I want you here, Roger a county away for work.” Jenny heavily spoke as a contraction ended, “I’m not due for two weeks.”

“Baby Turner is too excited to meet their big brother.” You soothed settling beside the young mother, “You’re in great hands with Trixie. You are close to the hospital and the clinic if you’d prefer to move.”

“No. I want to stay.” Jenny was sure of that, at least. Her hand left yours to clench the white bedsheets as a contraction clenched her midsection.

“Then I’ll be right here with you.” 

It was a promise you kept as Trixie delivered a healthy baby girl appreciating your help when you cleaned the baby. Trixie helped Jenny deliver the afterbirth and clean up the room just in time for Jenny’s mother to enter the room.

“I came as soon as I could.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” Jenny spoke with a small tired smile. The smile that made the job worth watching babies being born, of family’s growing.

Tom was waiting outside in the living room as you exited the bathroom. Your heart fluttered at the sight of the Reverend Hereward waiting for you with his patient smile and a tender look in his blue gaze.

“How is Jenny?” Tom asked, holding the door to the street open.

“Tired after delivering Cynthia. Cynthia is an eight-pound baby with no complications. Thank you for praying Tom.”

“Trixie informed me of Jenny’s first pregnancy, and I felt like I was needed. Do you happen to be free tomorrow night?” Tom asked, linking his fingers in yours with a smile that almost looked nervous.

“I am.” You responded as Tom walked you to Nonnatus House where the unmarried midwives resided. You stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, “Good night Tom.”

“I’ll meet you at the park,” Tom responded, waiting patiently as you entered the building before he turned on his heel to head to his residence. Unknown to him, you peered down from your bedroom window as he pulled something out of his pocket.

A small box housing a ring he would propose with the very next night. A ring that broke your heart. A ring that you’d never see up close as you handed in your resignation and left England as quickly as possible.

Luke’s invested gaze shuttered as you revealed you had run away before Tom could propose because it could never happen.

“He was going to propose, and you didn’t say goodbye?”

“I don’t know if I could have said no when he asked. I wish I knew what I would have said, but it was unfair. How could Tom, as a Reverend, accept that his fiancée or wife would never grow old? It went against everything he believed in.” You countered with a raised eyebrow, “He married the midwife that was hired a year after I left. Barbara Gilbert. Trixie sent me the letter.”

Luke’s perceptive eyes caught the tinge of sadness in your gaze recalling the second man you had loved. You loved with your whole heart and with that came a lot of heartbreak.

“Do you keep in contact with them?”

“I send a letter to Trixie every once in a while, to check up on her. She married a few years after I left and had a few children. I believe she had a step-daughter.”

Luke’s mouth went to open before a flash of light, and a slight gasp was heard from the blonde drummer. His eyebrows raised as the close proximity between his best friend and his new friend. He shook it off as he turned to face Luke fully.

“Did you forget? We have a gig.” Alex spoke amused as Luke’s eyes widened theatrically vividly recalling the excitement in Julie’s eyes.

You waved the duo off to disappear in a ball of light to the gig they had for the night while you entered your home. You didn’t hear Alex make a comment that Luke couldn’t deny.

“You’ve fallen for her,” Alex spoke just outside the coffee shop that housed the record execs with the power to change their afterlife. The quirk of a smile sealed Alex’s opinion of the girl.

Content to spend your time in the house you retreated to the kitchen. Your hand slipped into your pocket for the phone that had few contacts such as Rosie and Julie’s along with the number of Rosie’s doctor. Mostly pictures of Rosie and landscapes but never your face, not after the 1953 incident.

Living next door to the Molina’s you often shared recipes with Ray, he had taken you under his wing. He felt empathetic with the young neighbour he saw you as a daughter almost, unaware that it would the other way around. You had years on the widowed father.

The wooden spoon stirred the sizzling stir-fry that had been a fixture in raising a rambunctious little girl interested in skinny her knees. The stir-fry was the quickest meal while Rosie played outside or in the little play corner with her dolls. It seemed like the world knew when your phone rang.

“Hello, darling.” You spoke securing the phone between your neck and shoulder, “Did you teach Gladys poker?”

The silence was stifling, “Is this Y/N Y/L/N?”

A cold sweat broke out as the unfamiliar voice came from Rosie’s cell phone roused the deep-seated fear of loss. The wooden spoon in your hand clattered on the tile flooring of the modest-sized kitchen.

“Your grandmother Rosemary Prescott tripped over a cane. You’re her emergency contact.”

“Has she been admitted to the hospital? How extensive are her injuries? Let me get a pen and grab the address.” You rambled frantically scouring the kitchen for the notepad, “Was she alone?”

“She’s still being seen by the doctor, and I’m unable to reveal the details over the phone. Her friend Gladys was there, and she hasn’t left your grandma’s side.” The person responded in an even tone with the failed intention of soothing you.

“What’s the address?”

“I’m a nurse at Zuckerberg San Francisco General Hospital and Trauma Center.” The nurse prattled off, providing the address and visiting hours. 

As soon as the call ended, you had quickly grabbed a quick bite from the meal before packaging it up. Next, you dug out the small suitcase to pack the essentials with the mental capacity of a zombie. The bag was stowed in the backseat of the car while you kept your purse on your shoulder.

You barely comprehended knocking on the Molina door or Ray opening it, “Hello Y/N.”

“Ray. Tonight, I made stir-fry, I’ll be out of town for a few days.” You told the man catching sight of both Carlos and Julie in the background.

“Are you okay?” Ray questioned taking the container from your shaking hands, “Do you need us to do anything?”

“Could I have a h-hug?” You stuttered feeling a smidge better than the older man tugged you in for a hug. Two pairs of arms joined with the Molina kids ambushing you.

“You’re coming back, right?” The question came from the concerned hazel-eyed guitarist watching the interaction with a particular look. A look he knew came from not being able to comfort you.

“I’ll be back once I know Rosie is okay.” You replied, locking eyes with Luke over Ray’s shoulder earning a tender smile from the male.

“I’ll pray for your Grandma,” Ray spoke, stepping back to let both Julie and Carlos say their goodbyes to their neighbour. Everyone but Carlos and Ray half-heartedly smirking at Ray’s belief that Rosie was older than you.

Unlike typical times you didn’t linger in the Molina home with the distracted thoughts of Rosie injured with her mother with her. Rosie is the only thing you would drop anything for, the love of a mother and her child. So distracted by your thoughts you didn’t notice Luke had appeared right beside you.

“Are you driving?” Luke asked, tapping his shoe on the porch step, bringing your sad eyes to meet his, “Or are you taking a plane?”

“A plane. It’s a five-hour drive to San Francisco from here not taking in traffic time. I bought a last-minute ticket.” You replied, heading straight for the car with Luke hot on your heels to the vintage car.

Half of you wanted to refuse his evident intention to join you, but a part of you yearned for the comfort. A stroke of luck had a plane seat beside yours empty, time didn’t exist, but it dragged on at the same time. So lost in thoughts you never noticed the brush on a pinkie on your skin.

While you stared off in the distance, Luke’s jaw was dropped at the silky feel of your skin. Words bubbled up his throat just before he knew it wasn’t the right time to bring it up. Instead, he chose different words to regale you with stories of his childhood.

“I begged for a dog when I was eight years old. Reggie had this golden retriever his family had before he was born. My dad was allergic in the end, so I was content with Reggie’s dog.” Luke spoke, “That didn’t mean I didn’t sneak in this stray one night. We kept him in the garage while we found him a forever home.”

“What was his name?”

“Fender.” Luke sheepishly spoke, catching the tweak of your smile as the clouds in your eyes cleared for a few minutes. Luke loved being able to ease your mind through the flight, not holding back on the embarrassing stories either.

“Thank you.” You told the easy natured teenager with a familiar flutter in your chest that terrified you.

You could name only one other time you had felt that flutter when everything was easy. 1936 with a man you thought would be your one and only. Feeling something that strong for a ghost was incredibly scary.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” Luke asked just outside the closed hospital door, separating you from your daughter. Your lips parted to deny his question but you couldn’t so you simply shook your head.

“Come in!” The voice was prompt after knocking on the door. Opening the door, you found Rosie’s grinning in her bed with Gladys at her side, scolding her.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” Gladys spoke shuffling by you out of the door with a quick hug. The second Gladys closed the door, your eyebrows furrowed.

“Rosemary Elspath Prescott. What were you thinking?” You crossed your arms walking closer to Rosie, “You know your ankle hasn’t been the same-“

“-since I shattered during a cheer comp in college. Mama, I know. It was an accident.” Rosie softly spoke just before her gaze met Luke’s with fear planted squaring in her blue gaze. Luke’s lips parted, “He knows?”

“Oh.” Luke blinked at the sudden new change in his afterlife with Rosie actually seeing him, “I’m Luke.”

“This is going to sound craz-“

“Mama, you’ve been nineteen for over eight decades. I think we’ve hit the crazy already, tell me. Before I get a bad heart.” Rosie joked with that twinkle you saw countless times over the years.

The first time you saw it was when you found her on the counter at age two when she learned how to climb. Other times included her sneaking out to a senior party with her friends and the teasing she started when she got her first grey hair.

“You better have taken our discussion about your salt intake serious young lady.” You pointed at her mere seconds before your shoulders dropped. You leaned down to kiss the crown of her head, “Luke’s a ghost.”

Rosie’s lips parted, staring down the boy before whispering very softly in your ear, “Well. At least he doesn’t age. You look happy with him Mama, I’m not getting any younger, and he’s really cute.”

“Don’t talk like that.” The low response came out broken at the horrible future where you would bury Rosie. 

A cold hand landed on your waist as you stretched to place an ornament on the tree you chose with Luke. The wire hugged the branch a ghost of a kiss pressed against your cheek, a moment of quiet in the loud house. Reggie and Alex had been baking cookies with Rosie for the last two hours. Julie was finishing her family dinner at her home before she would come over.

“Merry Christmas,” Luke murmured tugging you in his chest. A flutter of butterflies moving in your tummy.

Once Rosie had been discharged from the hospital, she had been convinced to temporarily move to Los Angeles. For the first time since Rosie’s senior year in high school, you got to live with her. Subtlety had never been her strong suit with nagging you and Luke about getting together.

“Merry Christmas.” You replied, stretching to peck his lips once before cuddling into his chest with the thick sweater.

“Would you like a cookie…Dad.” Rosie teased, bringing a tray into the living room with the gooey chocolate chips.

Another revelation other than being able to touch the boys was that once Julie saved them from Caleb, they could eat small quantities. They couldn’t eat a lot, and they didn’t need it, but it was a comfort to the group.

 “That’s so weird.” Alex chortled, taking in the shocked and uncomfortable expression Luke had. Reggie beamed with a mouthful of cookie. This was the first Christmas the boys had surrounded by only acceptance, love, and untainted happiness.

“How about we stick to Luke?” Rosie chuckled just as weirded out by the odd age gap and the forever youth the couple displayed. 

While Rosie interacted with the arrival of both Flynn and Julie, you curled into Luke’s embrace taking in the room. Julie and Flynn listened to the rebellious stories Rosie carried. Alex had retreated to the kitchen with a guy with shoulder-length brunette hair. Reggie was involved in a conversation with Ray; another unexplained phenomenon after the Orpheum.

Your eyes found the mantle with the picture of Theodore and you. Right beside it a lovely photo with Luke dipping you in a kiss and besides that picture was the very last picture of Luke with his parents. How lucky you had been in the years you had lived to end up with a chosen family.

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#luke patterson imagines #julie and the phantoms imagines #luke patterson x reader #charlie gillespie imagines #jatp luke #jatp fanfic #luke patterson #caitsy and ash productions

[puttingfingerstokeys]

For All We Know

heyo I’m back with some more LiuLao for you folks. Enjoy.

Shaolin Rowdy Boys. Gore occurs. It’s Mortal Kombat idk what to tell you

Broken timeline

Blood and sweat run into Kung Lao’s eyes as he dives headlong away from the swipe of a cyberized demon’s claws. The thing’s teeth snap soon after, but Lao’s hat, flying back from whence he had tossed it, makes short work of the top of its head. He runs the back of one fist over his eyes to clear them, but only succeeds in spreading sweat and viscera over his face. He grimaces, lips twisted to make an ugly mask of an otherwise handsome face. Liu Kang, he thinks, reciting his beloved friend’s name over and over, like a mantra. He does not know what he could promise a dead man, but promise he does.

He had not seen the sweeping blow which had separated them. He had heard a cry, saw blood, and knew little more as the dust cloud tossed up by the movement of earth from the swing of a colossal sword and an outpouring of dark magic had obscured everything between himself and his friend. Before he could react to it, he had been accosted and pulled into a fight with the most horrific, half-robotic thing upon which he had ever laid his eyes.

Quan-Chi had evidently decided some time ago that the Cyber Initiative had not been depraved enough. Those who had survived it are still recovering, Sub-Zero included, though he has been restored to his body through some dark miracle and happenstance. These are demons, however. The infernal legions of Netherrealm have arisen under the command of a soul-hungry sorcerer who, for once, is not Shang Tsung. They rise through portals in the very ground, tugging themselves free of what look to be white-hot, glowing pools of molten metal. Kung Lao has seen demons before, but these are unlike anything he has ever had the misfortune of experiencing.

He has no time to think about all this, however, as yet more of the cyberized horrors rise and attack. He plants a boot in one and tugs his hat from the last, swinging it wide and taking off the heads of two others, including the one his weight has driven to the ground. It is not the graceful style he has been taught, but there isn’t room for that. It is slaughter and self-defense. And rage. Over and over, his mind plays the cry of pain he had heard from Liu Kang’s lips, clipped short, Lao is certain, by death, the air driven from his lungs by the force of the blow.

The giant which had dealt it yet lives, a colossus in the near distance, tangling with tanks. Special Forces are doing their duty under the command of Jackson “Jax” Briggs and they are holding their own. That is fine with Kung Lao, who now has only one goal: kill as many as he can.

He throws his hat yet again, and again, and again. With such force does he throw it that he feels the blade slice his own hand and mingles his blood with that of the enemy. When the guts spill from a particularly rotund half robotic abomination, sizzling on the ground in a purple and red pile, he allows himself a breath, his gorge rising at the foulness of the mingled scent of bowel blood and oil. He bites back a gag and pushes on, tugging his hat savagely, attempting to dislodge it from the fallen beast’s solar plexus. When it does not budge, he gives the chest a stomp and the hat pops up, neat as you please. Any other time, Kung Lao would be smiling.

He is not smiling.

His arms ache, his hips are protesting each step, his knees want to buckle, his neck and shoulders are sore-bordering-on-numb. There is blood in his eyes, in his mouth, coming from various lacerations and injuries on himself, but mostly dribbling from the razor’s edge of his hat, which he sets to spinning, using some of his white-hot spiritual power to do so, if for no other reason than to clear it. He is not still, however. Even as he does this, more of the demon things approach. Their cybernetic enhancements have evidently made them mindless. They do not fear the pure glow of holy magic.

“That makes this easier,” he grunts, summoning the hat and then immediately tossing it in a vicious, spiraling arc around himself. “Don’t cut yourselves!”

The words, usually playful, come from between tightly clenched teeth. He snaps down on them like the jaws of an animal trap. He can taste the tang of adrenaline and the coppery salt of blood. He spits, ridding himself of some, but not all, of the ghastly flavor. Kung Lao assumes it will cling to him for the rest of his life, so surrounded is he by the stench of sulfurous putrefaction and machine oil sharpness. It is enough to gag him, and he yet again swallows his gorge, which threatens to rise once more. Propelling himself forward, the Kung legacy spurring him to violent action, Lao continues his trek. He had not known where, precisely, his rage-fueled feet were bringing him. He is pain all over, exhaustion incarnate, but something has not allowed him to stop—and then he realizes:

He is headed toward the half-mechanized, half-demonic colossus who had dared to steal Liu Kang away from him.

It will not stand. He will take it out at the knees if he must and relish in the sweetness of victory while its innards pour out on the ground around him. Leaping into a flying, light-fueled punch, Kung Lao smashes through the horned head of a cyber demon, twisting around one which swings a meaty-metallic fist at his own head. With the next rotation, Lao tosses his hat as a teleportation target, though it manages to mow through the portly midsection of yet another Netherrealm denizen, who clambers for its sack of guts before pitching forward. Launching himself off its fallen back, Kung Lao dives into the very earth itself, so fluid is his motion of transporting himself to where his hat has landed, innocuously in the dirt in the midst of several more of the abominations. Where is everyone else? His question is internal, but bears all the frustration of having been spoken aloud. Fear clenches a cold fist around his guts.

What if I am alone?

He cannot see the heavy artillery battalion to the southeast, nor the other monks to his rear. He and Liu Kang had been separated from them for at least an hour. They are strong men, spiritually and physically, and brave. Where Earthrealm is concerned, the White Lotus will not falter. All the same, they are but mortal men. He is a mortal man… as was Liu Kang. Before he realizes what is happening, his vision is multi-faceted, misted over with lugubrious tears. They fall down his face even as he spins up in that small pack of demons and explodes his spiritual energy outward. The specter of the Great Kung Lao is now visible above and just behind him. He, too, seems to be weeping, though he had not known Liu Kang personally.

Kung Lao has never understood fully what this power of his means, or what it is, or why it works. The masters of the Wu-Shi do not know for certain and his household only maintains that he has “inherited the power of the Great Kung Lao along with his name”. But that has hardly served him in his life, has certainly not made anything easier. Every teacher he has ever had has pushed him to his absolute limits and Kung Lao has grown tired. Exhaustion cannot stop him, however. This bone weariness of his life is pushed to the back of his mind as it continues to process the battle at hand. This is not kombat, not truly. He is engaging in a fury-and-blood-soaked slaughter. A smile crosses his face, an unkind thing, even as the tears fall and redden his eyes, marking their passage through the grime on high cheekbones. The grin is hideous, a skull-like thing, almost more demonic than the Netherrealm “warriors” he now faces.

Three or four lunge for him, having learned nothing of his skill and range. With hardly a thought, Lao throws his hat right through them, the razor slicing bone, sinew, and muscle without a pause, pushed on by his spiritual force and the enraged sadness behind it all. His heart slams in his chest, clenching and heaving, pushing blood through his veins, empowering his every motion to its maximum level of force. He does not know it, but with every throw, he is screaming. His throat is going raw, yet still he is screaming until he begins to spit blood. His fists, lightning quick and also empowered by the spiritual pressure inside his body, fly out and strike without mercy or thought for their own integrity. If he has broken something, Kung Lao cannot feel it. He does not care. Everything is a red mist. Sound is muffled; he cannot hear a thing over the roar of blood in his ears. He tastes blood, feels his fists moving through solid flesh like pistons, and hardly pauses to throw his hat. The thing has begun seemingly to fly on its own, reaping the demons like wheat.

Through the fog of battle, a sound catches his nigh-deafened ear and gives him momentary pause. He tugs the neck of a demon he has pinned and ears the wet snap of vertebrae as they separate permanently. Without looking, Lao reaches a hand out and summons his weapon, replacing it on his head. He moves as if underwater, slowly, with everything and everyone closing in around him. They are dying at his hand, still, but he is not conscious of it. The colossal demon is still ahead, swinging its massive, stone-like sword, and killing, but Kung Lao is being drawn away. The sound—it is so familiar that it aches within his chest, which he now feels is hollow; his heart has not stopped so much as vacated entirely—is off to his left, and growing louder.

The fierceness of it is almost inhuman, but it is human. Kung Lao catches sight of something red, brighter, by far, than the rust color of the Netherrealm demons, and fresh-looking, like a gout of arterial blood. He narrows his eyes, bringing up a block just in time to deflect a blow from behind. Shifting his weight, he grabs the off-balance beast and tosses it onto the ground before him, sticking a knee under its neck and punishing its face and upper vertebrae, for its mistake. The limp body falls away and Lao tosses blood off his knuckles; some of it is his. All at once, his red-misted vision tunnels to black around everything but that splotch of red in the distance and the high, rhythmic shriek of his best friend performing the most aggressive bicycle kick Kung Lao has ever seen. Liu Kang lands and their eyes meet, with hundreds, maybe thousands, of cyberized abominations between them. It is too far to tell, but Kung Lao thinks that maybe, just maybe, Liu Kang is crying, too.

Never again, he vows, throwing his hat with more force than he’d anticipated still possessing. It flies in a straight line, travelling vertically and cleaving demon after demon in twain, only to return to its master’s hands as Kung Lao barrels through other demons, spending little time in killing them, but hitting hard enough that each one does fall. He can see Liu Kang making a similar effort, but knows that if he takes his mind too far off the task at hand, he is putting them both at risk. Leaping off the belly of one which has somehow misplaced its head, Lao drives his knee into the face of the next, landing with a crunch and transferring his momentum into a roll from which he throws his hat and dives into the earth in a flash of white. The razor-edged weapon zings past Liu Kang’s shoulder, makes a wide, bloody arc, and settles near his feet as he punches the guts—literally—out the back of a cyber demon. As another which has been miraculously spared Kung Lao’s hat reaches out to snag Liu Kang by the throat from behind, Kung Lao himself appears in a burst of holy illumination, severing the arm at the elbow with the hat he now firmly grasps in one hand.

They stand there, facing each other, for several interminable moments. The timing is strange—there seems to be a lull in the violence—and nothing comes at them as both young monks throw themselves into the other’s arms wrapping and holding tightly. They are both sobbing, great, dry sounds, with few tears left in this awful time and place. Kung Lao’s voice is completely shot, but he croaks something into Liu Kang’s ear that sounds like “I thought you were dead; I saw blood—heard a scream I… I thought…”

Without warning, Kung Lao lifts his friend bodily up and spins him around as if they are not at the center of a massive battle, as if these cyberized demons are not coming to gut them with an inexorability that has only been halted by providence. Nothing else matters, suddenly, but the presence of the other man. Liu Kang is laughing, smiling. The tears have returned; they are not all gone after all. As Kung Lao lowers his companion to the bloodstained earth, Liu Kang’s eyes meet his with a sudden, savage intensity.

“Kung Lao,” he whispers—and it is a whisper, strangely audible above the din. The creatures are moving back in upon them, but their gazes are locked; Kung Lao’s hand has begun to make its fluid motion up toward the brim of his hat, but he does not drop his eyes, “you will never lose me.”

It is he, the Chosen one of Earthrealm, Liu Kang, who closes the gap between their mouths, summoning a dragon of fire as he moves, tossing the strange spell of his unknowable bloodline over Kung Lao’s shoulder. Meanwhile, taken completely by surprise, the Great Kung Lao’s descendant moves with the strength and surety of long, harsh training and muscle memory, loosing the hat along with an effortless propellant of spiritual energy to send his weapon spiraling about them in a widening gyre. Liu Kang pulls his body flush to Kung Lao, the dragon doing his bidding without the need of a magical tether or verbal spells. It is good this is so, because his lips are far too busy to contest with such things as speech. 

Liu Kang tastes blood in that kiss, adrenaline, fear, relief, overwhelming sadness, and unbridled joy. Their flavors mingle and with but a moment’s hesitation—enough for the surprise to melt away in the dragon fire of his best friend’s power—and Kung Lao returns the gesture with equal or greater intensity. It is as if a dam has broken, something at which the waves have been crashing for a small eternity. Finally, after all that time and patience, they have overcome their obstacle and now wash over and through and take away with them the feelings of guilt and trepidation which have hampered them. The floodgates are not open; they are destroyed. By fire and kombat, they are destroyed.

#mortal kombat #liulao #cc #cw #shaolin rowdy boys

[adsosfraser]

The Stone’s Toll - Chapter Four

Read on AO3

cw: medical trauma/abuse

They stripped her to the bone and prodded her towards the corner with the spigot about a metre above her head. Their eyes were focused intently on her every move, calculating each misstep. One of her guards called out into the hall and the water surged down in high pressured spurts. She had been naked with strangers before. Had been dressed by them. Bare and vulnerable. Mrs. Fitz came to mind. But this was not anything like that, it felt demeaning, dehumanising. It was intended to humble her. 

 The other guard threw a bar of soap which Claire fumbled with and fell to the floor. The grime on the floor had built up for years and mould dotted the edges of the shower. She scrunched her nose at the thought of picking the soap up from such an environment, but the stares of the guards burrowed deep into her skin.

 “Two minutes.”

Claire carefully traced the spot above her heart. It stung less than before when she was weaned off of the pain medication. Claire was heavily sedated for those six days in hospital. She felt like she had when she returned through the stones, a crushing weight bearing down on her body. And she was all alone. Her injury was monitored until she could be properly transferred to Danvers State Hospital, or rather the Danvers Lunatic Asylum, where they placed her unceremoniously in her cage-like room. The pounding force of the shower left a dull pain, almost opening the wound on her breast again. She scrubbed the dirt, the pain off of her skin until she felt she had no skin left. 

 Claire was soon in the plain cotton uniform they provided everyone. Her hair flew wildly above her head because she was unable to comb through her curls. They at least deemed her safe enough to not need restraints on top of the guards that flanked her. How kind. Those were reserved for the more violent afflictions.

 She watched as her tangled curls floated down to the tiled floor around her feet. Her hair was shorn to about her chin to conform with the other patients. 

 The institute had yet decided what to do about her condition, which they concluded was melancholia and the hysteria which accompanied it. All unnecessary consequences of her female persuasion. 

 “I assure you, sir, I am perfectly fine. Now if I could just speak to my husband.” She forced herself to put out the last word.

 “He is still considering the terms of your release and treatment. You gave Mr. Randall quite a shock.” Doctor Lionel Brown quirked his eyebrows at his patient, placing the pairs of his pointer and middle finger against his lips in thought.

 “I know. Now if you’d just-“

 A knock sounded at the door.

 “Mr. Anderson you may come in.”

 “Mrs. Randall, this is Mr. Anderson, our specialist in mood disorders. He’s shed some insight with me earlier about what may be best in order for you to be released. If you don’t mind, Mr. Anderson.” 

 “I think our electroshock therapies would be very conducive for her recovery. When repeated twice a week, these treatments help ease pain and reduce memories that are hard to pass on their own.” Anderson glanced at Doctor Brown and continued. “Another option if the treatments are unable to hold and improve your condition is the transorbital lobotomy which is guaranteed to permanently improve it. I can assure you ma’am this avenue has been thoroughly researched and our patients report a calm demeanour within weeks of the operation. 

 “I highly doubt that’s necessary sir.” Claire scoffed. 

 Claire slumped in her chair and considered for a second. She could be free of the pain, of the man who haunted her every waking moment. She could stop mourning her husband, her family at Lallybroch, and her children. Maybe she would forget and finally be able to return to Frank as Jamie had intended. But she could never forget Jamie, no matter what happened to her. Her mind may forget but her soul would always keep him within her. 

 It was four doors later that she reluctantly followed one of the nurse’s in the ward down the dreary halls. No matter her reluctance to it, her treatments would begin according to the doctor’s schedule. 

 Claire was instructed to take off her shoes as she entered the room. She glanced around the room only to be met with unfamiliar faces. She had comforted the woman who went before her who was convulsing and writhing on the treatment table. Claire tried to soothe her and soon her breathing evened out and a dazed look took over her face. There was no fighting this. If Claire refused to comply, it would be much worse. The woman slouched to the floor and began her walk away from the machine. 

 The orderly wiped off the metal table from the woman’s sweat and perhaps even a small amount of urine: the reactions to the terror. He sighed and wrote on the chart, detailing exactly how the patient’s body handled the treatment. He pointed to the table, not even sparing a glance at Claire. One. Two. Three. She thought as she forced each step. Her back and limbs arched away from the shocking cold of the metal and her muscles tensed reflexively. 

 The nurse placed a flat wooden stick in her mouth and instructed her to bite down. Her arms and legs were strapped down before she could change her mind and start thrashing against her jailer. Two firm ovals suctioned to her temples and a strap ran around her head securing the device to her head. 

 Perhaps it was her indifference that led them to choose this method of torture. She would be sure to smile and have all the warmth of a womanly countenance when she next met with Doctor Brown. Her fate depended on her first husband, and the doctor that held her hostage within the suffocating walls of the institution. She had made her feelings quite clear to Frank, and perhaps he was enacting his vengeance this way.

 As the first wave of electricity passed through her body straight to her heart and mind, her body convulsed under its strain. After the base time of thirty seconds for her treatment, her body slumped back down onto the cold surface that sent chills down her spine. She was left disoriented and stupid, waiting to gain back her senses. 

 “Who’s this, Smiley?” Claire’s mind could barely discern the shape of the figure hanging on the doorframe before her. The glum nurse who was addressed was the farthest thing from smiley. 

 “Mrs. Randall, your newest neighbour.”

 “Oh, how exciting!” The girl who couldn’t be more than fourteen slipped something into the nurse’s pocket. “I think I’ll call you Miss Curly Wig.” She grinned and eyed the mess of curls fanned out around on the silver surface enviously. 

 The orderly nonchalantly slipped a lollipop into the girl’s waiting hands and a piece of gum, payment for whatever she had smuggled in for him. 

 “You’ll be just fine Miss Curly Wig.” The girl who was barely a teenager patted her shoulder in comfort. Claire couldn’t do more than stare blankly at the girl, no words appearing on her tongue. “Sure the first one is a bit of a shock. But you get over it. Your brain is like cotton the first few days, and you look as dumb as ever, but if you comply, they shorten it to every three weeks instead. I haven’t gotten the shock in four weeks now because I’ve been on my best behaviour. Haven’t had the urge to steal in months. Isn’t that right Smiley?”   

 Smiley grunted affirmatively in a way that reminded her of Murtagh while he put away the equipment from the day’s treatments. Her heart ached along with her head and tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.

 “Can I escort her back to her room Smiley? You are done here for the day, aren’t you?” 

 “Yes, Miss Emily.” The nurse clearly was uncomfortable straying from protocol. 

 Claire walked back in silence to the plain white room, filled with only a white metal bed and mattress. Emily patted her hand on the sheets and Claire plopped down on them. The rambunctious child flitted out of the room, excited to find a new face in the dreary and tedious schedule of the ward. 

 Claire laid back against the stiff pillow of her twin bed. It was impossible to get comfortable here. Her brain was buzzing and her fingers felt tingly, like the static from the radio. In the night, when the other patient's cries filled her mind, she traced the fading scar on her palm where he cut her. The rings, sgian dubh, pearls and her old clothes were the only physical proof it had been real. Now she had none of them. No tangible proof in her grasp. The only reminder was the memory of the slight pain when he marked out the flesh into a J.

 “Milady!” Fergus screamed into the empty air of the great room. His body curled up into one of the velvet chaises by the fire and his whimpers woke Jamie, who rested his eyes on the floor beside the inconsolable child. Jamie had almost drifted off to sleep himself, but his mind buzzed with thoughts of his wife. He rose and gathered Fergus in his arms, hushing the boy. 

 “Milady.” The tears renewed themselves and tumbled without end down his cheeks. Jamie stroked the hair from his son’s face and cursed when his hand felt the hot and sweaty skin. 

 Claire woke up shaking on the sweat-soaked sheets. “Fergus.” Her guilt of leaving him, her family was insurmountable. But she felt deep in her bones something terribly awful. A dread that squeezed at her heart. Just like any other person could feel the earth shift under their feet, before possessing the actual knowledge of what happened to their loved one. A fellow war nurse once told her of her premonitions, and the next day she was sent an impersonal letter declaring his death in battle.

 She pressed the pillow against her ears, trying to block out the vivid visions of the young French boy. 

 Emily became an ally to Claire in the short amount of time she had been in the B ward. She followed her constantly like a lost puppy and accompanied her to the electroshock therapies every week. Claire supposed the girl had deemed her the sanest out of their fellow patients, so she must have felt more at ease in her presence. The girl had even taught Claire a neat trick, how to pretend to swallow her medicine and then spit it out later. 

 At night, the faces in the flecks of the popcorn ceiling above taunted her. Every move of the shadows was a demon reimagined in her mind. Of her family and those who wished her harm. They all played an equal role in the play stretched out before her. Two straight lines and a curve mixed together into one evil, Black Jack Randall and her husband. Her mind drifted to the sight of her son, curled up and shivering in his sickbed. She was stuck between the tormenting images in the ceiling or the all too real feel of Fergus’ small body pressed against her in a tight hug. 

 “Miss Curly Wig!” It took her a moment to recognise her young companion, the thoughts seeped slowly through her mind like molasses. 

 “Where on earth did you get these?” 

 “I filched them from Doc B when I was snooping through your files. I was going to trade them to Smiley, but I thought better. Hide them in your bra, they never look there.” The child winked at her. 

 “Thanks for the advice.” She slipped the silver down her shirt and was about to scatter the gold across the wooden boards of the floor when she thought better; it was a valuable chunk of money. “What do you want in return?” 

 “Nothing yet. But those locks of yours sure are pretty.” 

 “You want a lock of my hair?” 

 She stared at the child dumbfounded. Hers easily rivalled Claire’s, the fiery red waving around her ears and growing slowly towards her shoulders. What harm was there in giving a child a piece of a muddied brown curl? She gripped a strand of her hair from the base of her head and held it taut. Claire ripped the piece just below the hold her hand had on it so it wouldn’t be plucked directly from her scalp. Her palms opened, gifting the rare thing to the adolescent. Her face visibly brightened and she snatched it immediately. She tucked in safely within her shirt like Claire had done with her rings and skipped down the hall towards the dark wood staircase. 

 Claire plastered a sickly sweet smile as she sat on the plastic chair. Dr. Brown shuffled some papers on his desk and ignored her. He licked his finger to card through the pages and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He cleared his throat before finally acknowledging her.

 “Ah, Mrs. Randall. And what, might I ask, lead me to the pleasure of seeing you in my office today?”

 “As you can see, Dr. Brown, the treatments have worked splendidly and I would very much like to return home now. I see no need to be kept here further.” 

 “I’m sorry ma’am it’s just not how- oh looky here! Your husband signed for your release when he visited me yesterday.” 

 “Great, so now this has all been sorted.”

 “Just hold on Mrs. Randall.” He emphasised her proper name. “Yes, he’s clearly signed your release here, but we’ll need to keep you here for an observation period of at least three more days. Make sure you’ll do no more harm to yourself or others. But, you’ll be glad to know we have seen an improvement from your treatments, and your last one will be this Friday, a day before your release.” 

 She bit her tongue to hold back the avalanche of defiant words and insults she wanted to fling at the man who held her fate in his hands. Finally, she settled for a simple, “thank you,” and left back to the empty halls. 

 The bastards in the hospital had made zero progress in truly helping her. If she was asked, Claire knew she wouldn’t be able to recall any detail at all about the last few months of her life. If she could call it that, she was dead living. The therapies only added to her already failing memory. Emily was the only bright part of her day, and now she was leaving the poor girl in the hands of these people alone. 

 Her final night, when her brain sludged forward through its thoughts, a consequence of her treatments, she finally allowed herself to relax back into her bed fully. But that was a mistake. Fergus sat before the fire at Lallybroch, playing soldier with some chess pieces. The sight of the son of her heart pierced through her chest. He turned around and smiled at her softly. 

 “Come back, Milady, please. Milord needs you. I miss you maman.” He had never called her maman before, only Milady. 

 On closer inspection, his eyes were wide with fear at the apparition before him. He knew Milady would never harm him, but there was something otherworldly about her appearance now, much different than her usual strange demeanour. Sensing his trepidation, she kissed his forehead gently, taking the pain and fear into herself from that small point where her lips met his curl that dangled there. A tear dripped down the edge of her nose to his cheek. A flash of red and blue entered the dream, but by then she was already awake.

#outlander fanfiction #adsofraser writing #claire beauchamp #claire fraser #jamie x claire #frank randall #insane asylum #fergus fraser #canon divergence #jamie fraser #medical trauma #I am inflicting pain onto my characters because I can #outlander fanfic

[luimagines]

All Of Her Colors In A Storm

It was raining heavily and cold.

But they had to keep going.They all had to keep walking.

The smell of wet grass and wood on any other rainy day would have been absolutely delightful and calming to Mulan but not today.

Not right now.

Espesically since she wasn't techinacally here.

In fact it only seemed to make the sickly feeling they had inside of them worse like a wet thunderstorm was stirring around inside and out leaving them no place to go or hide.

They were tired,beaten and badly injured.

How did everything end up this way? Oh right it was because of the four swords that they-she?-mulan?-we?-LINK,took and got ourselves split into four separate parts of...us?

It was hard to explain and we just decided to just call each other by designed colors and not think too much on the implications of how different we seemed we were with our personalities compared to each other and “Mulan”,but we still managed to work it out.

They didn’t know how merg themselves back on their own so the group and four decided to try and travel to four’s hyrule and put the sword back into the stone in an attempt to reunite mulan again but somewhere along their adventures they had all gotten separated by the group and were attacked.Yellow got badly hurt and had to be carried by Cyan to safety while Green found an exist and brown fought off the remaining enemies before catching up with the rest..

We didn’t stop walking for hours and were already too tired.

Oh so tired.

They just wanted to rest.

But Brown wouldn’t let them and kept pushing for them to keep going.Saying that the rest of the chain were probably looking for them or waiting for us up ahead and we couldn’t stop because they could move and we’d never be able to catch up or find them ever again.Cyan had started to get tired of carrying Yellow so Green offered up to carry instead but after more hours of trekking in the mud and getting to a rocky clearing they realized something.Or more specifically Brown realized something.

“Oh...I see now.....” Brown said suddenly as she stopped and took in the landscape before turning around and walking the other way.

“Hey wait! Where are you going!” Green cried out.

“We made a wrong turn and need to go the other way,we can make up for time lost if we run the rest of the way back and walk the rest on foot!” Brown replied yelling a bit threw the loud storming pouring down on them.

“Wait,WHAT?? Ok,no,no,no,no,NO! I am done! I am NOT walking another mile back to the way we came, much less run all the way back!” Green stopped dead in her tracks in the mud as Brown continued to pass by her without much change to her almost permanent scowling look of determination on her face.

Cyan’s eyes were feeling baggy but she could still see the shaking arms Green had while carrying Yellow;she couldn’t tell if it was because of the cold weather getting to her or if it was because she was getting tired from carrying Yellow on her back but either way she wordlessly came over and pulled yellow off of her which her duplicate did not put up much of a fight against it since her focus was on Brown.

“HEY BROWN! I SAID I AM NOT GOING ANY FURTHER!” Green took a few steps forward to get close enough for her to hear.

Brown stopped in her tracks,turned around and eyed yellow before scrunching up her face and tilting her head back.

“Very well then,Cyan,get yellow and let’s go.” She turned to start walking again but stopped when Green called out again.

“No!Oh No!Nonononono! She’s not coming either! She is exhausted! We’re exhausted! We’ve been out in the rain for so long! We need to rest! Yellow needs a proper place to rest! We shouldn’t be walking for hours in the cold with open wounds while being sleep deprived!” Green threw her arms in the air frantically and walked closer to Brown as she pushed back strains of wet hair out from infront of her face, then stopped a few feet in front of her.

Brown stared into Green’s face a while before ever so slightly tilted her head to the side to see Cyan holding yellow and still not moving.

“Cyan we are leaving.Get Yellow and let's go.NOW.” She spoke over to Cyan as she gave a stern look before Green walked in front of her blocking her view from the two other girls.

“She is not leaving,Cyan go and put Yellow down to rest, we are not going anywhere.” she pointed over to a tree for Cyan to go to but as soon as she took a step towards the direction brown piped in again.

“No! Cyan we are not staying! The others are looking for us and we need to regroup with them! We don’t have time to rest!” Brown this time taking a side step past Green to try to get to Cyan but was stopped by having her arm grabbed.

“Cyan…” Green gave a gentle nod in her direction to go sit down and rest.

For a second she stood there looking back and forth between the two before deciding to go and lay Yellow under the tree and to begin tending to their wound first.

Brown ripped her arm away from Green once she saw Cyan make her way to the tree and turned to her not quit shouting but her volume very much increasing.

“What’s wrong with you? We need to keep moving! We can’t stop to rest when the other’s could need us right now!”

“We’re not going to be much help if we die from our open wounds! We’ll find them when we have the energy!” Yellow retorted, crossing her arms.

“And you need to rest as well!You need to stop treating yourself and everyone as expendable tools! In fact,I think you treat yourself and us as well worse than expendable tools! because at least their being used only when they're in proper shape, not when they're at their breaking point of no return!” Green shouted as she jabbed a finger into Brown's shoulder.

“Oh,really? I’ve been treating you all as expendable? I apologize,but If you hadn’t realize I am trying to get us all back to the group as quickly as possible so that YELLOW can get treated for her injuries because if you haven’t also already noticed WE ARE OUT OF HEALING POTIONS! We can't sit around using only bandages and gauze to keep her barely afloat from death’s door when we could just get her to Hyrule or the others! But I guess you wouldn’t care about that since you only want to “rrreeeeessst” and use the precious time we have to help her as “expendable sleepy time”, right?” Brown jabbed her finger into Green mimicking the same motion she did to her as before as Green swatted her hand away and said something back.

At this point everything started to get more muffled as Cyan tried to drown out the sounds of their voices while she tended to Yellow. Trying to focus on the wound in their abdomen that was reopening.She pulled out some needles and a small knife then set some bandages and a bottle of alcohol to the side as she got to work.Trying her hardest to not think about before during the fight,to not think about how Green and Brown were fighting again in the back,to not think about how much she missed fluffy and wish he was her to comfort her and not back with the rest of friends who she missed as well.But despite all the emotions swirling up in her head,she kept a straight face and managed to somehow block everything out to help her friend,erm,herself?

Once she was done she looked down at Yellow and furrowed her brows sorrowfully.

‘This is all my fault’ She thought to herself.

She turned to look over to where Green and Brown were and sure enough she saw they were still fighting.

Usually Yellow was the one to break up the fight because they could be a bit terrifying when they were angry,but she wasn’t awake right now.

‘All my fault’ Cyan thought again looking down at Yellow again.

“Oh so you want to start making low blows now? What did your small brute brain run out of excuses as to why we should be forced to keep doing what you want so you resorted to trying to hurt my feelings,hmmm,Brown?Oh wait,I am so sorry,I meant your maaajjeeesty! Because clearly this is a monarchy we’re in and not a team!” Green gave an exaggerated curtsy and bow to brown before straightening up again to stare back at her harshly.

“Oh,did you think that was a low blow? No,no,no that wouldn’t be a low blow.If i wanted to say something to hurt you I would have told you something like that it was a good thing our parents gave us away because I don’t think anyone would be able to physically handle how much of a mess you are much less how much worse you would have been if they raised you.” Brown turned her head back to Green with her eyes squinted slightly and a coy smile creeping its way onto her face as she stood slightly sideways with both arms crossed and head hung slightly low.

A loud audible staggered laugh could be heard

“ OH! OH!OH NO! Ok! OK THEN! FINE!! ALRIGHTY-DITY! WOW,OK!” Green flung her arms back up in the air and walked a few feet away from Brown backwards before spinning around facing away from her then started rolling up her sleeves and readjusted her clothes and armor as she pushed more of her hair back from the rain.

“Oh so you want to go THAT way now,huh?Want to go down the rabbit hole?ok ,ok,ok,I get it! You want to hit deep? You want to go all the way?Let's go then! I am sick and tired of always trying to be reasonable with you every time! You’ve had this one coming for you for a long time now, brown!” she spun back around and walked back to her and stood with hands balled up into fists by her side before she took a breath and exhaled.

Cyan didn’t like where this was going,she turned around and bowed her head down,shut her eyes and cupped her ears. She didn’t want to hear or see how nasty this was going to get.

“They'll stop eventually.They just need to get it out of their systems.They’ll stop and make up,just like they always do.” Cyan muttered to herself trying to keep herself distracted from them,but despite how hard she tried or how loud the storm around them got,it was like their voices got louder and louder with every shout, even if they weren’t getting any closer.

But she couldn’t get involved because she’d just get dragged into their argument.

They’ll stop eventually right?

Cyan was just so tired.

She just wanted to sleep.She missed fluffy.She missed her friends.If Time,Twilight or Warriors were her they would have made them stop by now.

They wanted to do something but they were just too tired.

They just want to rest,just a little bit then they’ll stop them if they're still fighting.

Their eyes started to lulle as she sat by Yellow's sleeping body with her back against a tree and allowed the darkness to take her away.

Cheese you promised me fluffy... you said you were capable and I get this in return?

How dare you hurt our girl!

Cyan honey noooo!!!!!

Someone help Yellow!!

I'm going to fight Brown and Green myself!

#pinky replies #Mulan! Link

[ilguna]

Anteric - Chapter Four (f.o)

summary: secrets have more worth than you gave them credit for.

warnings; swearing. GORE, HEAVY BLOOD, FIGHTING, PAIN.

wc; 10.3k

NOTES; I give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

There’s only a few people that can get ready without complaining. And proudly, you can say that you’re one of them. With Finnick, Thyme and Allio being the other three that had practically gone untouched from yesterday’s fights. Well, actually, Finnick did go untouched, but that’s for obvious reasons.

You watch the other initiates move around the dormitory, all varying in the ways they hold themselves because of their injuries. Amos’ face is swollen, thanks to Thyme’s fists--which was split at her knuckles because of how spread out her skin had been. She didn’t find this out until after the fight, when Amos’ blood had been wiped off and she could see why her hands were stinging so badly.

Amos also has an arm wrapped around his ribs, where Thyme had kicked him. He’s been rotating ice packs since last night, so he’s got one pressed to his cheekbone right now. It looks like he might end up with a black eye by the end of the week. Too bad it won’t get any time to heal. All your injuries will just keep piling on until the physical stage of the initiation is over.

Finnick’s victim, Eytelle, does everything she can to avoid touching her jaw. Unlike Amos, it seems like she has some sort of pride about not using ice to make it feel better. Her face will occasionally twist when she opens her mouth to speak, so you’re happy to say that her smartass Candor mouth won’t be running today.

And finally, Trink is the worst out of everyone in the room. Even compared to Amos, who didn’t go down easily when he went up against Thyme, is better than her. Trink has been complaining about a headache in her temple since yesterday, and each time she brings it up, she’ll glare at you. You ignored it the first couple of times, but you went ahead and reminded her that she had a chance to give up, and she didn’t.

The only person missing from the dormitory today is Ossie, she didn’t come into the room last night before the lights were turned out. So, you’re going to take a good guess that she’s in the medical unit that they have here in Dauntless. If that’s the case, you’re nota ll that surprised, there’s no way that she should be authorized to come back into the ring if she’s seriously hurt.

However, if she doesn’t recover soon, she’ll end up being cut. Caspian won’t exempt her from the rankings, because it’s not fair if he does. To someone else, it’d be unfair because she can’t control how fast her healing process is. If she jumps right back into it, she risks injuring herself even more, which could then make a permanent problem. But, it’s perfectly fair. She couldn’t defend herself inside of the arena, therefore she needs to step up her game.

Or she’s not cut out to be in Dauntless.

It’s a ruthless faction for a reason.

The aptitude test can tell you what faction you’re made for, but when you’re face to face with other initiates that fit the requirements better, suddenly you don’t measure up. You’d like to say that at some point, Dauntless wasn’t always like this, and they didn’t cut most of the initiates like they do now. But something changed, which then prompted for Dauntless to become a harder faction to get into. 

And it makes perfect sense, at least to you. Dauntless is supposed to be the police, security, the ones who watch the wall and what may be on the outside. Dauntless is the army that would be called on if it were needed. There’s a saying that every army is as strong as their weakest link. And in Dauntless, no one is supposed to be weak. They want to eliminate that problem, so initiation continues to get harder to only allow in the persistent initiates. The ones that can handle Dauntless.

Anyway, if Ossie isn’t careful, she’ll be the first of the four to be cut in the first stage. You’re not sure how long the first stage lasts, or how many fights you have to cycle through before you’re finally over, but she’ll need a comeback. Just like everyone else who lost their first match. Otherwise, they’re just going to find themselves factions. Which, in a way, would probably be a better option than running themselves into the ground. At least then they’d have a chance at living.

For them, being factionless may always be an option. But you think that you’d rather die trying to get into Dauntless than live with the shame of being factionless because you couldn’t make it. And since Abnegation has a reputation for welcoming former members back in, you think it would be even worse. Crawling to Reed’s doorstep and begging for forgiveness.

Knowing Reed, he’d probably turn you down.

Thyme jumps into her black jeans, shifting from foot to foot to make sure that they’re up all the way. You can vaguely see Finnick in the bathroom, leaned over a sink while he brushes his teeth. You’d be getting ready with them, but you had an early start this morning. Mostly because after you woke up the first time to roll over, yesterday’s question about your family made itself known. 

And then, as the hours drew on and your mind wandered, you sank deeper into your mattress when you realized that your words can have consequences. You are not untouchable here in Dauntless, and Caspian is in a position of power. He can retaliate if he wants, sabotage your stages to make it harder for you to pass. And he’s going to feel more inclined to, now that you’ve accused him of still being attached to Abnegation. Especially since you did it right in front of Laurel.

You may be his ex-best friend’s little sister, but he never had an attachment to you. To him, you’re expendable, he’s got other initiates that he can really pour his focus into. And being one of those people is Finnick, who showed great significance yesterday. He has fighting experience, which means that he should be in some sort of advanced class. He’s already better than the rest of you.

For now, at least. We’ll see how well he keeps up during the emotional and mental stages of initiation.

Thyme sits down on her bottom bunk, beginning to tie her shoes. Finnick comes out of the bathroom, fully dressed and running a hand through his hair. On the way out of the dormitory is Amos, his shoulders are hunched in and he’s still holding the ice pack to his cheek. The more he collapses in on himself, the smaller he seems. And since he’s not very tall to begin with, the last thing he needs is to appear less threatening.

“Ready to go to the training room?” you swing your feet, watching as Finnick continues to fix his hair, standing off to the side.

“Wish we had enough time for breakfast.” Thyme mutters, she yanks her laces tight, “I also wish we didn’t have to fight first thing in the morning.”

“It’s a good way to wake up.” Finnick says.

“You just want to fight.” 

You try to kick near his head, he dodges, grabbing a hold of your ankle, “I was actually hoping I’d get to fight you.”

You stare at him, “Why?”

He lets go of your foot, giving you a shrug, “I’m just curious how you’ll hold up against me.”

You mock a smile, “Well, let’s just hope I end up with you, then.”

If you were put in the ring with Finnick, you wouldn’t come out as the winner. Not only does he have more experience, he has a height advantage, he’s unpredictable. You’ve spent several years of your life watching him fight other teenagers, and there’s only been a couple of times where you’ve been able to predict his next move. The most you’ve figured out is that he likes his fights over with as soon as they begin. Which is as dangerous as dangerous can get.

Thyme stands up, so you slip off the top bunk, landing on your feet. Thyme leads the way out of the dorm, you and Finnick elbow each other back and forth on the way out. When you pass in front of Trink, Allio and Eytelle, they momentarily fall silent. As soon as you’re through the door, they resume speaking. 

You might end up fighting one of them today, with the exception of Trink. If you’re lucky, it won’t be Eytelle, she’s got the same height advantage that Finnick does. If you’re extremely unlucky, you’ll end up with Allio, who hardly looked fazed at Ossie’s kick yesterday. And it looked like she put all her strength into it. So either she’s weak, like you originally thought she was, or Allio is a sponge.

Then again, you could always land yourself with Amos, Thyme or Finnick. Amos is shorter than you, much like Thyme. You think that you could easily take him on. As for Thyme, she might be more of a challenge, she did seem to give the fight her all when she needed it at the end. However, just like Eytelle and Finnick, you’ve got an advantage when it comes to height. 

Honestly, you really hope that you aren’t paired with Thyme or Finnick at all. It’s an unrealistic hope, because there’s not enough people to be rotated around, so you’re going to be stuck with one of them eventually. But if it really came down to it, you’d rather take on Thyme than Finnick anyday.

“Tell us your predictions.” Finnick says. It sounds like a demand, but it’s actually a question.

You’re quiet for a moment as you all go through a stretch of darkness. The first match was predictable, Caspian would want to set you guys up against people that look like you guys to see where you measure. That’s why Finnick was placed with Eytelle, based on height. Thyme with Amos based on scrawniness. And Ossie and Allio because they had to be together in order for you and Trink to be in the ring together. However, you and Trink could have very well been placed together because of body weight and the way you carry yourselves, and Allio and Ossie were leftovers.

Needless to say, you were more or less right on the prediction. All you have to do this time is go off your gut feeling again, because that’s what happened last time.

You decide to hold your answer until you get to the next light source. Then, you three stop and stand around it, “Okay, Ossie wasn’t in the room last night, so I think that she’ll be sitting out. Since it’ll be uneven, I’m pretty sure one of us won’t be fighting.” You pause, you don’t think that it’ll be you or Finnick. It could be Thyme, but she was a winner, so they’d want to push her to see what she can do. A loser would sit out instead. Maybe Amos?

“I’m thinking that they’ll pair us with opposites today. And I don’t mean strength-wise.”

Finnick nods slowly, probably trying to decide who would be his opposite. Thyme massages her knuckles, eyebrows raising slightly. You can hear the faint echo of Trink, Allio and Eytelle in the background, and they do too. So, you all start walking again.

It’s quiet for the rest of the way. Finnick pushes open the set of the doors, holding it open for you and Thyme. Laurel and Caspian stand next to the chalkboard, standing in the way of the names. Amos stands by himself, hands shoved into his pockets. Ossie is by herself, a bandage around her head, arms crossed as she stares at the ground.

The three of you stand on the other side of the ring, opposite to where the chalkboard is, where you’d been yesterday. It gives you a clear view of Caspian, who raises his eyebrows faintly. Other than that, there’s no expression on his face. No hint that he might be angry after what you said to him yesterday.

You’ve never been afraid of Caspian, but when he burns in silence, is the time where fear begins to sprout in your stomach. The times where he doesn't have to look smug, are times where he’s set up something particularly hellish. You said that he’d pair you with your opposites, but you’ve failed to remember, again, that Caspian might be angry.

Allio and Ossie were leftovers last time, an exception to the idea you presented last time. Which means that he could very well have made a second one. It would make sense, not everyone can have an opposite. And the only person who can serve a real punishment to you, would be Finnick.

Your eyes peel away from Caspian to look at Finnick, who’s playing with his nose ring again, staring into space. He wouldn’t make you go against Finnick, it’s too predictable. You look back at Caspian to see that he’s got a small smirk on his face, the same one he wore after you won the fight against Trink yesterday. And you change your mind again, because when has Caspian ever cared about his motives being out in the open?

Trink, Allio and Eytelle make it into the room just as the clock hits eight. They decide to stay near the door today, so you go ahead and move left more. It’s just an open space between you and Amos, and since hatred hasn’t been expressed between you two, you don’t think it’ll hurt to be closer to him. Especially if it means to get away from the other three.

“Good morning.” Caspian says, “I see some of you are doing better than others.”

No one says anything back, he cracks a smile. He then waves a hand toward Laurel, signaling her to move out of the way. She side-steps, and reveals the pairing. There’s only three rows, which means you were right about someone sitting out.

“It’s uneven today, only six of you will be fighting. If your name’s not on the board, congrats, you get a break today.” Caspian says.

You read over the names.

Finnick and Thyme.

You and Allio.

Amos and Eytelle.

Ossie and Trink are sitting out today.

There’s a couple of things that come to mind immediately. The first is that the winners are paired together, and the losers are too. The second is that you’re not with Finnick, it’s Thyme who gets the misfortune of having to face him. You know that he’ll get it over with quickly, but Thyme is going to want to win the fight. She’s not going to take the loss.

A cruel thought spirals, nearly passing through your lips. Thyme will be the perfect opponent to ensure he keeps his streak. You don’t see her winning against him, which means he’ll bag two wins. And depending on whether or not you beat Allio today, you might too. In the end, you might have to end up facing Finnick. 

You look over at your friends to see that they’re less than thrilled. Thyme is still staring at the chalkboard, as if it’s some mistake. And Finnick doesn’t look as excited as he did yesterday. He crosses his arms, but still reaches up to play with the nose ring with his thumb. It’s even worse because they’ll be going first today, they say nothing to each other.

And because you can’t help it, you go ahead and look at Allio, who’s already got a small grin on his face as he talks to his friends. You and him will be the second fight today. You wait for some type of fear to appear in your body, but there’s nothing. You were wrong on your theory. Allio isn’t as bad as Finnick. You have a chance at winning.

While you’re staring at Allio, you catch a glimpse of Trink, who looks relieved. So, you lean toward Finnick and Thyme, not trying to be quiet but trying to diffuse the growing tension between them. “They’re only letting her sit out because I beat her to shit.”

Eyes land on you, you pull back and stand straight again. Finnick lets out a laugh, Thyme has a smile on her face, “It’s like putting her into time out.”

You know that you will not face Trink again, there’s no reason to be afraid of her. The only people you’re worried about, are the two Candor idiots standing next to her. One of which you will face today.

“Finnick and Thyme!” Caspian calls, motioning to the ring, “Get to it.”

“Try not to kill each other.” You tell them, neither of them say anything.

Inside of the ring, they pick their spots opposite of each other. Finnick is the first to raise his hands, in perfect position. Thyme rolls her wrists once or twice before she raises hers. With them standing across from each other like this, she seems to have a chance. But when they’re standing next to each other, you have no hope for Thyme.

They shuffle in a circle, Thyme trying to find an opening. She won’t, not unless Finnick takes the first punch. And he might, if they continue to go around like this. A look to Caspian tells you that he’s getting impatient. They make a loop again, he clears his throat. Neither of them lunge at each other. 

This won’t last for much longer. This is going against Finnick’s rule of making a fight quick. But he’s probably stalling so that he doesn’t have to hit her first. For a second, you think that he might let her win, since she’s a friend. Then you remember what he said to you fifteen minutes ago, his hope that you’ll be his opponent. Which transforms into the streak thought. He will not pass up this opportunity.

Finnick gets impatient, starting to move in on her. Thyme tries to keep backing up, trying to get away from him. In your hand, you chant for her to stop moving and let him make his move. Finnick wants it quick, he’ll aim for weak spots on her head. All she has to do is dodge the punch, and give it her all as fast as possible before moving out again.

She has to be like a wave of water.

Thyme hits the edge of the ring, Caspian briefly moves forward to shove her back in, “Fight!”

Thyme stumbles over her feet, drawing her too close to Finnick. He doesn’t wait for her to recover, swinging. You think Thyme sees, because she drops to her knees, avoiding the hit. She stops long enough to draw her arm back, fist aimed toward his shins. But then she hesitates, changing her move.

You watch her full-force uppercut Finnick’s crotch.

There’s a gasp from Finnick, face twisting as his hands grab the area. You press your lips together, covering your mouth. You shouldn’t laugh. Thyme gets back onto her feet, raising her fists again, the soft expression she had, has faded now. She brings her foot up, slamming it into his back.

Finnick’s hissing through his teeth, stumbling forward and trying to straighten himself out. He’s clearly in pain, and you can’t blame him. Thyme looked like a hard hitter yesterday, and Amos is the display case. 

Finnick turns towards Thyme, cracking his neck, “See, I was going to go easy on you.” his face takes on the same scary look that he gave Eytelle, “But if you want to play dirty…”

Thyme beckons him closer without saying a word. Finnick heads closer. She’s aware of where the ring ends now, you can see her glance down every now and then to make sure she hasn’t backed out of it. But each time she looks away from Finnick, he jerks closer, until he’s right in front of her, and she doesn’t even realize it.

Her hands are protecting her face, so he aims for her stomach. This sends her stumbling back, standing on the white line. He tries to punch her again, she slips under his arm unharmed, and appears behind him. She goes to take advantage of this, but she’s too slow. Finnick spins around, and slams his foot into her ribs. 

Just like that, Thyme hits the floor, eyes wide, hands on the spot he just kicked. She sucks in a breath, looking up at Finnick, who towers over her. She stares for a moment, and then her eyes flicker to his feet, and she tries to get moving. She’s just barely on her feet, going to slip under Finnick’s arm again, when he grabs a hold of the back of her shirt, yanking her towards him.

He’s quick to grab the neck of her shirt when he can, twisting his fist and lifting slightly to keep her from sliding out of her shirt. He draws his right hand back, tilts his head to the side, and goes to punch her face. She moves out of the way by a hair, eyes continuing to widen, following his fist. He goes to try again, and manages to graze her cheek. 

Thyme winces, trying to squirm out of his grasp. And for one final time, he brings his hand back, and punches her jaw.

She hangs in the air, Finnick slowly lowers her back to her feet, and then wraps an arm around her body. He looks up at Caspian, who gives Finnick a nod before circling his name. 

Finnick won, just like you thought he would.

Finnick half-carries, half-drags Thyme’s body out of the ring. He slowly lowers her to the floor, where she lays there for a minute or two, not waking up. But then her eyes pop open, and she blinks a couple of times, squinting.

She’s alive, which means it’s your turn to fight your life.

“(Y/n) and Allio!” Caspian calls.

Finnick gives you a pat on the back, “Good luck.”

You wish you could say you don’t need it.

You and Allio come from your respective groups. With you on the far left, and him on the right. From where you stand, Caspian is still in sight, and he has a smile on his face. There’s something that you’re not aware of.

You stretch your arms and legs, cracking your knuckles, tilting your head from side to side. Allio watches you with raised fists. You bounce from foot to foot, raising your own hands. You inhale and exhale, looking over his form.

The only movement he allows is moving in the circle, like you guys were taught to do. His face is straight, his hands are where they need to be. You sweep over his body over and over to find that there’s no openings. Which means that you need to create one without getting hit. 

You made the first move yesterday, it was in your best interest to. This time, you need to let Allio come to you. You keep shuffling, but don’t move, not even when he begins to come closer. In fact, you start circling the other way, making him change his rhythm and show you what he might have been planning.

He takes much bigger steps towards you with his right leg, now. But will hesitate and back up when you pause for a moment, going toward him. Either he wants to kick you, or he wants an easy escape if you move toward him. You let him continue to come closer, prepared for a kick.

And then he launches forward.

All it took was a single blink.

There’s an explosion of pain across your nose, a sickening snap that fills the air. You inhale sharp enough to trigger a cough attack. Your hand flies to your nose, now throbbing and sending needle-like pain through the nerves. In just a couple of seconds, your palms are coated in blood, beginning to pool.

You look back up at Allio in time to see him jumping at you again. You move out of the way, flinging your handful of blood at the floor, right where his foot lands. There’s a moment of steadiness, before he slips and hits the floor hard enough for you to feel it beneath your shoes. 

You grit your teeth, drawing your foot back, lip curling, aiming for his head. You expect him to block his face with his forearms, like you were taught to. But he grabs a hold of your ankle with a tight grip and rolls over, pulling you down.

Your entire body hits the wooden floor, hands slapping hard enough for them to make a sound. Allio lets go of your foot, and goes to start crawling on top of you. If he wants to play the foot game, though, then he’s going to get it. You wind your foot back, sending your heel into his chest, knocking him back. You scoot back after that, getting to your feet.

He broke your nose, and it’s gushing blood. Your nose is crooked. You bring the bottom of your shirt up to your lower face, wiping away the fresh wave of red. Each time you breathe out, there’s a couple of droplets that fly through the air. Allio gets back to his feet, you raise your fists, gritting your teeth harder.

You didn’t expect him to be an easy fight, but you were hoping he wouldn’t be this hard.

Allio comes at you again, swinging at your face. This time, you see, so you duck. His arm flies over your head, making a clear path for his chin. Without thinking it through, you shoot up, knuckles slamming into skin and bone. Immediately, there’s a sharp pain that goes through your hand, but you’ve temporarily immobilized Allio.

His mouth is hanging open, backing away from you as he grabs the area you just punched. In the meantime, you steal a glance at your knuckles to see that they’re turning a deep shade of purple already. You try to stretch your hand, and end up crying out in pain.

You look back up at Allio to see that he’s recovered. You don’t know if you can punch him again. Not with your potentially broken knuckles. Your non-dominant hand isn’t all that strong, either. You could always try, but you’ll end up failing.

You suck in a breath through your nose, raising your fists again.

Allio comes in again, since you refuse to move. You need to get the upper hand. So far, you’re the one taking all the injuries, so he needs to receive some too. You sniff, feeling all snot and blood, and then you breathe through your mouth. It’s hard not to pay attention to your nose.

When he’s close enough, you fake right, but go left, swinging your non-dominant hand. It doesn’t feel right, and you don’t hit as hard as you mean to. The punch to Allio’s jaw just moves him backward. You didn’t get as close to his chin as you wanted to.

Allio seems to realize your dilemma, and a sadistic smile grows on his face. There’s a sudden boost in confidence in his movements, and he doesn’t hesitate to come closer anymore. He must’ve been wary of your punches, but now that you can’t hit him, he’s practically untouchable. The only way you can kick him is if you get him down. But even then, he managed to catch you last time.

You have three choices. Two of them back you into a shameful corner, the third means you go down swinging, or you win the match. No matter what happens, you will not take whatever punishment Caspian has lined up for you, in the case you decide to call mercy. And you will not just stand here and take what Allio has to deliver.

Allio swings, you back out of the way. You have to get around him somehow. Get behind him like how Thyme got behind Finnick. She was able to duck under his arm, but you’ve done that twice already. Allio has probably learned his lesson, you need a new way.

He barely comes close enough, you drop to the floor and sweep his feet. Allio loses his balance, you raise up a little, but he’s on his back, vulnerable. You jump at him, fist raised, hand wrapping around one of his wrists, pinning his arm to the ground. You hesitate actually punching him for too long, and his other hand slams into your jaw, making a red hot pain spread through your face and teeth.

Your head knocks back, eyes on the ceiling before you’re falling against the floorboards. You can feel the coolness of the wood through the fabric of your shirt. And for a moment, you think that you could lay here all day and not move. But then you see Allio coming towards you, eyes dark and threatening, and decide that you’ll lay on the floor another day.

Even though you should get up, you don’t move, trying to catch your breath, but you keep an eye on him. If he comes any closer, you think you’ll kick him in the face. Kick him like how you punched Trink. One hit that’ll get him to stop moving for good.

You lift your foot to find that he’s already holding onto it.

You twist around, rolling over and kicking his shoulder with your left foot as hard as you can. He doesn’t let go, instead pulling you in. He lets go of your ankle, and since you’re just beneath him, he raises his fist. His elbow bends, lifting it up far too high just for it to be a knockout punch, and unwinds on you.

You jerk to the left in time for him to slam his hand into the floor. 

“Idiot.” you snuff, your voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to you.

While Allio is shaking his knuckles, hissing out curses, you lazily raise back to your feet. Your mouth has an overflow of snot and blood because you refuse to breathe through your nose. You send a wad of red spit flying out of the ring, towards Caspian’s feet before raising your hands.

This fight is not over yet.

When Allio raises back to his feet, his hands aren’t raised, and he comes at you with genuine rage. This is the look that Ossie must have seen yesterday. The look of pure anger from the taunting, going all in and pulling back before it’s too late. The difference now is that you’re embarrassing him. For him, this should have been an easy fight, considering his brute strength yesterday.

Allio finally raises his fists when he gets you cornered. He swings with his left hand--no, he normally punches with his right.

Large black blots block your vision. The pain is hard and warm, pounding on the side of your head. Your hands connect with the cold floorboards once again, and you struggle to blink your eyes free of the dark restraints. For a moment, you’re terrified because the darkness is staying longer than it should. But a ray of light comes through.

You can hear Allio coming up behind you.

Get up.

Even if the stars are just now allowing you to see, you need to get up.

You struggle to make your legs solidify beneath you.

When you turn to face Allio after what feels like forever, you’re met with a solid pain in the middle of your chest, knocking you backwards, stealing your air. You barely keep on your feet this time, anticipating the ground, gasping to try and fix the empty feeling in your lungs. It hurts to breathe in this much. You press an open hand to your chest, eyes finding Allio’s face through the spots, only to see that he’s mere inches away.

One hand on your shoulder, the other one drives it’s way into your stomach. Nausea sprouts, accompanying the dizziness that hasn’t gone away since he punched you. All the air you had just gained, is gone again. A moan leaves your lips from the soreness. 

Allio wraps his hand around your throat, you can feel the ground disappearing beneath your shoes. There’s a sudden spike of terror again, and all you can picture is this exact same scenario with Ossie. Allio lifting Ossie into the air as if she was as light as a feather. Allio throwing her down to the floor. The sound of her head cracking open. Her not moving after. The blood turning her blonde hair, rich red. Laurel having to carry her out.

This will not be you.

You swing your foot as far back as possible, desperate for air. Your foot crushes into Allio’s stomach, making his face turn a sudden shade of bright red, and then he drops you.

The ground is a lot further down than you realized.

You try to catch yourself and fail, a scream leaving your throat. Your head slams against the wooden floorboards anyway, but you don’t hear your head breaking open like an egg. Only the hot, pounding feeling on the back of your head. Black spots come back to dot your vision, stealing the sight of the ceiling. Or maybe your eyes are closed.

Can you get up?

The thought alone hurts.

Everything hurts.

You can hear Allio’s tennis shoes against the wooden floorboards, shifting on his feet. He must be waiting for Caspian to call it. And if the fight is over, it means you lose.

You lose.

So, get up.

Your eyes open, stars dot the ceiling. You blink and squint to see better. No, not stars, the ceiling lights. Which form little sparkle shapes as your eyes begin to focus, adjust.

Get up.

You turn, your hot, sticky skin pressing to the floor. It sends aches and pains through your body, your muscles in your legs pulse, letting you know that they’ve had enough. It’s a good thing that they’re not in charge. You are. And this is not over with.

Get up.

Your skin slowly peels away from the polished wood, leaving a faint stinging sensation behind. It’s hardly noticeable, a needle in a haystack, considering you’ve collected an impressive worth of injuries in just one fight.

Get up.

“She’s up--” Caspian starts, once you’re on your feet, hunched over and trying to build enough confidence to stand straight. It’ll hurt too badly. And you’ve run out of time, you took too long to get up. Caspian thinks it’s over.

It’s not over until you win.

You take one step, and then another, testing the waters. Every step you take, sends a jolt through your body that always ends up at the back of your head. Your skull is not broken. You can keep moving.

This is the opening you wanted, after all.

You launch yourself right at Allio’s torso since he’s distracted, wrapping your arms around him for added effort. There’s shooting pains through your nose since it’s pressed up against his body. You pull away before he hits the ground, hard. And before he can move, you’re scrambling on top of him.

Your knuckles are not broken.

You wind your arm back, eyes locked on his nose.

They just hurt.

You drive your fist into his face. And when it doesn’t start to bleed, you punch him again. And again. “I’ll never look the same.” you snarl through your teeth, “So why should you?”

You switch hands, leaning all of your body weight into it. He’s bleeding now, there’s blood running out of his nose and down the sides of his face. His blood mixes in with yours, which coats your knuckles and fingers. If he’s going to target your weak spots, it’s only fair you give him a couple of his own.

You miss the fact that he gets his right hand back, not missing the chance for retaliation. All you can feel is your head jerk to the left hard enough for your neck to crack. You slide across the floor, skin burning along the way. You unscrew your teeth from each other, gasping.

Allio has drawn himself to his feet. Through the tunnel vision, you can see that his face is swollen. Blood is dripping off his chin. You sneer a laugh, which fizzles into coughs, your lungs not being able to support your brief moment of victory. Allio doesn’t look like he did this morning, and he won’t look like himself for a while.

He doesn’t like the fact that you can laugh at him. You can barely decipher the fact that his face twists in anger. He heads towards you, foot drawing back like he’s going to kick a ball to send it across the field. You brace your body for the impact, smile fading.

A scream draws from your throat as the kick lands. You squeeze your eyes hand enough to see vivid patterns dance across the back of your eyelids. Pain so bright and black and white that you can finally understand why Candor doesn’t believe in grey areas.

“The fight is over!” The voice is drowned, underwater and floating away.

You fade into the sea of darkness.

And think: is this how dad felt when he faded too?

--

It wasn’t until after dinner, did you leave the medical ward last night. You would have attended dinner at the actual dining hall, but the woman working in the unit gave you a plate and was there to help if you needed it. Plus, you got a little taste of Finnick’s thoughts after your loss, and you decided that you’d much rather spend the evening alone.

And you did. 

Cleo, the doctor-nurse, let you go after you showed her you could get up and move without falling. Apparently, Ossie had tried to do the exact same thing the night she hit her head. She crumpled a couple of steps in, and almost made her head injury worse. And since you had been dropped on your head too…

You’re fine, though. The injuries that you got from Allio’s fight are painful, of course, but they’re not anything totally awful. Cleo thinks that your chest and stomach will bruise, thanks to Allio’s punch. Your jaw is sore, so she wants you to eat soft foods and ice it as much as possible. As for your knuckles, they’re heavily bruised, not broken. Cleo tried to set your nose as straight as possible, but you’ll need a cosmetic procedure to get it back to the way it was. 

You had a lot of time to sit and wallow in your loss in the medical ward, but the tightness in your throat wasn’t nearly as bad as it was until you left. You wandered in the dark for a while, taking deep breaths. You ended up at the railing that blocks you from wandering into the chasm. And you stayed there until you felt better.

Even though there are no real bodies of water inside of the walls—with the exception of the swamp, but that has no water in it anymore—the sound of the rushing river below you was strangely familiar. And each time the water would crash against the jagged rocks, fresh air would be coughed up into your face. It lessened the headache.

And left you alone to think without any disruptions.

By the time you made it back to the dormitory, the announcement had already been made; there would be no training today. Capsian was just leaving the room when you got there, and he passed by you quietly at first. But he was halfway down the hallway when his words echoed off the walls, “Glad to see you’re on your feet, (Y/n).”

You didn’t say anything back.

On the first day, Laurel said that there would be a few breaks from fighting. Today is one of those days. When Finnick and Thyme had explained it to you, they didn’t say what you’d be doing exactly. Only that you all had to meet Laurel at the tracks by eight fifteen and not to be late. You have a feeling that they didn’t know what you’ll be doing today, either.

The only person that seemed to be upset last night over the break, was Finnick. Everyone else has something to complain about, not going unharmed in all the fights they’ve taken place in. You’re one of them, yesterday’s pain has settled into your bones, making itself right at home. Every move you make, you’re reminded of your loss. Which wouldn’t be that bad, but again, you have Finnick at your side. And the only thing that’s on his mind lately, is the streak.

With yesterday's loss, it means that he is the sole survivor of the streak. With his perfect gun aim, and the fact that he hasn’t lost a fight yet. You’d say something to him, if it weren’t for the fact that you have two friends total at the moment, Finnick and Thyme. Normally, you can handle Finnick being mad at you, because you had other people to talk to in Abnegation. But Thyme is more on Finnick’s side than yours, Ossie and Amos aren’t technically your friends, and your relationship with the other three is pretty much established. 

For now, you have to bite your tongue and bear it. But you wonder how long Finnick will go unchecked for. Until you finally snap and shove back. You can handle the teasing, but it’s like holding a glass of water for a long period of time. It doesn’t start off heavy, it ends up that way.

You guess that it’s partially your fault, because you’re giving him ammunition. If you want it to stop, you need to win the next two fights, and then do better than him at the last two stages of initiation. In theory, it sounds easy, but you don’t know what the second and third stages have to offer. Plus, you’re damaged goods at the moment, what are the chances you can win the fights?

As long as you try. Trying is good enough.

A shoe scuffs against the floor, sending a sharp squeak through the air.

You don’t have to lay here anymore.

You could hardly roll over last night because of your stomach. And after a couple of times, you stopped and laid on your back until your muscles finally relaxed and you couldn’t feel the pain anymore. You got a couple hours of sleep in. 

It was ruined when you jolted awake around midnight, a scream rising in your throat, your bed sheets soaked in sweat, and a very hot feeling spreading over your body. It took a while for you to finally feel normal and calmed down, and by then you were awake. The memory of the nightmare that you had just been submerged in, was at the front of your mind. 

You stopped having nightmares last year, you had finally begun to feel comfortable in your own house again. You guess you went and ruined your streak when you moved here, to a faction that would make your mother feel shame, if she were still alive.

Surprisingly, that was not the main story of the dream. Instead, you dreamt that you were back inside of the aptitude test, with all the knowledge that would come after. That every choice you would make, would conflict and result in Laurel telling you that you’re Divergent and you could be murdered because of it. But you still went through with your original answers, because you didn’t want to end up in Abnegation. You thought, for a second, that being three things was better than one.

When you came out of the test, the room was full. Men and women dressed in Dauntless black, an army sent just for you, with their guns pointed at your chest.

Standing at the front was Caspian. “Divergence is against the law.” He droned, “You are not welcome here.”

And just before they all fired, he told you that you were another stain on your family’s lineage.

The word that has stuck with you for hours is another. Not the fact that you could feel every bullet they fired pierce your body. Or feeling yourself slip away in the sinful room of mirrors. It was the fact that you were not the only anomaly in the family. The only other person that has moved away—moved on from Abnegation is Mox. Which made many people turn a brief eye to your family, watching him go.

But it doesn’t fit right. That is not the puzzle piece that needs to be there. It’s only a supplement. You know this.

Two weeks before the aptitude test, there was a unit in your science class that was about the human brain. The lesson was brief, but your teacher mentioned how dreams come from the subconscious mind, before moving onto another section. She’d only mentioned it in passing, but it has stuck with you ever since.

To you, this idea seems wrong because you don’t think of Mox as a stain. That thought is not yours to begin with. And yet, even though you’ve been awake for hours, you still haven’t found a better conclusion. 

You’re starting to think that there isn’t one.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, reaching over to the side of the bunk to help pull you into a sitting position. You grit your teeth tightly, sure that they’re going to break, but you’re determined not to make a sound. You let out a low groan anyway, which dissipates into a sigh of relief as soon as you’re sitting upright.

Leaning back on one hand, you use the other to lift the end of your shirt to see your stomach properly. Right in the middle, sits deep shades of purple and red. You press your lips together, gently running your fingers over the skin like a ghost. It’s tender, beginning the stages of healing. 

You let your shirt drop, turning towards the end of the bed, hanging your feet over the side. You remember what it took to get you up here. There’s no ladder, because that would be far too easy. Tears had sprung in the corners of your eyes, you were forced to wriggle your way up on your stomach, hands clamped tight against the metal bars.

Once you got up here last night, you weren’t allowed to get back down. Not that you really wanted to, what you really wanted to do was sleep it off. Obviously that didn’t pan out too well, either.

You can see Thyme from the top of the bunk. She’s still sleeping, tangled in her blanket, shirt collar desperate to choke her. Half her body is turned one way, the other half twisted away. Her head isn’t turned toward you.

You’re pretty sure that Finnick is still asleep beneath you, but you can’t exactly tell without accidentally falling off the bed. And if you’re going to get off by yourself, you think that you’ll do it on your own time. Speaking of which, it looks like you only have forty-five minutes to get ready.

That should be enough time, right?

The only other people awake inside of the room are Eytelle, Ossie and Amos. Eytelle disappears into the bathroom, clutching her clothes to her chest. Ossie is already dressed, pulling on her hiking shoes, yanking the laces as tight as possible. And Amos is… sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

Trink and Allio are across the room, both turned away from you. If you get off the bed, the only people that are here to witness your pain are the two people that you wouldn’t mind seeing. Apart from Finnick and Thyme, of course. You’d ask for help, but the idea of Finnick’s teasing appears in your mind, setting your destiny in stone.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, moving your ankles around in circles. Your calves are tight, they feel like you’ve had twenty leg cramps in a row. They’re going to be uncooperative today, which is the last thing that you’re going to need. Especially if you’re supposed to be jumping in and out of trains today.

The thought of missing the jump on the roof occurs to you, and you can’t help the shiver that runs through your body.

You decide that you’ll try and lower yourself down, instead of just scooting off the edge and jumping. Since your calves clearly can’t handle it right now. You’re careful to lean on your wrists and not your hands, turning yourself around. You’re glad that you’re starting to develop more upper body strength, otherwise this would be impossible.

Your body begins to ache, arms shaking the further you go down. You feel Finnick’s mattress dip beneath your bare feet. Your other foot touches his blanket, and after that, you just step down. The cement is freezing cold, making your toes curl.

You spare a glance at Finnick before you get moving, and you start to glare once you realize that he’s awake. He has a cheeky grin on his face, raising his eyebrows, “I see you’re feeling great this morning.”

“I’m not.” you say back, “Maybe I should’ve stepped on your face like I originally planned to.”

Finnick lets out a laugh, getting up and off his bed. Ever since the two of you left Abnegation five days ago, he’s begun to stand at his full height. It makes him look like he belongs inside of Dauntless. There’s tall people in Abnegation, of course, but none of them are as tall as Finnick.

You have to look up at an angle to see his face. He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up, he yawns, and then groans. Unlike you, he doesn’t have any concern for the other people sleeping in the room. 

You gather your clothes, throwing them over your arm. Finnick has no shame and decides to change right where he is. A part of you wishes that you could do the same, but your body is more valuable than his, to an extent. You shake Thyme awake, watching her squint and blink and wake up.

“Seven-forty.” you say.

She hums and rolls over. You head toward the bathroom, which is just as an open room as the dorm. Except, there’s stalls and the showers have curtains. You step inside one of them, and try to wash yourself as fast as possible. It hurts to bend down, tears appear in the corner of your eyes and run down your face. By the time you’re done showering, there’s fifteen minutes left.

You get dressed and brush your teeth. Finnick and Thyme work together to help you tie your shoes, since you can’t bend down to do it yourself. You thank them both, and after that, you have to get to the train. There’s no way you’ll make it to breakfast, climb the Pit and make it to the train in time.

“How about I get us breakfast then?” Finnick’s got a grin, jumping at the opportunity. 

Thyme gives him a look, “We’re not covering your ass if you’re late.”

“No problem, I’ll see you there.”

He takes off, leaving just you and Thyme. The two of you head up the stairs of the Pit to the glass building above it, in silence. Your thighs begin to complain at the strain, in perfect harmony with your calves. When you pass through the exit doors, you’re able to see that it’s only Amos up here, arms wrapped around himself in a hug. He looks over slightly to see you two, and then he looks away. 

“Where’d you go yesterday?” Thyme asks.

She’s still rubbing sleep from her eyes, there’s dark bags forming. She hasn’t been getting much sleep, it looks like. But you think that goes for everyone here. No one has slept soundly since the Choosing Ceremony. It just got worse as soon as the fighting began, for reasons you discovered last night.

“Hmm?” you hum, looking at her.

“We went to visit you in the medical unit, and you weren’t there.”

“Oh.” you say, looking to where the train will be coming. Behind you, you can hear the doors of the building open again. Judging by the amount of voices, it’s Trink, Allio and Eytelle. “I needed a minute to myself, that’s all.”

An arm slams into yours from behind, knocking you into Thyme. It’s Trink, who gives you a smug side-eye when she walks past. You grit your teeth, hands balling into fists. 

“Here.” a voice says, you jump and look over to see it’s Finnick, handing you the toast he got from the dining hall. It’s still hot, he must have ran here to give it to you before it cooled. You go to thank him, but he’s distracted. His eyes are on the back of Trink’s head.

Two words burn like fire on the tip of your tongue, “Do it.” you encourage.

It’s all it takes. Finnick presses the six squares of toast into your hands before he starts over toward Trink.

“Why would you say that?” Thyme hisses in a whisper, eyebrows pushed in. She’s worried for them. Typical Amity behavior, especially since she’s not for the fighting to settle differences.

“Because Finnick doesn’t negotiate.”

You don’t include the fact that, if it weren’t for your current condition, you’d be helping him.

Finnick spins Trink around, her mouth falls open. Her two idiot Candor friends turn around too, only halfway. By then, Finnick punched Trink straight across her mouth, whipping her head to the side. She loses her balance, hand flying to touch her teeth to make sure they’re still in place. When she opens her mouth, her gums are bleeding, white teeth turned red.

Allio goes to ask her if she’s okay, and Eytelle puffs up as if she’s actually going to do something about it. The moment that Finnick matches her energy, her height, and how his hands curl into fists, she backs off. 

“Next time, I’ll break your fucking nose.” Finnick snaps, looking directly at Trink, “Or better yet, I’ll hold you down so she can.”

Finnick comes back over, face flushed a shade of red. He grabs his breakfast from your hands, and Thyme does the same. The doors open behind you, Laurel and Ossie come out. Laurel has her hair in a ponytail today, sleek and straight. She walks right past Trink, Eytelle and Allio. And stops a few feet away, sticking her hands into her ironed business pants. 

There’s a moment of baffled silence on Trink’s part, and then she bursts, “You’re not going to ask what happened?”

Laurel looks over, straight-faced, “What happened?” she asks lamely.

It’s good enough for her, “He punched me!”

Laurel stares for a moment, probably deciding if Trink’s behavior is worth feeding into. She doesn’t look at Finnick when she starts towards Trink. Laurel crouches down in front of her, being careful that pants don’t touch the grass beneath her. “You will have a lot more to worry about if you continue to tell on your fellow initiates. You are displaying signs of cowardice. I am not your mother, handle the situation yourself.” Laurel stands, glances at Finnick, and says; “From now on, no fighting outside of the ring. Once you’re a member, the rule lifts.”

She goes back to where she was standing before.

If Trink wants to say anything else, she can’t. You finish your piece of toast, brushing the crumbs off your hands and shirt just as the train comes in. The horn blares, letting you know that it’s coming. Laurel stands close enough for the wind to blow her clothes flat against her body.

Amos is the first to pull himself inside of the train, disappearing off to the left side. You jog with the train, remembering the high feeling the day of the Choosing Ceremony. How you had pulled yourself inside of the train like you’ve done it every day of your life. 

Now you’re struggling to push past the violent burning feeling in your calves and thighs with each step you take. You wonder, is this progress, or are you falling behind?

You grab a hold of the handle, grit your teeth and hold your breath, yanking yourself in. Immediately, there’s an achy feeling in your chest and stomach. You massage your chest, not dumb enough to go lower. Finnick pulls himself in next, almost effortlessly. He slams his head against the doorway of the train, curses leaving his mouth. You burst into laughter, you can hear Amos chuckling behind you.

Finnick rubs his forehead, face twisted. He moves inward, allowing Thyme to come in next, “Think it’ll bruise?”

“You didn’t hit yourself that hard!” you shout over the wind.

He gives you a grin.

Laurel comes in next, standing off to the side and judges every person who comes in next. Eytelle, Allio, Ossie and then Trink. Ossie comes to the left side, where you are. As for the other three, they take the right side, huddled up like they normally are. Laurel presses herself against the wall, crosses her arms, and stares out of the door.

You still don’t know what you’re doing today.

The train brings you all the way to the far fence. It brakes too harshly, making Finnick jerk. You grab a hold of his arm before he knocks into Laurel and gets himself into any more trouble. Finnick might be tall and an experienced fighter, but sometimes he’s as prepared as a baby deer. When you’d ride home together on the bus in Abnegation, he’d have to hold onto a pole, not the overhead handles. It’s because the poles are steadier.

The train comes to a complete stop underneath an awning. Laurel exits firsts, jumping down gracefully and walking a couple of steps before she stops and waits. You move out next with Finnick. This time, he makes sure to duck dramatically so that he doesn’t hit his head again. 

There’s a chain-link fence with barbed wire, a green field on the other side of it, with hills that stretch as far as your eyes can see. Dotted around are a mix of healthy green trees, and trees that are far too dead to be revived.

On the other side of the fence is the Dauntless guards, wearing black and carrying guns, patrolling what may be out there. Only recently, in the past couple of years, have the Dauntless begun to patrol the outside of the fence. As far as anyone knows, there isn’t a threat. Only more Amity farms that couldn’t fit inside of the fence. Before, the Dauntless had been controlling what went on inside of the factionless communities. But Abnegation argued that they don’t need Dauntless with guns. They need food, water, places to live. They need to be rehomed and given a new opportunity.

“Follow me!” Laurel shouts, once everyone is off the train. The eight of you wander behind her, “Today, you’re doing volunteer work, carrying heavy shit that the Amity and Abnegation can’t.” she leads you to a gate, with a wide, cracked road that leads back to the city, “And I’ll give you some insight on the jobs you’ll be eligible for if you don’t rank high in initiation.”

She nods at one of the guards on the other side, “If you don’t rank in the top five at the end of initiation, you’ll end up here. Once you’re a fence guard, there’s not much room for advancement. If you get the job, you probably won’t find a way to squirm out of it. Most who work here, say that it’s not as bad as it seems. Isn’t that right?”

She has a smile on her face when she looks at one of the guards. They give her an amused expression, and then eyes over you guys. 

“Don’t mind them, they’re just shy. The most you’ll get out of the job is the potential to go beyond the Amity farms, but that’s the extent of it.” she stops, turning to face you guys.

“What else?” Trink asks, she’s standing behind you.

“Well, you’ve seen the shops, tattoo and piercing parlors. If you’ve visited the medical ward, you can be a doctor, or a lunch lady. We have security cameras all over the Dauntless compound, so you could make that your day job.” she pauses for a moment, “Oh, and police officers. But that’s about it.

“If you rank in the top five, you get your pick of the litter. Or maybe, the litter will pick you, in some cases.” Laurel doesn’t elaborate for a moment, and then she smiles, “Did you know that they’re looking for a temporary, fourth position for leadership? If the person fits the requirements for leadership, they’ll replace one of the leaders we have now.”

“Is that what you’re going for?” Thyme asks.

Her face twists, raising her eyebrows, “It’s not a job for the fainthearted. And I’ve already got my job. Who do you think designs all the clothes you’re wearing?”

You remember the mannequin on her arm. You originally thought it was her fear, as you’ve come to realize that most of the Dauntless will get their fear somewhere on their body. But maybe it’s a passion thing, instead.

A horn blares, making Laurel raise her head, “The next train is here. Let’s get this over with, so we can get back to the headquarters.”

--

ANTERIC IS A SPIN-OFF DIVERGENT AU //MASTERLIST//

add yourself to the TAGLIST

@amixedwitch / @justthatfangirloverthere / @fnnshelbys / @neenieweenie / @vxntae /  @liaaacantwrite / @tereuzasworld

#ilguna #finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair oneshot #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair anteric #anteric #anteric chapter four

[the-final-sif]

 I lied, I’m not actually clearing out my inbox today b/c someone left a super amazing comment on ‘a soft tongue and sharp teeth’ and so I’m going to write an analysis/breakdown/ramble of all the things I had going on in that fic because I want to and it’s one of my favorite bnha fics.

Warning! Discussion of suicidal thoughts/self-sacrificial suicide/kidnapping/child death/general fucked upness we see in BNHA ahead.

The entire story is about how children with strong quirks are seen and treated as tools/weapons by adults in BNHA’s universe. They’re forced to grow up too quick, to fight to defend themselves or surrender to that fate. I wanted to tackle this through the eyes of one such child who we’ve seen subjected to that by both heroes and villains.

Katsuki is the focus of the story, he’s the only one whose given a name throughout the story, and he’s one of only two characters allowed to “Speak”, that’s because this is his story, his and the child’s. The fundamental core of his story is that he is the one who gets to decide it. He would rather die than allow anyone else to control him or his story, so he and the child are the only ones allowed to actually speak in it.

Pronouns only ever refer to one character. He/him = Katsuki. She/her = Momo. They/them = the child (I’ll talk more about why in a minute).

One of the primary metaphors of the story is Katsuki holding his sharp teeth over his tongue. Katsuki has notable sharper teeth in the manga, and here they also represent his general willingness to fight. His anger, his guarded nature, his strength. His tongue represents himself, his agency, and his story.

Katsuki gets his quirk, and the moment he does in the story, others demand it from him. It starts with just his friends who demand he keep showing it off, something he’s happy to do and which seems harmless. Then it slowly escalates when more powerful people start taking notice.

This manifests in many ways, the attempted kidnappings, the sports festival, people around him trying to forced him into change one way or another and him refusing.

Katsuki also starts the theme of ‘biting his tongue’ early on in the story. Here, it actually has two meanings that converge into the same core theme. He metaphorically bites his tongue when he refuses to tell anyone about what happened to him, because he no longer trusts anyone after what happened. Only himself. Later, he resolves to more literally bite his tongue to take his own life if he’s ever unable to escape. So he can’t be turned into a weapon.

In both cases, for Katsuki, biting his tongue is him denying other people any say in his story on the most ultimate level. He refuses to tell anyone else what happened to him, because it is his story, and by telling it, other people could turn it into their own narratives. So they won’t hear it at all. Similarly, by killing himself he’d be taking control over his own story in the most final way possible. He can’t be used as a tool or a weapon if he’s dead. So that’s his final solution, if he has no other way out, then he will end his story there to stop them from taking it from him. 

Or at least, he refuses to tell his story until he meets someone who truly understands it. The child.

We have a city being destroyed, and a few more characters come into play. The most important two are Momo and Hawks, with mentions of Eri.

Momo has also had people try to use her for her quirk her entire life. She’s been reduced down to it by a lot of people, but has managed to at least somewhat overcome that with her intelligence. Still, her understanding of what it’s like is why she’s the third pronouned character and why she’s the one whose able to figure out how to communicate with the child.

Hawks is a case where he was turned into a weapon/tool by adults. He gave in and gave up his freedom. He understands the pain of it, at least on some level. That’s why he’s noted as one of the few people able to enter the bubble of destruction without harm. Because he kind of understands. But he’s not able to pass through safely like Katsuki, and he’s not the one the child wants because he gave in. Hawks gave up on his freedom, so he can’t really understand the choice the child is making.

Eri is another case where a child was turned into a weapon. The bullets made from her blood are the proposed solution, and they don’t work because of who they were created from. 

All these characters lead to Katsuki entering the bubble of destruction enclosing the city. Katsuki is the one allowed to enter because he understands.

His journey is broadcast outwards, as a gift to him from the child. Because the child understands how hard it is to tell this story, and so they give Katsuki a platform to tell it where nobody can take his story from him. Nobody else can interject, interrupt, or try to change it.

All anyone else is allowed to do is listen to it and accept Katsuki’s story as he presents it.

Also I’m going to note that I use the repetition of Katsuki’s age a lot here because I want to hammer home how young all these children are as they’re forced into these fates.

When Katsuki reaches the child, he notes that the child does not have sharp teeth. This is meant to mean that the child did not have Katsuki’s same willingness to fight back/lash out, not until it was too late and they’d gotten a serious head injury, one that caused them to lose control over their quirk.

The child is bound too, which tells Katsuki that someone had tried to kidnap them. He understands upon seeing them what’s going on, that the child had adults try to turn them into a tool/weapon. Since they’re no longer able to control their quirk properly, the child made the choice to overuse their quirk until it killed them rather than allow themselves to be turned into a tool/weapon.

I want to note that the child is never described in any detail physically. They/them are used for the child the entire time. They are never given a name, hair color, eye color, etc. That’s all on purpose. Because this child is meant to be every child forced into this situation, who’ve had to make this choice. They could be any child, because this issue is so prevalent in bnha. 

In his effort to make the child feel less alone, Katsuki tells his own story to them, about how adults don’t listen when you say no, and about how he’d fought back and made them. He tells his own story, making himself vulnerable for the first time in a long time, because he knows he can trust this child not to take his story away from him.

Likewise, the child trusts Katsuki with their story too. They ask him to tell their story like he tells his, not the story of a victim, but the story of a hero, and he does.

Katsuki then offers comfort the only way he knows how, by singing a lullaby that he remembers from before he got his quirk. Bringing back memories of a time before adults saw them as tools, as weapons, as nothing more than their quirks.

He offers them one last chance to be a child, to be a person, to be human again. To be treated as they should’ve been the entire time.

Katsuki clings onto the child long after their gone, finally crying and unable to let go and accept their death because not only is it tragic, but it’s his very first time seeing his own story from the outside. It’s the first time he realizes how fucked up all of this really is, well and truly.

Aizawa enters here, earlier in the story he was the only one to protest Katsuki entering the bubble. He’s often one of the few characters in BNHA who actually treats these children like children, who protests against sending them out into the field, who protects them.

In the end, he’s only one person though, and he tries, he tries so hard, but he can only do so much. Often times all he can be is there to comfort them afterwards.

Aizawa still tries, he sits with Katsuki, he lets him cry, and he comforts Katsuki. Treating him like a child, because Katsuki still is one.

Very purposefully, Aizawa does not say anything here. There’s nothing he can say that will make things better, so instead he stays silent and lets Katsuki/The Child tell their stories and have that control. Rather than trying to shift it by telling them everything’s okay when it’s not.

Afterwards, everyone is left shaken by their sudden understanding of Katsuki’s world. But Katsuki isn’t because this is just his life.

To him, as hard as it was, this is just a reality of life. He hates everyone who forces children to make these choices, the circumstances of the choice are tragic. But the choice itself is not to him. It’s the heroic thing to do. It’s powerful. It’s maintaining your own agency and humanity against all else.

We see this when he meets the child’s parents, he makes sure they know who the hero was that day. He holds to his promise and keeps telling the child’s story how they wanted it told.

When Katsuki’s answering how he’s moving on, you’ll notice I used “their” to describe the child in his eyes. That was very much so on purpose and goes back to the idea of the child he encountered being symbolic for every child that’s been forced to make this choice.

After all of this, we finally get to the sweet pea flower Katsuki finds after he’s gone through his grief and started moving forward again.

So, sweet pea flowers mean goodbye, but with a grateful/happy tone to them. It’s meant as both a ‘thank you’ to Katsuki from the child for sharing his story and comforting them in their last moments, but it’s also meant as a reassurance that this was a happy ending for them. This was their choice, that they made to keep power over their own story. It’s a choice that hurt them to make, but it was still theirs. They don’t regret it.

The flower is crystal rather than organic matter so it won’t die. It’s a permanent reminder for him, an endless symbol of their story and choices that will live on after them.

As such, Katsuki puts the flower in with his will. Because he understands the meaning, and he wants to pass it along. If he dies, he’ll be going out on his own terms. And he won’t regret it. His story will be his until the end.

 Okay this has gotten very long, and I didn’t even get to everything.

Anyways, a soft tongue and sharp teeth is my favorite short bnha story I’ve written, I was basically possessed while writing it, and there’s like 10 million little details in it that I’m very proud of. 

thank you for coming to my ted talk.

#katsuki bakugou #character analysis #bnha hawks #keigo takamai #dadzawa #aizawa shouta #momo yaoyorozu #eri #bnha eri #hurt/comfort #story analysis #bnha #mha #quirk analysis #sif speaks #bnha quirks #mha quirks #katsuki's kidnappings #my fanfictions #a soft tongue and sharp teeth #my headcanons #tw death #tw sucidal thoughts #tw sucidal ideation #tw suicude #sif writes #anyways thank you @ that person #i have no idea how I wrote this fic

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 4, chapter 6

Masterlist | Previous | Next

Content warnings: recounting past trauma

Blaise and Tyrael were still gone. Apparently the destruction of this soulstone was more complicated somehow. Morgan had moved from the work bench to one of the cots in the next room, propped up by pillows in a way that didn't trouble his injury too much, practically swimming in a light cotton tunic that Halbu had provided to replace his own ruined shirt. He was still feeling a little unsteady from the whole ordeal - not the battle, which had gone surprisingly well. What had happened afterward was what troubled him. The nightmares were one thing, to be expected. He barely even remembered having them sometimes. But to be pulled into one while waking was something else entirely, and it was concerning. He was trying to believe it was just a side effect of Diablo's influence. That was the most likely explanation, but he couldn't shake the nagging doubt. What if it wasn't? What if it could happen again at any time? He would have to pursue additional training, just to be sure of himself. Priests had to hold themselves to higher standards than what he'd been achieving recently.

Halbu had begun working on a new armour piece for him. A brigandine this time, more flexible and puncture-resistant than the leather cuirass had been, but likely to be heavier. He'd insisted, despite Morgan's protests, and was whistling as he worked. The whistling and the hammering echoed through the fortress, breathing a sense of life into the otherwise still halls. Morgan supposed Halbu had good enough reason to be cheerful, given their victory over Diablo. Cain was busying himself with a small pile of books he'd borrowed from Jamella's collection while she processed some ingredients with a mortar and pestle at an auxiliary work table. She seemed annoyed to be working in this atypical setup, given that the bulk of her equipment was in the other room, but she was insistent about keeping an eye on Morgan.

She had been glancing over at him frequently, frowning. Something seemed to be bothering her. She finally broke her silence when she caught him looking back. "I didn't expect you to have such a resistance to my potion," she said. He still appreciated her straightforwardness, though he didn't care much for the direction of the conversation. "I've never seen it have so little effect. How exactly did your tolerance get so high?"

Morgan didn't really want to talk about it, but she was an emissary of the Light. He was duty-bound to assist her in every way possible, at least while the Balance was still compromised. And Baal was still unaccounted for.

"I was tortured. By a sect of claw vipers. Acolytes of Duriel."

"Oh? Kindly elaborate."

"They pushed me to the brink of death, then pulled me back with healing potion to do it again." Morgan hoped that level of detail would suffice. It was not at all pleasant to reflect on, especially not after whatever that lapse had been. "Based on the taste, I would guess their formulation was very close to yours."

"You don't build a tolerance like that from a little torture. Have you ever used it recreationally, outside of that experience? Afterwards, perhaps? It's not uncommon. I'm not here to pass judgment, I just want to know. So I can treat other champions accordingly if they have a similar issue."

"No, never like that." He couldn't imagine ever wanting to consume it on purpose. He'd already explained that the tolerance had been caused by - oh, perhaps he hadn't been quite explicit enough. "It was dozens. Of times. Not just the once."

Jamella's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Really? Dozens."

Morgan rubbed his face. He wished this conversation could be over, but he couldn't just end it. In case future champions should have a similar issue. He hoped, for their sake, they did not.

"Yes. You've seen the state of my skin. The scarring is all from that experience."

"Two dozen? More?"

"More. I was not keeping a precise tally," he added, hoping to stem this particular branch of inquiry. He wanted to think about anything else.

Jamella gave him a cool stare. "Why so much? I know Duriel's chosen find torture to be entertaining, but that seems excessive even for them."

Morgan laced his fingers together in his lap. "Blaise and I fought Andariel, before that. I was injured during that battle, and it never fully healed. They were... fascinated by that injury."

"You were marked by Andariel? Well, that would explain it. Her surviving victims experience a permanent amplification of pain that would make you an attractive target for her brother's flock." Jamella tipped her head thoughtfully. "Her venom is physically aggressive as well - that's what was wrong with your arm, isn't it? The damage you mentioned you couldn't repair?"

Morgan nodded, the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck. He'd been able to avoid discussing the lingering effects of Andariel's venom until now, but of course Jamella would be knowledgeable in these things. It was a small mercy Blaise wasn't there to hear him admit just how weak he really was, how he struggled constantly next to her effortless strength.

"I see. And how much of their potion did they give you at a time?"

"For the first... while, it was, ah. Just. Cupfuls." The words weren't coming easily. "Less than... what you gave me earlier. About a ghyll. I think."

"They worked up to larger amounts, then?"

"No, not... worked up." Morgan ran a hand through his hair. Why was this so difficult? It was just something that had happened, a set of facts he could relay. "I tried to... refuse. The potion. After a time. They... began drowning me in it, then. To prevent that." Tears blurred his vision. He wiped at his eyes, frustrated. It wasn't always easy to manage his emotions, but it was usually easier than this. "I don't know how many, how much-" The lump in his throat prevented him from saying any more.

Jamella opened her mouth to continue her questioning, but Cain had come over to lay a hand on her shoulder. "I think that's enough for now. We aren't going anywhere, are we?" He smiled disarmingly. She grunted, turning back to her work. Cain approached Morgan, seating himself by the bedside. Morgan avoided the other man's gaze. He hated losing his composure like this. It was bad enough being so physically feeble, he didn't need anyone to witness his emotional weakness on top of it. Some of the most basic training for priests of Rathma was for emotional control, and he just couldn't stop failing at it. At least he would have time to revisit that training yet again as he waited for his body to heal.

"You've been through quite a lot, young man." Cain's voice was reassuring, kindly. It didn't help. Morgan wasn't looking for sympathy or pity, he just wanted to be able to close the wounds in his mind. Talking about them, even just thinking about them, only served to pick at the scabs.

"We all have," he replied. The deflection was almost automatic. "The first thing I did when we met was to bury seven of your friends."

"I still think perhaps you've suffered the worst out of us, my friend."

"Personal suffering is inconsequential in service to the Balance," Morgan recited. Of course the suffering of others should be minimized where possible, but priests of Rathma had to hold themselves to a different standard. All this time, and he still couldn't do his Order justice. It was pathetic.

"Ah, is that why you rarely speak of what troubles you? I don't believe I've heard you complain even once since we began traveling together."

Morgan looked over at Cain. The old man's face was somehow both concerned and blandly interested, no indication that he was judging or mocking. Morgan looked away again. "I prefer not to dwell on those things," he said carefully. There was no need to bother anyone else with his... difficulties. What if they found it to be too much trouble to deal with? No, he absolutely could not take that risk.

That was the thing Diablo had discovered when he'd reached into his mind to pluck out his deepest fear. What the demon ought to have found was the tipping of the Balance, the destruction that would be done to humanity by either side seizing control, the thing his Order was charged with preventing. And that would be a terrible thing, to be sure, but it was not what Diablo had scented out as his worst fear. No, the demon lord had pried out something much smaller, more personal. What he had unearthed was the idea - the knowledge - that these friendships Morgan had managed to cultivate somehow, so rare and precious, could easily be destroyed if he were to say or do the wrong thing at the wrong time. The thought was unbearable, the danger ever-present. He knew in his heart that he was a burden, so he had to make that burden as light as possible for them to bear.

"Some burdens," Cain said as though reading his thoughts, "are easier to carry when their weight is shared."

"It is not easy to bear the weight of another. I can carry my own well enough."

"So you can, friend. So you can. Just remember, you don't always have to."

He was wrong, of course, but the sentiment was well-intentioned. "Thank you." Morgan waited a beat to see if Cain would say anything further on the matter. He did not, which meant it was time to change the subject. "What is it you've been studying?"

Cain brightened. "What do you know of the crusaders of Zakarum?"

"Little enough. They call themselves Paladins, do they not?"

"Ah, yes, actually, they are two distinctly different orders sprung from the same root." Cain spoke at length of the differences and similarities between the two sects, and Morgan did his best to pay attention. But soon enough he found his eyelids growing heavy, and Cain very kindly helped him back into a more horizontal position. Exhaustion caught up with him quickly, and he slept.

#my writing #story: unbidden #emotional whump #trauma tw #drowning mention tw

[tvpeongsstuff]

Supreme Emperor Obi-Wan Kenobi (part 3)

Palpatine's imperial guards were also unconscious when Obi-Wan made his way up to the emperor's chambers. He had ordered the commanders of the storm troopers to accompany him, and to organize some of their men and the medidroids to carry Sidious and Vader up to the office with them. He had noticed the passed out imperial guards on the senate floor. However, he had not expected that all of Sidious' bodyguards would be unconscious. He was glad that there would not be a fight but wondered if they were all sith. And there the knowledge was, in his brain, as soon as thought.

The guards were not sith or darksiders. Instead they were soldiers, men, who had been chosen by Sidious for their height and lethality. Then he had molded them through dark side practices, with no one to answer to but his own perversions, into his own creatures. More than half of them were cyborgs, not as bad as Vader or Grievous but still more machine than man. Nearly all had had their vocal cords removed. He had tortured these men and steeped them so completely in the dark side that when Vader pulled all the dark energy into himself they had been knocked out.

Obiwan would have to deal with all the unconscious people soon. He suspected that either Vader would drain them until they died or he would suck them dry, forever cutting them off from the force. He directed the storm troopers to put the two sith down on the ground. The two medidroids that had traveled with them all the way to the office were buzzing around all the bodies on the floor.

"Are any of these men going to wake up anytime soon?' Obiwan asked the droids. "No? Good! Do a complete scan and give me the details. Do not administer any drugs to any of the unconscious people in this room," Obiwan paused thinking, "This order must be implemented for all of the unconscious people in the building. Make sure that every medic knows that at this time only the storm troopers are to receive medication. They are to treat the physical injuries of every other person with bandages only. I repeat no other group is to receive medication. And, unless someone is in danger of dying without it, only use bacta on the stormtroopers."

Obi-Wan did not know how drugs would affect the hold Vader had on the darksiders. He did not want anyone to wake up before he could get them properly secured. To that end, Obi-Wan turned to the storm trooper commanders in the office with him. In the force they felt familiar but muted. He did not want to raise his hopes. "Take off your buckets," he commanded.

As they complied, he steeled himself. "What are your orders, Supreme Emperor Kenobi?" said Cody. "Cody," gasped Obiwan. And, it was Cody, he looked around, and Boil, Appo, Driven, Marks, Sweet, Genna, and Dave. Men he had lived and served with. Was there something there of their old personalities? Their real personalities? "Cody,' Obiwan said again. "Do you remember me?"

"Yes Sir," replied Cody, "and I must say that I am glad that you are no longer a traitor." Obi-Wan wanted to scream at him. He wanted to make him understand that he had never been a traitor. No Jedi had been. No Jedi, but one. Back to the matter at hand.

Obi-Wan began, "Order 66 has been cancelled. Are you holding any Jedi or force sensitive captive? They are to be released from custody. Any on Coruscant are to be brought here immediately. I want to speak to the ones who are being held off planet. In the meantime, arrange untraceable transport and food for them. Also find travel companions for any who are too young to travel by themselves. And, get enough binders for all of the unconscious people.

You there," he said turning to one of the medidroids. "How are your patients?"

"I am ZT-57. The patients are unconscious but otherwise their vitals are good." said the droid. "Five of them have cybernetic limbs and hardware throughout their bodies. Four also have an implant that is injecting an unknown stimulant into their bodies. One has the implant but it is not currently injecting the stimulant."

A stimulant!? Obi-Wan turned to Sidious and the information was there. His imperial guards were fitted with a device imbued with dark side energy and spacemeth that would trigger rage and aggression if the emperor were ever threatened. It was one of Sidious' back up plans to keep power. They would battle to the death and feel no pain.

It must have been triggered when Sidious collapsed in the Senate, Obi-Wan figured. But, Vader was pulling the darkness from the solution which knocked the guard out. And, apparently, Vaders' actions were more than enough to overpower the stimulant. Obi-Wan wondered if he could allow the inquisitors to be treated with medication if Vader's pull was that strong. But he decided not to risk it until he was sure that they were secure.

What about Vader? Vader's device injected a special concoction of spacemeth and sithstimulant into Vader twice a day. One early in the morning to give him energy to get up and go. And, another at night to keep him working and focused. All told, Vader probably got no more than an hour or two of rest a day. "No wonder he was still sleeping" Obi-Wan thought.

He could not have the drug waking Vader up and stopping this. Obi-Wan reached out with the force and found and broke all the devices in the building. He would have the medidroids remove them from the men at a later date. Right now, it was enough that they were not going to wake up. Especially as he had a more urgent use for the medidroids.

"ZT-57, I need you to run a level 5 brain scan on the storm troopers. They have biochips that need to be removed." Obi-Wan said.

"Sir?" Cody sounded confused.

"Commander Cody. Have you carried out the orders I gave you earlier?"

"Yes Sir," he replied. "There were only 5 Jedi on planet. They are being brought here as we speak. They should be here in approximately 25 minutes. 6 Jedi are being held in facilities off-world. You can begin calling them in 15 minutes.."

"Why 15 minutes?" Obi-Wan interjected.

"They are to be cleaned up and given food and water. I thought you would prefer that their needs were met before you talked to them. I am in the process of arranging companions for the younglings. I thought that you would prefer it if the companions were not clones or officers of the empire. We have 2213 binders."

Obi-Wan did not ask him to explain further. He could only imagine what had been done to the captives. The initiatives that Cody took on his own gave him hope that the man he knew in the war was still there.

"Do you want to know why I am removing your biochips? Obi-Wan asked with a smile.

"No Sir," the commander responded promptly. "Good soldiers follow orders."

Obi-Wan felt sick.

"Scan done." said ZT-57. "We have the location of the biochip and can begin removing them as soon as you are ready."

"You will do the surgery here and now. Can it be done under local anesthetic?" asked Obi-Wan.

"Yes Emperor. Are you sure you want us to carry out brain surgery in the imperial office? I cannot be sure that the area is sterile. These are not optimum conditions for surgery!" The medidroid sounded worried but Obi-Wan did not care. Unless...

"Will the men be permanently injured in some way if you did the surgery here?" he asked.

"No Emperor," the other droid said quietly. "We can do it. Just know that it is not without risk." At Obi-Wan's look, he continued, "There is a 0.0004% chance that doing the surgery here might lead to infection of the wound."

"I'll risk it. Are the biochips in the same place in all of the troopers?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Yes Emperor," said ZT-57.

"Send the location of the biochips to all of the medidroids in the building. You will operate on Commanders Cody and Appo now. How long will the surgery take?"

"We will have to shave the area, then sterilize it, before we can do the surgery, So about 10 minutes." said ZT-57

Ten minutes? In 10 minutes Obi-Wan would know if he had his friends back. He would know for sure if the biochip had destroyed the men they were and replaced them with automatons that did not question orders and found it easy to kill children.

He could barely stand the wait.

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