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heyheydidjaknow · 3 years

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Hiya! I have a request for an x reader songfic. Snap out of it by the Arctic monkeys gives me so many 2012 Donnie vibes. Maybe one where the reader is in love with Donnie but he likes April and the reader wants Donnie to, you know, "snap out of it" and notice that maybe April isn't the best person towards him. It can end in unrequited love or with a happy ending, that's for you to decide but I just really want to see this concept. Thanks! :>

(feel free to ignore this request if you want 👁️👁️)

Oh, I’m not about to turn away a chance to be pushed out into foreign territory. I admittedly hadn’t known what a songfic was until wikipedia and @kunimikat saved my ass, so this was fun-- and a bit scary-- to write. I hope you like it, even if it might not have been exactly what you were expecting.

April was your friend. She had been for a while, now, since she had moved to NYC. The two of you had come even closer after her kidnapping and initiation into the “Hamato Clusterfuck” as you had affectionately called it at first—you had wisely made a conscious effort to only get involved with them as far as you could throw them, sticking solidly to offering emotional support and half-decent food. At the beginning, you had, on multiple occasions, even begged her to stay out of it, trying to reason with her that getting herself killed by a psychotic armored man with an axe to grind for the crime of hanging out with four teenage shut-ins was an incredibly bad idea. When your logical arguments fell on deaf ears—her owing them apparently being her ball and chain—you had designated yourself as her supervisor to make sure she did not do something overly impulsive. She was reckless, overly trusting, immature, but you loved her like a sister. You balanced each other out.

One of the benefits of knowing someone for so long is that you learn things about them that they do not know about themselves. In April’s case, it had been that she was terrible at making up her mind

What's been happenin' in your world?

You had borne witness to the love triangle transpiring between Donatello Hamato, Casey Jones and her for the better part of a year now. You were relieved that the two boys had backed off each other’s throats somewhat over the period, but it was as infuriating as it was fascinating to watch them fight over her like a chew toy. Of course, April had her preference between the two, favoring the hockey player mainly for his general normalcy, which was a decision you could approve of, but she had hesitated until recently to make that obvious to the other point because, in her words, “The last thing I want is to deal with is all of that awkwardness.” You could hardly blame her for her hesitation, but you thought it almost cruel not to make her feelings apparent to her lovestruck puppy.

What have you been up to?

Donnie was the most tolerable of the five, the most normal in your opinion. He was an infatuated, insecure teenage boy with more an affinity towards machines and, best of all, seemed concerned for your friend, all things that you could get on board with. In your opinion, overbearingness is preferable to negligence in this case, and you were just happy that someone physically capable had her back. As such, when you were stuck at the lair for hours waiting for her lessons with Splinter to be over—you were her ride—you found yourself spending the most time around him, and as time went on, you started going out of your way to do so.

Seeing as April and Casey were your only other friends, it was natural you would get romantically attached. They—a couple by high school standards—approved of your crush, and all you told your guardian(s) was that they were smart, fit, and financially responsible, so they asked few questions.

You knew, logically, this was not a competition and that April had little interest in him.

But something about the way he gazed at her made you burn green with envy.

I heard that you fell in love, or near enough.

His eyes were just so… wistfully longing. He watched as the redhead and her boyfriend played against Michelangelo and Raphael in a game of charades. His expression was just so soft, lips pursing and popping silently as he grieved from his seat in his lab.

It had been a downhill spiral on your end from there, and as your own attachment grew for him, his own depression worsened. Your eyes drifted from your friend as you tried to make him see that, no, the world was not ending because his first crush did not like him back. You would make subtle comments about how happy his brothers were, how happy she and Casey were together, how smart he was and how many people would die for a kind, loving, smart guy to come around and sweep them off their feet. This, again, fell on deaf ears; he would always comment on how, if he were such a catch, April would not have chosen Casey, like It is his fault for her having more of a taste in cocky, fun-loving guys than intelligent ones. Half of it was probably your lack of experience in subtlety, but no matter what you would try to say, whenever romance came up in conversation, his words turned sharp and bitter.

On that day, you just cracked.

I gotta tell you the truth.

You walked over to the lab door, closing it in a single fluid motion. ‘I’m better at being blunt, anyways.’

He blinked; his trance was interrupted by the small slam.

“She’s not into you.”

“Huh?”

You crossed the room and placed your hand on the desk, expression stern and stone cold. “April,” you repeat. “She’s not interested.”

He did not meet your gaze. “You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually.” You leaned down to look him in the eye. “You aren’t her type. You’re supposed to be smart.” You placed the other on the back of his chair, arms cagging him in, almost. “ She has a boyfriend,” you continued, softer. “You know that, right?”

“I do.” He tapped the side of his thumb against the table absently, throat tight. “But what else do you suppose I do? Submit to the fact that I’ll be alone forever?” He looked up at you. “I know this may be hard for you to believe,” he continued, easily slipping out from under your arms, “but I don’t exactly have a ton of options. She’s the only person who’s ever looked at me like that; how am I supposed to move on from the only person who’s ever even given me a chance?”

I wanna grab both your shoulders and shake, baby.

You rolled your eyes, turning to watch him as he crossed to the other side of the room. “That is some blatant bullshit,” you glared curtly.

“Is it, though?” His back was to you as he crouched down in front of his centrifuge, fiddling with it. “As someone who’s never—”

“So help me, if you go off about me not understanding being rejected and feeling like they’d die alone, I’ll rip your tongue out.” You stood back up properly.

“What would you know about it?” He followed suit, eyes locking on yours. “You have other people to choose from.”

“And you don’t?” You crossed your arms, smiling incredulously. “How do we differ, exactly?”

“Besides the obvious?”

You scoffed. “You’ve seen your brothers. Never stopped them.”

“And I’m happy for them, that they’re so charismatic as to be able to find partners so easily.” You could taste the bitterness in his words. “But I’m not them, in case you didn’t notice. That girl out there?” He pointed to the door. “She’s the first and only person in the universe who’s ever given me a second glance.”

“So you’re just fucking blind, now?” You heard your voice rise without your input.

“What’re you talking about?” His voice grew with yours.

“You’re lovesick,” you spat. “Snap out of it.”

Snap out of it.

You ran your fingers through your hair. “Or maybe you’re just dense.” You felt a laugh rise in your throat. “I mean,” you gestured, “clearly picking up on verbal subtext isn’t your forte.”

You gave him five seconds. “What,” you continued, rubbing your face with your hands, “Are you—” You stopped. “You are, aren’t you?”

Nothing.

You took a slow breath, hearing your heartbeat in your ears. “Let me put it in simple, plain English for you.”

I get the feelin' I left it too late, but baby—

“As her friend? You’re a fucking creep.” You crossed your arms across your chest. “Following her the way you did—wait your turn—” A finger interrupted his defense. “Following her the way you did? Objectively creepy. Staring at her all the time? Also fucking creepy.” You felt your nails dig into your skin. “Any person would call it as it is.”

He opened his mouth again to argue. You did not interrupt him this time, but he did not argue, the silence falling like a weighted blanket over the two of you.

“As your friend,” you continued, voice lowered, “as someone who cares about you, I know April, and she can’t give you what you want. It’s not her; she needs to be free, and I love her, but you’re looking for something that’s just not there.” Your voice was certain. “You’re looking for someone to spend your life with. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Snap out of it.

He was still for a moment, looking off into the ether. He nodded, face melancholy.

You walked over, resting a hand on his shoulder tentatively. “I’m not saying it’s stupid of you to not be over her. Again, I love her to bits, so I see the appeal.” You broke eye contact, trying to articulate exactly what you meant. “But I’m worried,” you explained slowly, “you’re only hung up on her because you’re scared of being alone. That’s not fair to her or yourself.”

“Do you know that?”

“No,” you admitted easily, “but you and I are the same way, and trust me, I’ve been around the heartbreak block.” You smiled, trying to relieve the tension.

That earned a chuckle. A small one, but a chuckle none the less.

You reached up, cupping his cheek in your hand. “There are seven billion people on this planet. Any one of them—myself included—would be lucky to have a life with you.”

If that watch don’t continue to swing—

A pause.

“Do you honestly believe that?”

You nodded, your thumb running along the line of his eye socket. “I do.”

—or the fat lady fancies havin' a sing—

You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his cheek gently.

—I'll be here, waitin' ever so patiently—

“Y/N!” You pulled back as you heard April calling your name. “We need a moderator!”

You started back towards the door, waving gently. “I wish you good tidings, Donatello.” You smiled quietly, serenity itself standing in the doorway. “May whoever is fortunate enough to call you their own bring you happiness. You deserve it.” You slipped out of his lab, running over to break them up.

Donatello rested his fingers on where your mouth had lit his skin. He felt a bittersweet smile fade onto his face.

—for you to snap out of it.

And that was when it began.

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lillotte17 · 3 years

Text

Blossoms on a Bough

Fix-it/filler for the end of episode 36!!!

The first thing Wen Kexing notices, once his mind has floated up towards any sense of consciousness, is a bright cool light shining on his face. His brows twitch downwards in irritation, the intensity of it stinging his eyes even while they are still closed. His body feels like lead, and his thoughts are thick and muddy. He just wants to ignore the light and drift back off to sleep.

Wherever he is, he seems to have landed on something relatively soft and warm. It is surprising, since his general ideas about the netherworld involve darkness and cold, but he is certainly not going to complain. Perhaps, given the long list of his transgressions, his soul flew right past the Yellow River and dropped straight into hell, and now he is being fried in a pot just like that chicken that had chased Chengling around the Four Seasons Manor. The thought makes him want to laugh, but there is an odd tightness in his chest, so the best he can manage is an incredibly weak cough.

A faint rustling of cloth sounds by his ear as whatever he is reclining on shifts slightly. There is a vague sense of presence nearby, but he cannot tell more than that. Almost against his will, he cracks his eyes open to see who might be trapped in the stew pot with him, but there is only a dark looming blur surrounded by pale watery light. It makes him think of Zhou Zishu; his face bathed in sunshine, in moonshine, in starlight. He always seemed to glow with something intangible and dream-like. And Wen Kexing -helpless little month- could do nothing else but follow after it.

“Ah Xu,” he exhales in the barest of whispers.

A scent lingers in the air around him, crisp and lightly musky. It reminds him of burying his fingers in long dark tresses. Of the tenderness and care taken combing the tangles out of them afterwards. Of sliding his own hair pin into the carefully twisted knot at the crown of Zhou Zishu’s head. He should have brought him a different one to replace it, he thinks blearily. The key was most likely lost or broken in all of that snow, and now he will have nothing to remember him by.

This place is strange, wherever it is. Soothing and disorientating all at once. Is it some sort of hallucination? Did his soul get lost somewhere between life and death? Is he a true ghost now, doomed to wander the world in hopeless despair, witnessing joys he can no longer take part in? Thoughts spin around in his head in a billion tiny fragments. He cannot quite seem to catch hold of any of them, or arrange them in a pattern that makes sense.

“Am I dead?” he wonders aloud, his voice thin and raspy, not expecting an answer.

“You fucking better not be,” a cross reply rumbles out from somewhere above him.

Wen Kexing blinks. The sun still burns his eyes, but after a few moments of intense squinting, the dark blur leaning over him reconfigures itself into a familiar and beloved face. Zhou Zishu, leaning back against a dusty wall with Wen Kexing pulled more than half way into his lap.

“What…happened?” Wen Kexing wonders, head positively spinning in bafflement. Now that he is waking up a bit more, he is becoming more aware of his body’s aches and pains. It feels like a horse kicked him in the chest and then he fell into a river and drowned. Even wincing hurts.

“Something went wrong with the ritual,” Zishu tells him. His voice is raw and his eyes are bloodshot. He looks as haggard as Wen Kexing feels. “You collapsed. Your heart meridians were severely damaged, and your hair turned white. You must have used too much of your internal force. It has been more than three days since you lost consciousness and…I thought…”

His voice splinters and he trails off, looking away from him for a moment.

“But…it worked?” Wen Kexing presses, trying to feebly grip at Zhou Zishu’s sleeve, “You can hear me talking again now, so that means that it worked, right? The rest is fine, so long as it saved you.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Zhou Zishu answers, the first traces of a smile pulling at his lips.

“Yes. You are here.” Wen Kexing echoes, as though he still cannot quite believe it, “And…I am here, too.”

“You are.” Zishu confirms, his arms tightening around him, carefully tugging him up until he is all but leaning into his chest. “It was a near thing, though. My medical knowledge is limited, and even with the Yin Yang book, I was not certain that I could heal you.”

“Rong Xuan’s wife allegedly used the teachings in the book to heal his heart meridians and other serious injuries when he was near death several times over,” Wen Kexing hums thoughtfully, casually tilting his head against Zishu’s shoulder, “But she was an experienced physician. You have had no training, and yet you saved me on the first try. You must possess some kind of natural affinity for it. Ah Xu, you have so many talents, I am having a hard time keeping track of them all.”

“It had nothing to do with affinity,” Zhou Zishu huffs, sounding exasperated and perhaps even the tiniest bit embarrassed, “It was pure dumb luck.”

“Eh?”

“The Four Seasons Sect has a special technique that cripples someone’s heart meridians,” he explains somberly, a humorless smirk on his face, “I used it against Prince Jin to keep him alive, but bedridden. My master taught it to me, and as far as I know, I am the only one left alive who knows how to perform it.”

“That is very interesting, Ah Xu, but I am not certain I understand what it has to do with dumb luck,” Wen Kexing says smilingly.

“My master…he also told me how to counter the technique, so that the person’s heart meridians could be healed again and their qi could flow properly,” Zhou Zishu continues, turning his head slightly to directly meet Wen Kexing’s gaze. “I did not have much hope when I opened the Yin Yang book. You were slipping away, and there was no time for in-depth research. But…when I found the section detailing how someone with damaged meridians might be cured, it was obvious that…the techniques I learned from my master were based on this knowledge.”

“So…that means…my parents…?” Wen Kexing looks a bit lost at the revelation.

Zhou Zishu nods.

“It is likely that Lady Yue Feng’Er and your parents shared this precious knowledge with their friends, and possibly even helped my master develop this skill. I was only able to save you because of this.”

Wen Kexing furrows is brows, his thoughts whirling and his emotions complex. He seemingly stares at the dark blue of Zhou Zishu’s lapels for what feels like ages, looking but not seeing, pensive and moody. Finally, he lets out a very tired-sounding sigh.

“And I only managed to save you because that dumb bastard Rong Xuan stole the manual for the Six Cultivation Techniques,” he says, sounding bitter, “But maybe no one would have needed all this saving in the first place if that old monster had never let his idiot disciple leave the mountain to begin with.”

Zhou Zishu frowns down at him.

“I know, I know,” he mumbles, a bit sulky, “The past is past. Zhao Jing was punished and the rest are dead. There is no point stewing on it now. I have just…been angry about it for so long, sometimes I forget that I don’t have to be anymore. Be patient with me, Ah Xu.”

“Hm?” Zishu blinks, as though suddenly coming back to himself. “Oh, it wasn’t about that.”

“Then what?”

“I was just thinking that…it really could not have been anyone else,” Zhou Zishu tells him slowly, intensity burning in his dark eyes. “I said it was only dumb luck, because I never believed in destiny all that much before. If you want to achieve something in this world, you have to be willing to create it for yourself. But…for things to end up this way… It had to be you, and it had to be me, didn’t it?”

Wen Kexing bursts out laughing, utterly delighted.

“I always knew you had a soft heart beneath that tough exterior,” he grins, slightly breathless, with an almost pleasant ache in his ribs, “But Ah Xu, I never imagined that you were secretly a romantic.”

“Shut up,” Zishu grunts, pinching his arm until he yelps, “Who is romantic?”

“Ai, there is no need to be shy about it now, is there?” Wen Kexing says pleadingly, giggling to himself all the while, “There is no one here except us.”

“That’s right,” Zhou Zishu agrees blithely, a truly terrifying expression stealing across his face, “There is no one on this entire mountain except for you and me.”

“Ah Xu, don’t do anything rash,” Wen Kexing cajoles with a hint of genuine nervousness, “I only teased you a little bit, and I am still in such a delicate state of health. If you throw me out in the snow and beat me, I really won’t be-”

Zhou Zishu kisses him then, and whatever he won’t be promptly flies out of his head like a startled flock of birds.

The kiss is softer than he would have guessed, if he had gotten a moment to anticipate it. Clumsy, but tender. Hasty, but sincere. The mouth pressed so suddenly against his own trembles just slightly right before it pulls away. A thousand years too soon.

It is nowhere near the first time they have kissed each other, but Wen Kexing is almost always the instigator. It suits his own preferences to take the lead in most physical forms of intimacy anyway, so he would never complain about it. However, it does make the times Zhou Zishu reaches for him first feel more…something. Something that makes his heart full, and his eyes itch.

It makes him feel as though he is not only being accepted by this man, but chosen by him, too. As his partner. As his equal. As his friend. Lovers and soulmates and all the rest.

Wen Kexing is not certain that anyone else has ever chosen him before.

Not when there were other, better, options on hand, at any rate.

He swallows thickly, gazing up at Zhou Zishu with wide, startled eyes. Little flecks of cold mountain sunlight catch in the dark sweep of the other man’s hair almost like snowflakes. His grin is wide and fierce. Buoyant and hopeful in a way he has never been in all the time they have known each other. He looks impossibly beautiful, and horribly pleased with himself for managing to derail Wen Kexing’s usual babbling. There might be the slightest touch of pink to his ears, though.

“Ah Xu,” Wen Kexing chokes out.

I love you.

But the words get stuck in his throat.

“What?” Zishu laughs, “Do you ever get tired of calling me?”

“No.” Wen Kexing offers him a weak smile in return, shifting out of his hold a little so they can sit facing one another.

Zhou Zishu heaves an exasperated sigh, but his eyes remain bright, his expression one of incalculable fondness.

“Is that all you were saying during the ritual?” he wonders, half joking, “You just sat there calling my name?”

“Huh?”

“You said earlier that you had tried speaking to me, but my hearing had gone,” Zhou Zishu reminds him, “What did you say?”

“Oh, yes, it was mostly just your name over and over,” Wen Kexing nods, “Plus a few embarrassing personal anecdotes I felt like sharing. Once I knew you had no way to stop me, I really couldn’t help myself.”

“Lao Wen.”

“Yes, Ah Xu?”

“After all we have been through together, what could you possibly still have to tell me that you think I would be unwilling to hear?”

Wen Kexing makes a face, caught outright.

“It…is not so much a matter of thinking you would not hear me out,” he admits carefully, “It is more that there are just things that are difficult to say to someone. The more important they are to you, the harder it gets, so between you and me… But when a man feels his end has come, all sorts of things seem to tumble out unwillingly.”

Zhou Zishu looks positively stricken.

“You could tell that the cultivation technique was backfiring?” he hisses out, gasping Wen Kexing by the shoulders, “And you still kept going?”

“What else could I do?” Wen Kexing asks helplessly, “If I had stopped wouldn’t we both die? Would it be better if I had starved to death with your corpse in my arms? Besides, that old monster promised me that this technique could save you, so no matter what the cost was going to be, of course I-”

“So, you knew there would be a cost already?” Zhou Zishu cuts him off, expression like a brewing storm cloud, “You knew this was likely going to injure you, and you did not even think to warn me first? We could have prepared beforehand! You could have looked through the Yin Yang book and point out things that I could use to help you in an emergency! Dammit, Lao Wen, I thought you were supposed to be smarter than this!”

“Was there really time for things like that?” Wen Kexing argues back, “Your senses were already dying out one by one, if we did not try the technique as soon as possible, you might not have been able to complete it! If I told you how risky it is, would you agree to it? Would you still let me try to save you?”

“I deserve the right to make that choice!” Zhou Zishu shouts hoarsely.

“You do!” Wen Kexing agrees just as hotly, “But I owe it to Chengling to save his family. And I owe it to our master to save his teachings. And I owe it to you most of all. I ruined your chance at happiness. To rebuild the Four Seasons with Chengling and the other new disciples. You threw it all away to try and avenge me… The number of people in this world who have been good to me are few enough to count on one hand. I would do anything for them, and you most of all. How could I live without repaying this debt?”

“And what if I hadn’t been able to save you?!” Zhou Zishu demands thunderously.

“I didn’t expect you to save me!”

For a few moments, the words seem to echo of the cold walls of the armory, bouncing back at them over and over. The silence that follows after them is deafening. Zishu’s eyes are red, and his hands are trembling on Wen Kexing’s biceps, but he looks as though he is about to breathe fire.

“Good,” he says finally, his voice low and deadly, “Very good. You feel like you owe me so much, but all you want to do is torture me.”

“What?” Wen Kexing baulks, “No! Ah Xu, that’s not what I-”

But before he can finish the thought Zhou Zishu has already pulled him into a bone-crushing embrace, his breathing erratic, and his face buried in the side of his neck. Wen Kexing makes a pained grunt, his ribs still tender from previous injury. It only makes Zishu’s grip on him tighten, however, holding onto him with a furious desperation.

“In such a short stretch of time, I have had to see you dead or dying before my eyes over and over again,” he mumbles thickly into the silk of Wen Kexing’s robes, “You spent all this time chasing me down, pestering me to let you stay by my side, begging me not to die, and telling me to find things to feel hopeful about. But now it seems as though you are set on leaving me behind.”

“I never wanted to leave you,” Wen Kexing protests, but his voice seems to have lost all of its strength, “I just wanted to keep you safe. Even if I died, and you had to be sad for a while, you have so much left to live for, and I wanted you to have it. I just wanted you to be…happy.”

“Bastard,” Zhou Zishu laughs wetly, “Wen Kexing, you really are…the absolute worst sort of person.”

Wen Kexing sags in his embrace, his heart plummeting down into the pit of his stomach. His head droops, white hair falling across his eyes. Utterly defeated.

“I know.”

Zhou Zishu finally pulls back from him. There are obvious tear tracks down his cheeks, but he still looks fierce, regardless. He takes Wen Kexing roughly by the chin, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“You are also…my happiness.”

Wen Kexing gapes at him, for once in his life completely at a loss for words. Seeing an opening, Zhou Zishu takes the opportunity to kiss him again. Harsher this time. Brief and chaste and biting. It does not seem to help the other man’s sense of bafflement in the slightest. Indeed, Lao Wen looks as though his soul might have just flown straight out of his body.

Zishu smiles at him again, but there is still something sharp and wounded at its edges.

“Eternity would be an empty place without you,” he says quietly, “How could you leave me to bear it alone?”

“I…I’m…sorry,” Wen Kexing sputters, as though he does not know what else to say. He finally reaches back for Zhou Zishu, cautiously taking hold of his wrists. The ache in his chest seems to have spread outward, and he is shaking so badly that he fears he might not be able to sit up straight much longer. “I’m sorry. I just did not… I did not know how else to save you.”

“Mn,” Zhou Zishu nods in understanding, “I suppose I can forgive you for it this time, although some part of me still would like nothing so much as to throw you outside and beat some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

“I will accept any punishment you want to give me,” Wen Kexing tells him earnestly.

“Alright,” Zhou Zishu grins, “Then pay me back with your whole life. Stay alive, and stay with me. Always.”

Wen Kexing blinks in surprise, but the next moment he is laughing. Dizzy with relief and unexpected joy. Marveling at the gifts that fate has blessed him with after so many years of hatred and heartache.

“I can do that.”

When Zhou Zishu wakes up later that night Wen Kexing is sitting at the opposite end of their makeshift bed in nothing but his under robe. His back is facing him, and he takes a moment to stare at the snowy cascade of his hair. The living proof of what Lao Wen would sacrifice for him. It looks beautiful on him, as everything else seems to, but Zishu thinks he prefers the rich dark brown that he was born with. This new color comes with a twinge of guilt.

Not that he would ever say so.

“Lao Wen,” he calls softly, “What are you doing?”

Wen Kexing’s shoulders stiffen in surprise.

“Don’t come over,” he replies, “I’m not finished yet.”

“Ai,” Zishu grins, scooting close enough to lightly tug at a few strands of that bone white hair, “But that just makes me want to come over even more.”

“I have a knife,” Lao Wen says coolly, “I will use it if I have to.”

“You left our bed in the middle of the night to play with a knife?” Zishu laughs, not intimidated in the least. “Why?”

“If you stop pestering me for a few minutes maybe you’ll find out,” Wen Kexing snaps. Zhou Zishu is not fooled, though. He had caught the sharp inhale of breath when he had said the words ‘our bed’, and he is all but certain that Lao Wen’s threats are empty.

“But you’ll catch cold,” he coaxes, slipping his arms about his waist and pressing a kiss into his shoulder. He obligingly resists the urge to peek at whatever secret Wen Kexing is fiddling with, though. The other man sighs, but does nothing to discourage him, as expected.

“The next time you accuse me of being insufferable, I want you to remember this conversation,” Wen Kexing says wryly.

“It must be your bad influence,” Zhou Zishu chuckles.

Wen Kexing hums noncommittally, going back to whatever he had been working on before. Zhou Zishu sits patiently behind him, leaning into the warm curve of his back, listening to the steady beating of his heart and the faint scraping sound of a blade chipping away at something. The proximity is comfortable, and the quiet almost meditative, and before long Zishu is already half way back to being asleep.

“Alright,” Lao Wen says finally, carefully pulling himself free of Zhou Zishu’s arms and turning to face him, “You can look now.”

Zishu has to shake himself a little to wake up again, but once he does, he finds that Lao Wen is holding out what appears to be an oddly shaped icicle.

“…What is it?” he asks after a few moments of trying to puzzle it out for himself.

Wen Kexing frowns.

“It’s a hair pin,” he tells him, as though it should be obvious.

“Ah.”

“What do you mean, saying ‘ah’ with such a doubting face?” Wen Kexing huffs in annoyance, “Of course it is a hair pin, what else would it be? You lost the one I gave you before, so now I have to give you a new one to replace it.”

“I lost the one you gave me before?” Zhou Zishu laughs.

“That’s right,” Wen Kexing nods seriously, “But I promise not to be mad about it.”

“Philanthropist Wen is too kind.”

“It’s true,” Lao Wen sighs dramatically, “People are always taking advantage of my generous nature.”

He firmly places the hair pin in Zhou Zishu’s hands. Upon closer inspection, it looks to be roughly shaped like a tree branch. There are two lumpy circles that might be meant to be flowers attempting to bloom from it. The finished product is crude, but the ice is clear and crystalline. Pretty, even despite the skill level of the craftsman.

“It is meant to be plum blossoms,” Wen Kexing admits somewhat sheepishly, “One bloom for each of us. There was meant to be a bud for Chengling, too, but I accidentally broke it off. Hopefully, that is not an inauspicious sign for him.”

“I see,” Zhou Zishu says, because he does see, and just like the morning he had woken up to find the Four Seasons Manor cleaned and Wen Kexing diligently repairing his master’s old painting, he feels very much like he wants nothing more than to pull the other man into his arms again.

“Ah Xu, will you accept it?” Wen Kexing asks, slightly trepidatious at his lack of reaction.

“Of course,” Zishu smiles easily, “But it’s made of ice, after all. If I wear it, it will likely melt or break in a day or so.”

“If it breaks, I will just make you a new one,” Wen Kexing says, his eyes soft. He plucks the hair pin from Zhou Zishu’s fingers, reaching up and carefully sliding it into the loose knot at the base of his ponytail. “I can make you a new one every day, if I have to. With any luck, they will eventually look less ugly.”

He takes Zhou Zishu’s hands in his own.

“There are still things I am not good at saying,” he tells him, “Things that I want to share with you. Things that you deserve to hear. Right now, my skills are not enough, but just like with the hair pin, if I keep working at it every day, eventually I can give you something worth having.”

Zhou Zishu tugs him down into his embrace. He thinks about kissing him. About pushing him down and pulling his robe open and showing him, again, how very much he is wanted. But Lao Wen is still recovering from injuries, and it would be a shame to snap his new hair pin tussling around in the sheets. So, he makes do with holding him close, for now. Tangling his fingers in hair the color of starlight.

“Say them, or don’t say them,” he says quietly against the shell of Wen Kexing’s ear, “Whatever they are, they have no bearing on your worth to me.”

“Doesn’t that seem like my current value is lower than mud?” Wen Kexing laughs nervously.

“It means you are treasured,” Zishu corrects him firmly, “There is no price that I would sell you for.”

“I suppose that means I can stop living in fear that you would truly try and sell me to a brothel.”

“You really are a brat.”

“Ah Xu?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

#word of honor #faraway wanderers #word of honor spoilers #wenzhou #wen kexing #zhou zishu #fic #this story did not listen to me AT ALL #these two NEVER listen to me!!!#I wanted to write domestic fluff about hair brushing #but noooo

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remmushound · 3 years

Text

Beyond the Bay Chapter 20: Family friend

Summary: Leonardo calls a family friend in to help assess Mikey

Tags: @brightlotusmoon @selfindulgenz @digitl-art-monstr @ilo-artistry @dakotafinely

Content warning: mild swearing

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Leo’s knock and voice snapped Leonardo out of his daze. The teen blinked first, and then shook his head to rattle his thoughts back into place.

“I hope you don’t mind my intrusion.” Leo said, coming further into Leonardo’s room.

“Not at all.” Leonardo lied, because he did mind the intrusion in his personal space but he wasn’t going to say that! Besides, this face was exactly the one he had been planning to seek out. “But I’ll have you know my thoughts cost no less than a dollar a piece, I know my worth.”

Leo sat on the bed and it gave a loud groan under the strain of his weight; the leader snorted a forced laugh through his nose and shook his head.

“I think I’ll have to pass, thanks.”

“He’s fine.” Said Leonardo.

Leo blinked, cocking his head. “Pardon?”

“You came here to ask about your father, right?” Leonardo asked. “He’s fine, stable and resting. We’ll know more when he wakes.”

“Is it advisable to leave him alone?”

“Your Raph’s sitting in with him. Figured he'd appreciate seeing a familiar face when he wakes up and not this.” Leonardo motioned to his face. “As beautifully handsome as it is, it’s not his son.”

“Right.” Leo nodded. The box turtle had picked up on Leonardo’s lie of not minding his presence and was quick to try and justify himself. “Well, I just noticed you in here alone looking like you just kicked a puppy, so I figured I’d check on you. I— I can go.”

“No.” Leonardo grabbed Leo’s hand to stop any escape. “Don’t go. I was actually wanting to talk with you.”

Leo sat back down. “You have my full attention.”

“With all this stuff going on, your dad and… and that dino dude and… and Mikey…and I mean, there’s only so much me and Donnie can do. We— we’re not trained physicians by any means and we don’t have all the medicines and equipment that one might need to treat him—“

“What are you saying?” Leo prompted Leonardo to just get to the point.

“I was just considering that it could be beneficial to start looking into more… mystic solutions.”

“Mystic— like, like those Yokai in the Hidden City— like, Draxum?”

“I take dad to them all the time! And I know mutants and yokai are like, waaay different, but there are a few younger doctors who are learning experimental procedures to specialize in mutant care!”

“Key word being experimental?” Leonardo’s words left a bad taste on Leo’s tongue.

“Everything’s experimental before its effective— mutants haven’t even been around a decade yet. The work they do is surprisingly advanced for such a short period!” Leonardo argued

“You’re suggesting using Mikey as an experiment?” Every sense of protective nature surged through Leo in that moment, eyes of ice boring into Leonardo’s sapphire and ruby one.

“No, I’m suggesting we take him to someone better equipped to handle him. Someone more… familiar with seizures. Donnie and I are just making stuff up as we go along, and that’s not what's best for Mikey…”

“If you’re not qualified to help him, how could you possibly be qualified to state any opinion on the matter?” Leo crossed his arms, “You’re your team's medic! You're supposed to heal, so heal him!”

Leonardo only smiled his dumb smile and rested his head on his hand. “You’re not very bright, are you?”

“What?” Came Leo’s bitter response.

“I am a medic, and in my humble medical opinion, he needs someone better than me! Two seizures in two days can’t be good, not for a person and not for a mutant. Just think for a second what would be best for your brother.”

“Are you accusing me of not thinking about that?” Leo let his perfect white teeth show a sharp threat. “Mikey is fine where he is!”

Leonardo’s eyes turned cool, like a layer of soft mist had laid over them and softened his voice several degrees until it came out like a gentle winter sound. “Are you willing to risk Mikey’s life for it?”

Leo felt his blood run cold, the collected chi inside him shattering and dissipating to the farthest reaches of his form. His throat was too dry, even to swallow, and he could hear his blood rushing in his ears. Leonardo knew in that moment he was victorious, for he leaned forward and entwined his fingers together, his smug smile not near as perfect as Leo’s, but just as confident.

“Fine.” Leo’s bitter relent came, “Call a specialist.”

“I got one on speed dial.”

Leo deadpanned. “Is it Baron Draxum?”

“N-no!” Leonardo lied, then immediately said, “It’s Baron Draxum.”

***

“Hm.” Baron Draxum mused as he looked over Mikey. The entire Clan was gathered in the infirmary, apparently too close for the faun’s liking because in the next breath he said, “Could I please get some peace and quiet?”

“We’re… not talking.” Raph pointed out, and nobody moved.

“I meant that as a polite way of asking you all to leave me alone.” Draxum said slow and sharp, like he was talking to a dense wall.

“Like hell we’re leaving you alone with him!” Leo snarled, and there was a determined chorus of agreement from his brothers.

“Why, do you not trust me?”

Draxum turned his full attention to the rest of the Splinterson family, his lips pulling back in a sneer. He started to walk ever so slowly around the beds of the infirmary, dragging hooved hands across the beds holding Mikey, who was disgruntled at being forced into another exam, and Splinter who still sleeping off his trauma. Draxum’s hands traced over Mikey’s arms and Mikey winced and pulled away as if the fingers were knives. As Draxum circled around to do the same to Splinter, who in his unconscious state couldn’t retreat, Raph stepped forward with both hands on his sai, ready to gouge and destroy.

“Draxum, cut it out!” Michelangelo scolded, hand on his hip and cheeks puffed out like a middle aged grandmother scolding her grown child.

Draxum rolled his eyes, but gave into grandmother Michelangelo’s demands and stopped his slow taunting walk. Raph returned his sai to their holsters, but kept forest eyes fixed on the yokai menace.

“I still say some privacy would be preferable for my assessment. I don’t do well in a crowd.”

“Why did it have to be him, again?” Leo asked in a sharp and bitter voice as he motioned to the faun who couldn’t appear more bored if he tried.

“Draxum’s a family friend— we trust him!” Raphael tried to reassure everyone, including himself.

“But I don’t.” Leo said simply. “Not around my brother alone…”

“Leo, I’m fine!” Mikey complained, “Honestly, you’re all making a big deal out of nothing!”

“A seizure isn’t ‘nothing’ Mikey.” Donnie sighed and shook his head.

“And nothing is exactly what I can do if you keep crowding me.” Draxum’s vine snared around Donnie’s belt to pull him away from Mikey’s bedside, much to the ire of the box turtle.

“How about this?” Leonardo interrupted before another argument could break out, “Leo, why don’t you stay here with Mikey while we take Donnie and Raph on tonight’s patrol? We missed last night’s, we can’t miss another.”

“Yeah!” Raphael immediately agreed, but louder, stealing the show and the attention from his younger brother. “That’s a great idea, Leo. We should get ready to do that now, actually.”

“Raph, Donnie.” Leo said, nodding to them as he addressed them. “You heard the snapper. Suit up.”

Donnie was quick to rise and obey, eyes on Mikey until the very last second when he left the room. Raph didn't move from Mikey’s side.

“Raph.” Leo said again, this time louder.

“I’m not leaving him.” Raph’s voice was low. He tightened his grip.

“I wasn’t asking.” Came Leo’s sharp retort. “Raphael asked you to go on patrol with him, and I told you to suit up.”

“It’s okay Raphie!” Mikey said, and he knew he could get away with it; Raph wouldn’t rebuke him when he was in a med bed after all! “Go knock some heads in and chill. I’ll be fine!”

Raph shook his head and clicked his tongue but his eyes held nothing but playful mischief. “You know I hate that nickname.”

“Duh!” Mikey slung a lazy arm around Raph to hug him one last time before giving him a push to start him on leaving the room.

When the entire group was finally ready to depart some five minutes later, it was Raphael who put a delay on their plans. It seemed the minute they were about to leave, he had a million and one things he needed to say.

“April’s here to help you if you have any questions.” Raphael said, practically doting over Leo like he was one of his younger siblings.

“Understood.” Was Leo’s simple response.

“And— and there’s some pizza you can make if you get hungry— if dad complains about being hungry, you can make him a snack but no big meals until breakfast. Leo likes to keep close eyes on his calories. Dad really likes the sweet stuff, so make sure it’s sugary.”

“Will do.” Leo nodded.

“But if you do get him a snack, make sure you mark down how much he eats so we can adjust his intake, otherwise we’ll be all thrown out of wack.”

“Alright.” Leo couldn’t help but smile at Raphael’s anxious rantings.

“Oh, and he— he goes to bed at twelve, could you just make double sure that his door alarm is set?”

“Raph.” Leonardo grabbed Raphael by the arm.

“It gives a little ring whenever it’s opened so he can’t wander off…”

“Raph.” Leonardo’s patience was weining.

“And make sure you get him up at four for a bathroom break or else he’ll have an accident. And sometimes he has trouble sleeping—“

“RAPH.” Leonardo reached up and grabbed Raphael by the cheeks, dragging the snappers head down to his level. “They’ll be fine. Draxum and April are here with them.”

“I know…” Raphael said and his words came out a low whisper. Still he didn't move.

“Come on.” Leonardo said and he didn't give Raphael a choice in the matter. He yanked and yanked on Raphael until the turtle relented and followed after him, and when Raphael tried to look back and add one last thing, Leonardo only tugged harder. “We’ll be back before sunrise.”

Leo only nodded and waved as the two mutants disappeared after the rest of the patrol, and for a long moment Leo couldn’t help but think that it was Leonardo doing the leading...

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hundtoth · 3 years

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while this should not have to be said aloud - heathenry is not a racist faith! unfortunately, such a statement is necessary to voice... unless you’re a chauvinistic and/or a xenophobic heathen, that’s what this post pertains to: sure, it’s not untold that in the modern world heathenry has been pockmarked by the allotment of symbols seized by hate groups alongside the adulteration of our religious ‘brethren’, with hateful individuals that warp our teachings to portray their hateful demands. our much beloved germanic neopaganism has become a justification for racist behaviour, from the propaganda of the nazi party which applied many of our symbols (such as the fylfot), to the germanic people pointing with pride as the pinnacle of the aryan race. a big problem that faces the heathen practice, while it is innocuous at heart, are the attempts to bear on labels to various heathen sub-groups as ‘racist’ and ‘not racist’. it has become favoured by heathens to cleave up heathenry into splinter groups; universalism, tribalism, and folkism (as the dominant ones), which are often viewed as ‘not racist’, ‘racist?’ and ‘racist!’ respectively. let me be the one to unburden that and say that these terms are not key definitions to those three groups, and that this is the root of the problem. the issue is that these terms are neither here nor there and cannot be applied in whole to the groups that they are supposed to attain to. this is because there exists no foundation within the religion for racist beliefs, which means that those who venture into the ancient praxis could fall under the folkish bracket and may not be and are often not racist. albeit, it’s commonplace for people to label themselves such things to be closer to those who share their views on racism, but that causes some to abandon a title tailored to their practice in favor of one that doesn’t, simply to avoid the bleak implications of said title. in my mind, i believe that we should not be giving monikers to those within the faith with racist tendencies as they simply are not deserving of them. they do not deserve to ornament themselves with the title of a specific group as this just causes a continuation upon the idea that their beliefs around that area of the faith are valid, altering its meaning entirely. to clarify the true to life meanings behind these groups, as they are applied to the preferences of method of practice by each heathen, we have;

universalism - a belief that anyone, irregardless of race, gender or sexual orientation, may practice under the heathen umbrella. the universalism belief structure has been criticized often for failing to motivate its followers to the same depth as others, and allowing the prevalence of contrary philosophies to those present within heathenry. universalists reproduce declaration 127, also known as havamal-stanza 127, which can be cherished by anyone for its simple utterance of: recognize evil, speak out against it, and give no truces to your enemies. however, declaration 127 is denounced commonly due to its poor efforts (similar to the criticism of social media campaigns for ‘likes’ with no physical backing) and it’s false sense of security within heathenry.

tribalism - considered to be ‘in the middle’ by many heathens. tribalists try to vindicate the old and new methods through moderate reconstructionalism, and have a tendency to conceptualise ethnic heritage without maintaining boundaries within practice. the purest way to describe a tribalist is a practicing heathen that integrates the ‘old ways’ into their lifestyle, and they often assert that one must earn the title of heathen - that it doesn’t matter who you are, you must put in the effort and study, which may span years.

folkism - folkist beliefs carry the most stigma, in which racist beliefs are widespread, claiming that germanic paganism is an ethnic right. while this is not always the case, it gives the impression that germanic paganism is only open to those with a connection to the germanic peoples, in a ‘heretic’ kind of way. within folkism, there exists a cross-section as to how this should be enforced, though it is unclouded that it has become a seedbed for racism within the overarching faith that is often under-fire for being contradictory to itself with no substantive evidence that the nordic peoples were racist.

what these terms have set out to do is prognosticate the beliefs of heathens away from how they comfortably choose to practice their faith. the three groups aforementioned fell into those titles not solely due to racism but to essentially describe a heathens practice through daily life. these terms inflict uncertainty to several thought processes within heathenry where race is not a factor, thus cold-shouldering heathens who heed to such traditions when they are presumed to be mirroring the racist views held by their counterparts under the tribalist or folkish stamps which have precured their titles because of racist prospects, not because of how they adopt practice, which is the true basis of these terms. in retrospect, trying to rank the groups within heathenry with the aim of plucking out a method of practice under ‘racism’ only adds more conflict to our community as a whole. i suggest that, especially to new heathens, you should explore these groups further to better your understanding of the people that you may be dealing with and what their ideas are but, be mindful of the fact that you are not required to declare yourself as anything, as these terms tend to only exist as a guide into finding like-minded people. additionally, it would be baseless to create suppositions about anyone within heathenry for the titles that they have chosen to align under as each group is diverse, not only in its members but in its beliefs. another important concept to mention when discussing racism in heathenry are the origins of germanic paganism. germanic ancestors adored the idea of ancestry through honour and worship, and as they would of been white, such ancestors must of been white, too. this would give the impression that when one turns their hand to ancestral veneration within heathenry, while not being white, by very definition they would be inclined to practice their own ancestral faith, which would not be heathenry - because they are not white. to connect to one’s ancestors, many heathens find it essential to practice their ancestral ways through faith and culture, but when someone has no nordic ancestry, heathens may imply that other heathens should be following their own ancestry instead, which is quite paradoxical and backs many people into a corner. an argument often occurs within heathenry regarding spirituality and how it is ‘passed through the ages’, validated by claims that we assume elements of our fate and soul from our lineage and how our ancestors could be reincarnated as a factor of that. as such, it is only those with nordic ancestry who may hear the call of the old gods. they attempt to rationalize this by claiming that white people cannot feel the call of other ancestral ways and other religions, and thus is all fair and equal. however, when we are called back to the ‘old ways’, the old ways are our own individual pasts, as something ingrained into our spiritual histories. for those who are non-whites, this path would not be heathenry, at least according to those who convey this claim. withal, symbols, in my own opinion, have greater intrigue for racists undertaking heathenry above all, with many already falling victim to the racist facets of such symbols whilst being used erroneously by hate groups for many years. additionally, new symbols are often purloined and misappropriated, rather than observed as segments of a faithful movement, instead they are seen as the ideograms of ancient whites; mjolnir, runic othala, valknut and ravens, amongst many more. as mentioned in an earlier paragraph, many symbols now associated with the nazi regime (the SS and swastika) are, or were, once deep-heathen symbolism. ofcourse, the swastika is immediate throughout history but if we were to be straight-thinking, we can surmise that the nazis used it for its association to heathenry, not its association to buddhism, etc. even if these people understood the symbols that they clutched on to and their authentic meanings in a religious sense, they are still related to the previously mentioned concepts within the origins that they have already manipulated to suit themselves, for example, the othala rune, which at a very basic level relates to heritage and ancestry. with a racists obsession with white ancestry, its very easy to see why an ancestral symbol from a white culture would be appealing. within this post, i have tried to emphasise that there is no basis for racism within heathenry if one was to, with all intents and purposes, understand heathen-history and its logic. here are a select few reasons as to why i personally think that any racist who applies heathenry to validate their intolerant opinions are both wrong and uneducated:

assuming that one’s spiritual inclination was genetic, which a vast majority of pagans today discredit, it simply wouldn’t matter. conducting a shallow study on genetics would reveal that it would be almost impossible in the ever-present to have a direct gene from any ancestor who would have been pagan in the viking era. some of the most controversially racist heathens today haven’t had a directly european ancestor in the last 200 years, oops! to paraphrase wayland skallagrimsson, there have been roughly 50 generations between the end of ancient heathenry and today, which means that for most people, contributions to DNA from any heathen ancestor amount to ‘less than 1 ten-trillionth of one percent’. contributions from christian ancestors would be 25-50% of one's genes. let us entertain the concept that one had inherited the genes of their heathen ancestors, scientists largely agree that thoughts and beliefs are culturally influenced anyway. while it is understood that mental illnesses can be inherited, they hold basis not in memory but in brain development, hormonal signals and genetically encoded processes within the body. perhaps it is true, after all, there is the disorder of victim mentality where one believes themselves to be under constant attack, so perhaps racists are just merely ill? poor souls.

there exists no single indication within the eddas and sagas of racial exclusion. our ancient germanic ancestors were well travelled and would have had a large sense of worldliness, caring little about those of other ethnicity, otherwise we would have a myth expanding upon that. in point of fact, odin seeks knowledge from the jötuns who, from a mythological standpoint, represent the ‘outsiders’. despite being the adversaries to the gods on almost all occasions, they often married into the aesir and were included amongst the figureheads (see loki and skadi), and had children together that were pivtotal to the tale of the world, such as magni and modi, children to thor and the jötun named jarnsaxa, whom of which are not only divine, but so pure that they take up the role of thor, and his hammer, after ragnarok to be the defenders of all. the mixing of the ‘outsiders’ to the central gods conveys a pespective from the ancients that position of birth has no bearing on one’s own ability to be pure and welcome.

similarly, there exists no historical evidence to say that ancient germanics were inherently racist. ibn fadhlan, an arabian traveller with produced written works on the germanic people of his age, was entitled to observe and learn of the ‘northern way’, involving himself in rites, alongside slaves who were integrated into the culture and religion historically - which is how we now have accounts of such things. not only do we have have the assimilation of others into the norse culture, we also have norsemen’s graves decorated with arabic emblems, proposing that they themselves diverged from their own ‘righteous path’, to be open and embracing of other cultures and faiths. in fact, germanics have been depicted on many occasions to have participated in the religious celebrations of the cultures to which they travelled, most notably the baptism of king radbod, in honor of a christian friend. additonally, archaeologists have deliberated in many different practices that the norse learnt skills and adopted traits from other cultures, such as the filling of teeth, prior to the occurrence of those practices in nordic culture, telling us that they took back cultural idiosyncrasies of other cultures to their own homelands - our faith would not have kept body and soul together without the aid of many ancient scholars belonging to other creeds and races, and it is a disgrace to disregard them today.

my final disproof is purely opinionated, which is that racism as a whole goes against the very tenants of heathenry. to strive to bar another person from coming into your ‘territory’ shows an acknowledgement of threat from that person. a threat, of course, can only be a threat if you acknowledge that they could overtake you, should you be weak. so, in being racist and fearing the prevalence of other races, racist whites are putting themselves into a position of weakness and equality with those other races. after all, if they weren’t equal certainly it wouldn’t take any effort at all on the part of the white peoples to be dominant, right? no! racism is cowardly and shows an easily wounded ego on the part of the racist; some of the greatest insults in the old norse language are to be weak and cowardly, and thus it is impossible for any racist to truly uphold the values of heathenry.

#heathen #heathenry #heathens against hate #pagan #paganism #neopaganism #norse #norse mythology #norse paganism #asatru #aesir #vanir #vanic #religion #history #worship #vikings

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not-close-to-straight · 4 years

Text

Gold (Spideypool)(One)

A commission for @paranormalmoonlight5 and @pumpkin-spidey who wanted a reverse-ish Little Mermaid AU ft. Mer!Peter and Prince!Wade. I prefer my mer’s to be man eating and vicious, but I settled for sappy sweet, over the top dramatic, and soulmate-y this time around!

Applicable warnings: Wade almost drowns, there is mentions of eating people (honestly what do you expect from my mermaids?) and an attempt at nekkidness.

PART TWO

******************

Three months the Prince had been gone from his home.

It was a sea journey of ten days to visit a neighboring territory with the intent of striking an alliance and quieting the murmurs of unrest and war between the people. The negotiations had stretched weeks, fruitless and ultimately pointless, going round and round with the same arguments and senseless disagreements, neither side willing to budge but both demanding the other yield.

War had crept closer with every disjointed summit, despair had tinged the last of the conditions and pleas and when all was said and done, the Prince was returning home having failed to secure a truce, and needing to ready his men for the coming conflict.

King Thomas would not be pleased, but Wade didn’t care much about his father’s wishes. The younger Prince Francis should have been sent to find a truce, it was well known that Wade was a warrior not a politician, a fighter not a peace seeker, a Prince better suited to life outside the castle walls than one spent inside with finery and fawning dignitaries and the search for a husband or wife to sit beside him on the throne.

But the King’s wishes couldn’t be ignored, so for three months Wade had given up his swords and armor to sit through negotiations and wagers for peace. Three months of endless banal pleasantries and asinine small talk, suffering the attentions of ladies-and-men in waiting who vied for his attention, for his bed, for his desire. Put upon manners to impress strangers and politely but firmly worded rejections of whispered offers.

Insufferable, all of it.

Wade wanted nothing to do with court affairs that were laughter and kisses at dusk, then anger and drama at dawn. The Prince had no one waiting at home for him, nor a lover at one of the oft visited ports, and Wade considered himself lucky to be missing the trouble.

Though handsome, the Prince had never been one to take casual lovers, and though his blue eyes and blond hair brought to mind Adonis, he had never attempted to pursue a more permanent relationship. There was no one who caught Wade’s eye or stirred his lust, and after the desire and experimentation of youth, those urges had mostly fallen away all together.

Not for lack of want, but for lack of interest. If Wade could find someone that woke his heart, perhaps then desire would spark but until then he slept alone, went through his days alone, and in the quietest moments before dawn, when the world was still and there was nothing but the sound of the ocean beyond his windows, the Prince’s soul ached for something he couldn’t quite understand.

The weeks and months away had only amplified Wade’s misery, and the misery had turned to abject loneliness. The days stuffed into ridiculous clothing and forced to attend society events under the guise of courting favor with an ally. The hours spent doing nothing while men who would never understand war talked of soldier’s lives and the cost of ruined countryside. The letters from King Thomas demanding updates and encouraging specific action. The quiet sneers from those gathered who knew Wade was sent to do a job out of his depth, the mocking disdain from others who saw a soldier and not a Royal, a pretty face and empty, disinterested eyes.

And Wade was both empty and disinterested, which is why with three months gone and no peace achieved, he now stood at the railing of the ship Sister Margaret and stared up into a blackening, stormy sky and wondered if the gods would grant him reprieve enough to cause them to be lost.

Perhaps he and the sailors could wander to a distant shore, wind up somewhere different than where his life was headed. Wade’s soul ached with the need to run, to escape, to throw himself from the ship and strike out on his own because every shift in the wind that steered him home felt like the snap of a manacle tightening round his wrist.

The Prince stood at the railing and silently begged the skies to change the course of his fate, and as the night darkened and the moon hid behind roiling clouds, the skies listened.

The first of many winter storms chose tonight to unleash it’s fury, bearing down on the Sister Margaret with all the force of a hurricane, tearing the ships sails to tatters and battering the hull to and fro in ever rising waves. A crewman was lost over the edge as the Sister Margaret heaved dangerously in the surf, another taken with a scream when a main beam cracked and split and after a terrifying moment fell and swept the deck with it’s length before crashing into the sea.

Lightning cut jagged through the sky and thunder pitched low and furious, shaking the men to their very bones and rattling the teeth in their heads. Those whose fright outweighed their common sense ran below for dubious shelter from the sideways rains, those who had sailed through storms before tied themselves to the remaining masts with quick release knots in case the ship started to go under.

Wade held onto the railing until his knuckles were white, eyes wide as he searched the lightning lit seas for rocks, for land, for anything that could be their savior or something else that would be their certain doom. He’d prayed for a different course and wished for a change in the winds but he’d only meant for a respite from his responsibilities and the shackles of a royal life. Not this, not a storm, not the durability of his ship and the fate of his men held at the mercy of a furious sea, not death as an escape, not the horrors of drowning and the agony of being crushed by the depths.

No, the Prince had only wanted some time to find the answer to what was clawing at his soul, he had never wanted--

-- “Rocks of the starboard side! To port! To port! Brace yourself!”--

--the Sister Margaret shredded herself on the jagged peaks of jutting rocks, her sides splitting and the water roaring as it rushed to fill her hull. The screams of men huddled below were lost beneath the pitch of thunder, the scramble of footsteps as sailors ran for the other side of the ship rang dully in Wade’s ears as he watched the sails rend from the mast rings and fall to the deck as a death shroud.

The entire ship heaved, twisted and thrown by an errant wave and Wade’s grasp at the railing slipped and failed, his body tossed into the air as if it were no consequence, the surface of the sea like glass where it burned and bruised as he hit the water and then slid under and in just those few seconds, Wade’s wish for his fates to be altered was effectively, brutally, granted.

I don’t want to die.

The water was shockingly cold and inky black. Lightning cut across the sky and illuminated the Sister Margaret as her holds splintered and the ocean took her apart. It flashed in the eyes of desperate sailors as they swam for the rocks, for the shore, for anything that wasn’t death. The wind howled and muted Wade’s hoarse shout as his heavy coat dragged him under the surf and boots filled with frigid water, dragging him down and down and down.

The rocks meant they were close enough to shore to almost be home, to almost be safe, so close yet so far, near enough to be tempting, far enough to be damning and Wade was sinking.

I don’t want to die.

It wasn’t easy for him to admit to being afraid, not easy for a Prince and a soldier to admit to being scared but as the dark clouds spilt rain like ice and the sea stormed, Wade sank and he was frightened to his very core.

I don’t want to die.

His brain was screaming for oxygen, his lungs fighting the urge to breathe and Wade clawed towards the surface-- towards what he thought was the surface-- as another wave crashed over his head and sent him spinning, another piece of debris from the ship cut into his midsection and made him wheeze, another wash of water pummeled him and Wade tasted salt water on his tongue, down his throat, burning into his stomach and seizing up his airways.

I don’t want to die.

The water was glacial and the Prince’s body was leaden, sluggish as he drifted down, eyes blurred as he stared through the dark to find the last lights from the Sister Margaret as she staggered to stay upright but couldn’t stop from sliding under.

I’m going to die.

It was a moment of near delirium as Wade clung to the last shreds of self control to keep from breathing the briny wash, it was a jolt of sheer panic as the Prince found one last dreg of strength to kick up up, it was a blink of his spirit hovering between death and life and in that one eternal second, Wade thought he saw eyes looking back at him.

Eyes bright golden in the fathomless depths. A flash of sharp teeth behind dark red lips. A dust of glitter on bare skin and webbed fingers reaching reaching, claws scraping scraping and dragging him down.

And in the swirling currents before darkness rushed in and ended his life, the Prince swore he heard a song, haunting and sweet and hypnotic and his own soul soul shifted and yearned, burned bright and tried to answer--

--above the surface the last piece of the Sister Margaret slipped below the waves into the empty beneath--

--and the Prince saw nothing more, heard nothing more, became nothing more as the sea took him as its own.

************

“Wake up, sailor.” The voice was coaxing and melodic, the brush of fingers at Wade’s cheek somehow both feather soft and razor sharp all at the same time. “The afternoon sun will bake you dry and it would be such a pity to ruin your lovely skin.”

Music. Wade still tasted ocean at the back of his throat and clogging fear low in his stomach but all he could think about was music, a haunting melody swirling round his ears and settling in his heart and lighting behind his eyes like sunshine. Music.

“P--pretty--” the Prince croaked, lips chapped and tongue thick from dehydration, limbs unresponsive and eyes crusted shut from the ocean spray. “G-gold--”

“Yes, I’m very pretty.” Came a teasing answer. “And my eyes turn very gold, but you couldn’t possibly know that unless you open your eyes, so why don’t you wake up all the way and see me?”

“Open….” Wade was still lost, his body adrift as if he was still spinning in the waves, his lungs burning like he was still drowning but he sucked in a painful breath all the same, forced his mouth to open and pull in oxygen sweet oxygen to bring his too raw senses back to coherence one by one.

First there was pain-- scrapes and cuts stinging from salt water, a pattern of bruises no doubt blooming purple and blue along his back and side. Dimly, only dimly Wade remembered being thrown from the Sister Margaret and dropping into the stormy sea and the abrupt hit explained the way it hurt to breathe. He'd most likely broken a rib hitting the water so hard, or it might have been a bruised rib that cracked when a piece of the Sister Margaret had slammed into him in the melee.

Either way he hurt, Wade hurt from the bottom of his bootless feet clear to the migraine pounding behind his eyes and after the initial pain came a wash of panic, of fear. What had happened to his men? To the rest of the ship? What of King Thomas who was expecting him home, what of the failed negotiations and the potentially impending war? How far from home was he, and had anyone survived the ship sinking?

...had Wade survived the ship sinking? He heard music through his mind and yet everything hurt. Was this an illusion? A hallucination? Was the Prince wavering in some moment between living and death and this was something of a purgatory?

“I can almost hear you thinking.” Another touch at Wade's temple that was both infinitely soft and wholly dangerous, the fine edge of what felt like a claw down Wade's jawline and calloused fingertips at his cheek. “What is on your mind, my love?”

“...my—my--”

“I pulled you from the waves.” The voice was closer now, sunshine and warmth and music on the Prince's scattered thought process. “Most of your men survived clinging to the debris from the ship. Some succumbed to my sisters, others were left to the sharks, but I saved you.”

Wade tried and tried and tried to open his eyes, forced the lagging lids to part and blinked into a too bright sun as he tried to see who or what was at his side.

“If you were anyone else I would think about eating you.” Wade's savior giggled, and it was almost terrifying in it's beauty. “But you're far too good looking for that. It would be a shame to rid the world of someone so lovely because I wanted to bite you, and once I got closer and saw you, I couldn't do it.”

“B--Bite me?” Wade licked his lips and struggled to focus, his vision clearing enough to make out a hazy form leaning over him. “You-- you were going to bite me?”

“I was going to devour you.” the creature corrected with a smile that glinted fanged and sharp and almost fond. “But then I heard you, truly heard you, and I had to know you instead.”

“That’s-- that’s good.” Wade inhaled shakily, dragged the air in through salt burned lungs and grimaced when every molecule of oxygen stung. “That’s um-- I don’t want to be devoured.”

“Are you what they call a Prince Charming?” The creature tilted his head and tapped a delicate claw along with the rhythm of Wade's heart beat. “I’ve heard them talk about ones like you. Handsome. Brave. Trying to conquer the world and sailing your ships through the sea as if you own it. A ridiculous idea, you don’t own the waves anymore than you own the wind but you like to think it, don’t you?”

“You’ve heard who talk about it?” Wade leaned up onto his elbows, shifted sideways with a painful wheeze so the creature’s head was blocking out most of the sun and he could actually see. “What do you mean they call me a Prince Charming? Who are they?”

“The humans, of course.” they answered, and then, “Let me help your eyes, my love. Hold still.”

My love?

Wade only had enough time to wonder why the creature kept calling him my love before a cold palm with oddly webbed fingers covered his eyes. It was suddenly warm and suddenly bright and the Prince gasped and flinched away partly in surprise, partly in fear, but the creature only laughed soft again and used the hand at Wade's chest to hold him still with near unbelievable strength.

“Just a moment, just a moment, just a moment, I know this burns.” they whispered. “I know this burns but I'll be gentle afterwards, I promise. My mate, I promise I'll be gentle, just a moment...”

My love, my mate, gentle. The words were blurry in Wade's mind, blurry like his vision and sluggish like the way his fingers still felt numb and his limbs felt so heavy and the Prince thought maybe he could sleep-- maybe he could drown-- if it weren't for the music wrapping low and soothing through his psyche and reverberating against the pressure of the creature's hands on his body.

My love, my mate, gentle--

--and then Wade could see.

“Oh.” he gasped and jerked up right to sitting when his vision suddenly cleared, the headache gone and the ache in his core easing. “Oh fu—fu--what did you did you? What did you do?”

“I healed you.” Came the simple answer. “Some of us can heal, others only harm but all of us can help our mates if needed. You needed me, so I helped you.”

“You-- you helped me.” the Prince wiped at his mouth and shook his head until the last of the cobwebs cleared and he could see.

Wade could see and all he could see was otherworldly beauty-- sun bronzed skin and bare shoulders dusted with ethereal glitter, gold flecked eyes and hair tumbling in loose curls, temptingly pink lips and hooked fangs that glinted sunlight in a knowing smile. Claws and webbed fingers, strong arms and a distractingly defined abdomen that led to a narrow waist and lean hips and a-- a tail.

Mother of the gods, the creature had a tail.

“You’re a mermaid.” Wade croaked. “You’re a mermaid-- mer-- merman. Mer--”

“I’m a mer, yes.” The water by Wade’s leg splashed beneath it’s tail and the creature wrinkled his nose teasingly when Wade's jaw dropped. “Some of your people call us mermen, others call us sirens or water nymphs.”

A smile that was dangerous in its intent. “Those we eat call us monsters, but those cries and accusations never last long once the water turns bloody.”

“No I--” Wade gripped at the rocky sand beneath his fingers anxiously. “No, I suppose they don’t. You-- you don’t want to eat me though. I’m all muscle, no fat. I’d be tough and stringy.”

“All muscle?” the mer cocked a curious eyebrow then pressed those webbed fingers to feel along the Prince’s chest, down his abdomen and across the shifting muscles and down lower to drag a clawed finger along the dip at Wade’s hip bone. “Ah. I see. Mmmmmm.”

The noise was almost hypnotic, sort of a moan and nearly a purr and despite his fatigue and near death experience, every line in Wade’s body tightened, surged, and he heard the echo of music in his soul all over again.

“God.” His nervousness was forgotten as his heart rate skyrocketed, a surge of arousal as much a relief as it was foreign. When was the last time he had wanted anyone, and why did this creature stir him so? “God, I think I’d let you bite me just to hear you make that noise again.”

“Don’t tempt me.” The mer’s delighted laugh was like bells, like wind chimes and like the songs from the temples that echoed across the hills and it shook Wade to his core, made his next breath hitch like he was drunk as the mer inched closer, then closer again until their noses nearly met and the gold in it’s eyes gleamed. “I want to know you. Tell me your name, Prince Charming.”

“My name is Wade.” They were close now, Wade sitting up on his elbows and the mer still leaning over him, close enough that Wade could see the swirls of color in the mer's eyes and count the fan of his lashes. “Prince Royal Wade Wilson of the Eastern Kingdom. I am King Thomas's first born and Lieutenant General of his troops, venturer onto the sea and apparently--”

Wade looked down at his body, at his missing boots and torn pants, shredded, sodden shirt and his feet and calves still dangling in the water. “--apparently someone who washes up nearly naked on the shore.”

The mer laughed again, eyes lighting brilliantly happy at Wade's sense of humour and the Prince cleared his throat a few times before asking, “What's your name?”

“You couldn't pronounce it.” he shrugged half heartedly, one slim shoulder rising and falling with the motion. “But the closest to your language would be Peter, so you can call me Peter.”

“Peter.” Wade repeated, and the mer actually shuddered over it, tail twitching and fingers flexing at Wade's abdomen. “...Pete?”

“Yes.” Pete sighed and settled a little tighter to Wade's frame. “Mmmm, hearing my name on your mouth is lovely. Say it again.”

Again. Wade cleared his throat. “P—Pete. Why did you save me?”

“Because I heard your soul.” Peter smoothed his palm down Wade's chest again, pink tongue slipping distractingly over his teeth. “We heard the screams of your men so my sisters and I came to see what could be salvaged from the wreck, but when you hit the water the very currents changed their direction and brought your song to me. I had to find you.”

And then softer, the beautiful features shuttering and falling sad. “I didn't expect to find a human floating beneath the waves, but I had to save you anyway.”

“You heard my soul? My song?” the Prince couldn't stop staring at the glint of the sharp fangs behind the mer's lips. “What-- what does that mean?”

“Your heart song.” Peter said again. “Your soul cried out for me when the ocean took you, so I came to save you.”

The mer added softer, almost nervously, “You didn't hear mine when you fell? When the water came up over your ears, you didn't hear my song calling back to you?”

Wade thought back to the moments where he thought he was dying, how his boots had filled with water and his coat had dragged him down and then there'd been golden eyes and reaching fingers and--

--and music.

“The music in the storm.” he whispered. “That was you?”

“You heard it.” Peter smiled again, pleased and so beautiful it took Wade's breath away. “When I saw you were mortal, I was afraid you wouldn't hear the melody, but whether you did or not, I had to save you. I took your jacket and your boots so you wouldn't drown and brought you here where the wind is buffered by the rocks until you woke up. Safe.”

“You took care of me?”

“I just wanted to see you.” Peter touched Wade just lightly, pushed apart what was left of Wade's shirt and bared his skin to the late morning sky. “You were asleep for so long and I kept watch so the others wouldn't come and drag you back into the sea to tear you apart. I wanted to make sure you were safe and I thought I'd leave when you woke, but I—I couldn't.”

The mer seemed almost sad as he spread webbed fingers over Wade's navel and lowered his head to rest his forehead over Wade's heart. “I should go now. It must have been a fluke, a moment where your soul wasn't quite human and your heart song reached for me. A mer and a human cannot be together, so now that I know you're safe, I'll leave you be.”

Peter pushed away from Wade's body, pushed himself back into the water until he was submerged up to his chin, only his fingers hooked around Wade's ankle and holding fast.

“Go well, Prince Charming.” the mer whispered, then took a deep breath and opened his mouth to sing a siren song of forgetfulness--

– “Wait.” Wade lunged after Peter, scrambled towards the water and fell into up to his chest when his legs didn't want to quite work right. “Wait, Pete wait.”

“My love, don't make this any more difficult than it needs to be.” The water barely rippled when Peter moved, the mer so graceful even as he swam backwards that the sea surface remained glassy smooth. “This song will make you forget, and when you wake again you won't know me at all. You're safe and I should leave you--”

“What does it mean that I heard your song?!” Wade burst out, grabbing fruitlessly at the water, at Peter's form as the mer slid further away. “What does that mean? I can feel it right here.” he pushed at his own chest, at his heart. “Feel it in my soul, where I’ve never felt anything at all so what does it mean?”

Peter swallowed, gills on his neck flicking open once, twice, but he didn't answer and Wade persisted, “For years I've been searching for something to fill this gap right here in my soul. It’s like I’m empty but nothing fills it. I've never found love and I've never wanted to try searching for it. I wage war but not even the battle lust soothes me. I can't stay home alone with nothing and no one and no idea of what I'm looking for, it will drive me mad. Tell me what it means that I heard your heart song.”

Softer, almost pleading. “Tell me.”

The mer paused, waited and Wade reached his hands out desperately, wanting or needing or-- or something. “Please.”

And finally, “Put your hands on the water like this.” Peter took a deep breath and flattened his palms to the surface of the water. “Hold yourself still and wait for the music to come to you on the currents. We are soulmates, you and I. Hold yourself still and let the seas tell you the truth.”

Wade copied the mer’s movements, spreading his fingers wide and setting them just gently on the barely there waves, holding his breath and waiting--

Melody filling Wade's ears and echoing in his mind, magical and mystical and spiraling home home home, wrapping around his body and washing over his soul, filtering through his heart and echoing through his mind and Wade was running, running for Peter before he could stop himself, stumbling through the waves and almost going under when his feet slipped on the rocks and scraped along the coral as he ran for his soulmate.

“Don't leave me.” They met in a crash of lips, Peter's strength keeping them easily afloat when Wade fell into him, mouths meeting and breath gasping and hands holding tight lest the other one slip away. “Don't leave me.” Wade choked out. “God, I have to know you.”

“They say it's like this sometimes.” Peter scraped his nails down Wade's back and hooked his fingers into the Prince's hips to drag him in tight, beat his tail in the water to keep them steady so he could feel everything about his soulmate up against his body. “When a human soul slips between life and death, in that moment they are ours, our soulmate, but only in that moment. Never more. It isn't meant to be. You and I aren't meant to be and that's why I should have left you before now.”

Peter made a halfhearted attempt to move away, to extricate himself from Wade's grip though the mer was holding just as fast. “I should have left you before now, my love and I’m sorry I’m making this more difficult for you.”

“Don't go.” Wade was starving, dehydrated, aching and the only thing that soothed him was the taste of soulmate on his mer's lips. “No no no, don't go. Pete, you're who I've been searching for my entire life. Soulmate. Kiss me. Kiss me.”

“Just once more.” Peter whispered. “Just once more then I must go.”

The kiss was drugging, heart crushing and soul stirring. On and on it went as Wade drifted further into the currents and Peter kept him buoyant, the sea lapping higher around their shoulders until it was till their necks, higher still until it brushed their chins and mixed salt water into their kisses. Peter shifted against his body and purred soft and sweet, the noise so close to heaven that Wade had to jerk away to take in a deep breath--

--and then he was drowning.

Wade went under, lungs full of water and body dragging down, mind rushing from the kiss, from the knowledge of his soulmate, skin tingling as fresh cuts were re-submerged and hands reaching always reaching for the one that had finally called him home.

I could drown. The Prince thought as black spots danced before his eyes. I could drown and find a place beside my soulmate forever.

I could drown.

He was drowning.

“Oh my love, I'm so sorry!” Peter cried out in alarm when Wade slipped below the surface and sank. The mer angled his body and dove down into the murky water until he could get his arms around his mate and bring the Prince back to air, cradling Wade carefully so his claws wouldn’t pierce the fragile skin and driving them both back towards the safety of sand and rock so Wade could breathe.

“So sorry, my love.” Peter bent over Wade’s still form and pulled the water from the humans lungs with one quick breath, put his hand to the Prince’s stomach and coaxed the water out with one solid push. “I got carried away and you nearly drowned, so sorry. Please wake up. Please wake up.”

Wade woke with a cough, jerked back from unconsciousness with a strangled sort of gasp, reached for Peter before he was even aware he was moving, grasping for his soulmate even though only a few minutes ago he hadn’t known soulmates existed.

“Pete.”

“I’m so sorry.” The mer’s eyes were shifting electric gold and the deepest, richest brown with sorrow and worry. “Wade, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to let you go. I wanted to swim with you but I forgot-- I’m sorry--”

“No no don’t be sorry, just come back. Come back.” Wade surged up and wrapped his arms around Peter again, dragged the mer down on top of his body and kissed the cool lips until Peter was purring against his mouth and trilling in his ear, fangs catching on his bottom lip and claws dragging red lines in his skin.

It was like the sweetest aphrodisia kissing Peter, like the honeyed mead Wade had drank along the islands pouring down his throat, like the smoke of the poppy plant when it burned heavy and thick in the air of the secret places in the city.

Drugging.

Soulmates, and it was the answer to every question the Prince had ever had, every moment when he had felt out of place in the palace, trapped by his father's words and penned in by his duties, by his expectations, by the rules.

Soulmates and it was hard to care about which men might have survived the storm, about the Sister Margaret in pieces on the ocean floor, about whether he was dying from dehydration, or hovering on the cusp of some near death experience and tipping wildly towards unalive.

They were soulmates, and Wade would have taken dehydration and death over having to stop running eager hands over Peter's back and down to where flawless skin transformed into silk smooth scales. Peter's tail was gorgeous, layers of dark red shot through with royal blue webbing that went from his hips clear down to the nearly translucent tail that flipped against the water in a steady, meaningful pattern, beating a drummed in rhythm into Wade's heart that felt like-- felt like--

“My love.” Peter whispered, and there was a cut of fangs at Wade's earlobe before nimble fingers skated over the front of his trousers, working at the clasp and pushing them aside to track gently gently over the hard ridge of his cock.

“Oh.” Wade's head snapped back against the rocks but the mer caught him with a quiet laugh, cradled his head in one large palm and held him steady so he didn't hurt himself. “Oh-h-h Pete--”

Yes, that was what it felt like, what the constant shift and hit of Peter's red and blue tail sounded like, what the ripple of water and push push push and the way the mer's hips ground into Wade's side reminded him of. It felt like strokes and heated touches and purposefully slick slides against a willing, welcoming body and it felt like--

“Settle, soulmate.” Peter purred into his ear when Wade cursed and thrust up into the mer's palm. “Oh you're gorgeous, I knew you would be gorgeous.” He mouthed hungry kisses and near bites down Wade's throat, massaged firmer at his cock until it jerked and throbbed in his fingers, spilled milky white over his knuckles and made the next stroke easier. “I knew you would be perfect, so responsive for me, my Prince Charming.”

“Don't stop.” Wade had never wanted anyone so badly in his life, the Prince had maybe never wanted anyone in his life, not like this, not when it felt like his very center was trying to claw it's way out of his chest to mingle with his mer.

Not meant to be, Peter had whispered mournfully. I had to know you but we are not meant to be.

But no, Wade couldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it. It wasn't possible to need to know someone the way he needed to know Peter and they weren't meant to be?

It wasn't possible.

“I want you.” he rasped and Peter's tongue wound tempting and knowing along his collarbone, down Wade's chest until fangs pricked over his nipple in a dangerous, tempting spark. “God, Pete I want you.”

Peter shuddered again hearing his name on his soulmate's tongue. They weren't meant to be and he should have left before now but the mer was weak, he was weak for every inch of his Prince Charming, he was weak for the press of Wade's hands at his back and the way sparks lit bright behind his eyes when calloused fingers teased the junction of skin and scales, he was weak for the way Wade practically growled as he shifted and widened his knees so Peter could lay closer between his thighs.

His Prince was achingly hard, pre-come leaking from the tip of his cock as Peter stroked him slowly, almost idly, no real rush to the motion because just having his soulmate in his hand was enough. After years and years of wandering the ocean currents listening for the heart song that called to his entire being, it was enough to lick the sweetness from Wade's mouth, to lay chest to chest and feel his Prince's every breath hitch as they moved together, to tighten his fingers around the swollen cock and swallow the moans that spilled from his mate's lips.

“I want you too.” he whispered back. They weren't meant to be but perhaps he could just have this, just this moment before the sun set and Wade's soul found it's way all the way back to living and Peter had to sing a siren's song to wash the human's memory clean of their time together.

“I want you too.” he repeated and Wade curled up into a sharp kiss full of tongue and longing. “Touch me, Prince Charming, touch me here.”

Peter took Wade’s hand and guided it down his stomach to the top of his tail, sucked in a quick, aching breath when his Prince’s fingers dipped into his navel before skating lower and the mer had to shift off to the side so he wouldn’t crush his love as Wade felt carefully, pointedly further along Peter’s scales until he came to the slight mound of the mer’s pouch, and then a scant inch lower, the scales that would shift aside and allow him entrance.

“Peter.” Wade breathed shakily when he found the almost invisible part in the mer’s tail, when his fingers were along scales one second and then next dipping into silky soft warmth. “P--Pete--”

“Yesssss.” the mer’s eyes went bright gold then very dark and heavy lidded as pleasure ran in a shiver up his spine, and Peter turned further onto his side to give Wade more room to feel him, balanced himself with his elbow in the sand and gripped rocks in his other hand so he wouldn’t cut his claws into the Prince’s side. “Yes my love, touch me.”

Wade bit back a hungry moan when his fingers closed around the mer’s cock, heavy and thick as he stroked and coaxed it free of the pouch, ridged and textured in ways that made his mouth water and his core clench, and Peter purred softly, wantonly when Wade’s own cock jerked in response to the sight.

“Closer.” The mer wriggled closer until they were side by side, face to face in the coarse sand, one of Wade’s legs thrown over his tail. “Closer, my love.”

Carefully at the Prince’s side, making sure to keep his claws away because too tight a squeeze, too startled or enjoyable a moment and the mer could kill his mate and Peter didn’t even want to take the chance, didn’t want to try and risk it.

“Like this.” Wade’s hand on his length was heaven, the steady stroke and curious play along the ridges and veins that marked his cock enough to make Peter’s eyes flicker in barely handled pleasure, and the mer whined brokenly at the loss of touch even as he coaxed his Prince’s touch lower still. “Right there, yes. Yes.”

Wade groaned out loud when he found the entrance just below Peter’s cock, slick and nearly hot as it allowed his fingers in and Peter gasped high and needy, rocked forward into the tentative press and drove Wade deeper inside.

Something shocked, blurted and breathless from the mer’s mouth, a language Wade could never hope to understand but rapture was the same across any tongue and he tasted it in their next kiss as Peter panted and sighed and nipped at Wade’s tongue as they tangled together.

“You’d have me?” Wade whispered in hoarse disbelief as his mate pressed closer, twitched his tail and lifted his hips up eagerly. “Pete, you would allow me to have you like this?”

“I’d allow you anything.” Fangs, drawing blood at Wade’s throat and the pain tore a shout from him, but there was nothing but blinding pleasure immediately after as the mer sealed his lips to the cut and drank the blood like he was starving. “My love, I’d allow you anything for the moments we have together, but you will have to have me like this.”

Oooph. Wade’s back hit the sand harder than he’d been expecting, Peter was far stronger than the lean muscles and gorgeous curve of his body would suggest, but the Prince only marveled at his mate’s strength, one hand buried inside Peter’s body and the other stroking over the glitter on Peter’s shoulders, down to the dip of his waist, back up to skip over the rows of his abdomen.

“You’re beautiful.” he managed as Peter lay over him, twisted his fingers inside the mer’s entrance and pulled a thready cry from gorgeous pink lips. “My love--”

Peter’s eyes melted molten gold in happiness and Wade said it again, crooned it, “My love---” and their lips met in the slowest kiss yet, lingering over bite-tender marks and licking through the others mouth, sharing breath, sharing air, sharing their souls as the mer reached with one hand to lift Wade’s fingers free of his body, then closed his palm around Wade’s cock.

“I’d allow you like this, my mate.” the mer whispered, and it was sheer insanity what they were doing. Pure madness for them to be kissing, to be moving together, for Peter to stroke his Prince to full hardness with a single pull and then with a slow roll of his hips, a flex of his tail and with claws scoring lines on the rocks as he fought for control, to take Wade clear into his body.

“My mate.” he shuddered when the Prince slipped into him, cried something wordless and needy when Wade held him tight and thrust up helplessly and Peter quieted Wade’s answering shout with a messy kiss, swallowed down the Prince’s gasped curse with a low purr, held his mate still until they both could breathe again.

“Peter.”

“Let me.” Peter tried not to growl, but it might have been a growl anyway with the way Wade cursed into his ear, cock jerking inside him hard enough to make the mer’s eyes roll back. “No no my love, let me.”

“Mate.” Wade caught Peter’s hips and held them tight when the mer shifted over him, scooted higher up over his chest and then dug into the sand and pushed back, engulfing Wade’s cock in pure rippling heat.

“Mate.” Braced on his elbows now, Peter could bend down and tease Wade with soft kisses and the dangerous hint of fangs. He could use the leverage to ease himself down and then pull himself back up, down and up, down and up, clenching tight every time their hips met and his Prince ground up into him, moaning every time they parted and Wade’s cock slid nearly entirely from his body before driving deep again.

“If you could swim with me, I’d take you to the depths.” Peter hissed when Wade’s teeth closed blunt over his pulse and pulled at him. “I'd show you how we are beneath the sea, I’d fit my cock into your most secret places--”

“Shit--” Wade jolted and Peter laughed in knowing delight, lost himself in a mind numbing kiss for a long moment, took Wade’s fingers and wound them around his cock to stroke in time to each slow roll of their bodies.

“--oh my love, I’d spend hours loving you.” he rasped, and Wade groaned something unintelligible and needy. “Over and over I’d spill in you until you were full of me and still begging for more, then I’d catch you tight--”

He shivered and moaned when the Prince’s hand tightened reflexively along his tip. “--yesss, do you feel that? All the ways my cock would fill you up and lock you tight to me? Then we could float in the currents for hours together. You’d be safe in my arms and I’d be safe in yours and we--”

The mer stuttered, grit his teeth and let his slick channel ripple around Wade’s cock as he grew closer to finishing. “--and we-- we could let the seas hear our heart songs until--”

“Pete.” Wade thrust up once, twice, threw his head back onto the beach and rocked against him desperately. “Pete please--”

“I know.” Peter slid himself down along his Prince until he was almost punishingly full, stretched and deliciously aching and he ground down into every helpless twitch and jerk of his mate’s body. “Oh my love, I know.”

“...want you…”

“...you have me…”

It was madness what they were doing, sheer insanity for a man and a mer to tangle this way. The Prince’s soul was caught in the space between living and dead, the mer was risking a life of eternal loneliness giving into the need when he should have just left, should have just waited for Wade’s soul to fully rejoin the living and then gone on his way without his heart song answered.

But it was too late. It was too late and it was madness but Peter couldn’t find it in himself to stop.

“Half a century I waited for you.” he murmured, and Wade turned his head to catch him up in an achingly tender kiss. “I’ll wait a half a century more for another chance.”

Music, warping the air and stirring the calm harbor waters into waves as Wade tipped and teetered at the edge of bliss. Music, thrumming in time to their hearts as Peter’s cock spilled onto Wade’s stomach and the Prince lost himself inside the mer’s body, pulsing and pouring and skittering searing pleasure through his veins.

Music, as they left a bloody sharp kiss and stared into each other eyes, a heart song as the sun began to sink behind them, a melody as Wade reached to wipe a tear that fell like a diamond from Peter’s golden eyes.

“....Pete?”

But the mer only shook his head and smiled, then tucked his chin into Wade’s shoulder and held him close as the fire between their body’s settled, soothed, and their souls melded one to another.

Music.

They were not meant to be.

****************

“You’re beautiful.” Wade propped himself up on an elbow and traced the gorgeous red lines that cut through the darker blue on Peter’s tail, clicking his fingernails on the scales and smiling in awe when the setting sun caught the blue and turned it nearly purple before darkening to practically black. “Red and blue, red and black. Gorgeous.”

“You humans think the oddest things are beautiful.” Peter stretched back on the sand and purred in contentment as the Prince ran gentle hands over him. “I was caught in a net when I was younger, the wires cut into my tail and left me scarred. I should be wholly blue and flawless but instead it looks like--”

“Like your tail is set through with rubies.” Wade interrupted, thinking about the priceless treasures he’d seen overseas, the intricately sewn tapestries, silk so fine it sparkled in the sunshine, jewelry that wove like nets and webs along a royals porcelain skin.

Not one of them compared to how lovely the delicate red lines were as they wound through the blue of Peter’s scales, and though Wade’s heart hurt to think of his mer hurt badly enough to be scarred, selfishly he loved the way Peter shivered and shuddered as he traced each and every one.

“Beautiful.” he said again and Peter purred at him again, bared those deceptively dangerous fangs in a pleased smile. “Why do your eyes turn gold?”

“Because you’re my soulmate.” Peter answered simply. “Our eyes only change for our mates. Gold when I am happy or content or when I am--” his dark gaze flickered gold as he lingered over the stretch of muscle on Wade’s reclined form. “--when I am aroused.”

“You are angelic.” Wade swore, and the mer countered with a soft laugh, “More along the lines of a water demon, but you may call me whichever you’d like.”

Peter sat up into a kiss, wove his clawed fingers into Wade’s hair and tugged lightly at the blond strands. “You are beautiful too, my love. Your eyes are the color of the ocean in the islands, where the water is bright and clear and we can see down to the sand on the sea floor.”

“Ah, is that why you came to find me in the wreckage of the ship?” Wade leaned into the touch, sighed and pressed closer when fangs pricked just lightly at his neck. “Because my eyes remind you of the ocean?”

“I would have found you in the wreckage no matter what color your eyes were.” Peter swore. “Today you look like the sun god fallen to the sand, if tomorrow you were to look like the god of the underworld or a creature of the deep, you’d be my soulmate all the same.”

“Then why do you seem sad?” Wade wanted to know, and Peter whispered, “Because our time is limited, my love. And somehow I already miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

I already miss you.

Later, the sky turned purple and blue above them, the winds cooling and water turning frigid, the sun setting in a fiery ball at the horizon, and Peter finally eased back from an endless kiss to brush his lips along Wade’s forehead and then his cheek.

“I have to go.” he whispered sadly. “The sun is setting and so is our song, it’s time for us to part ways.”

“No.” Wade shook his head, made a fruitless grab for his mer. “No, Pete. Don’t leave me.”

“I have to go now before it’s too late.” Peter slipped away from Wade’s grasp entirely, checking the sky above him as he scooted backwards into the water. “When the stars come out your soul will be fully back among the living, and humans and mers are not meant to love one another. We had a few moments together, which is more than some soulmates ever have. Sleep, my love and forget me.”

“I will never forget you!” Wade jerked up to sitting, pulled his feet from water that was turning colder by the second as the sun went down, and lunged after Peter. “Come back! Pete, wait--”

-- weariness hit the Prince like he’d ran into a physical wall, and mid reach, his arm fell back to his side, his legs giving out and keeping him firmly on the sand as the sun dropped another notch in the sky.

“What--” Wade struggled to even sit up all the way, his breath suddenly coming gasped and choppy, his eyes heavy and leaden. “What’s happening-- what’s happening--”

“Sleep and wake to fully living, Prince Charming.” Peter slid back into the water another few inches, biting at his lip until it bled beneath his fangs as he watched his love struggle just to stay coherent. “I’ll sing you a song to help you forget, and when you open your eyes again, you’ll be safe. I promise.”

“Will you--” sand fell through Wade’s grasp as he tried to keep himself upright on the beach. “Will you forget me?”

“The ocean forgets nothing.” the mer’s face twisted in heartbreak when his Prince’s head dropped back, otherworldly sleep calling him in deep. “I’ll remember every moment with you.”

“...seems… unfair…”

“Fate is rarely fair.” The last of the sun’s light was on them now, shadows from every direction, covering Wade’s feet and creeping up his legs to his torso, to his chest and just before the darkness reached his lovely face and the call back to living took him entirely, Peter blew his soulmate a kiss and murmured, “Goodbye, my Prince.”

A siren’s song rose low and haunting over the waves at dusk, coming to Wade on the wind and swirling through his mind like fog.

He was weary to his very bones, senses clouded with pain that had been absent for hours but suddenly throbbed through every muscle. Every breath was labored and with every one, a little more memory slipped from Wade’s consciousness as the music grew in volume and somehow in sadness.

Good-bye my love.

The waves lapped at the Prince’s feet, not quite close enough to touch, but close to lull him to sleep, his eyes closing and heartbeat syncing with the come and go of water on the rocks, the ebb and flow of the tide, the quiet rhythm to the melody that echoed in his heart something painful and heartbroken and lonely…

… by the time the stars came out, Wade couldn’t remember how the hell he’d made it from the wreckage of the Sister Margaret to dry land. He didn’t know why his shirt was torn off, why his pants were loose around his hips or why his body thrummed with the remnants of pleasure.

The Prince didn’t know why, and in the distance of the harbor a pair of dark eyes watched from afar as Wade looked around in wonder and confusion before giving into the pull of the music and falling back into the sand to sleep.

“Perhaps another lifetime.” Peter whispered as the last of his siren song faded away on the night wind. “Maybe then your soul will be mine, as mine is forever yours.”

Wade slept on the beach, and the seas barely rippled as the mer disappeared under the surface to ease his grief below the waves.

Perhaps another lifetime.

******************

Chapter Notes:

In some comics Wade has blue eyes and blond hair, so for reasons important to The Plot, I used this description for him vs my usual.

Obviously the Sister Margaret is the name of Weasel’s bar, and it also made a perfect ship name.

Uhh help I’ve never written mermaid sex before??

How much do we love demisexual Wade who never really saw the appeal of sex until he found the one he was meant to be with?

Recognize the golden eyes from MTW? Yeah, I will never let that trope die, it’s my canon now.

SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHAPTER!

******************

@ships-galore @ceealaina @izziebladez @cwar1864 @hausoffro @tonystarkisanangel @multishippinglife @girlnic @iam93percentstardust @paranormalmoonlight5 @igotloki @moosette05 @wayward-student-philosopher @kaz-brekkers-gloves @atomicfandombomb @1fuckingshitup69 @agentlokii @livewire28 @tulipsnbigcats @kimstark @alex-stark-rogers @bibbarnes @heeeyitskay @goindownshipping @quietgayguy @nanita90a @justaniche @pumpkin-spidey

#ncts fics #spideypool #mermaid #peter parker #wade wilson #commission

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kimishima-naomi · 3 years

Text

miçanga

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31194542 In response to Fly’s awesome fic - you don’t have to read it, but it helps with the context.

Content warning: talk of less-than-great parents, as depicted by canon. Also, mentions of trans stuff, which, if you know Fly, shouldn’t surprise you.

A headache is beating at her left temple – a soft, hot pulse compressing her skull. It's not a migraine, far from, but she still took a naproxen just in case it turns into one.

Naomi isn't sure of the time. It feels like it's past midnight, but she can't bring herself to get up from the couch and get ready for sleep. She isn't even out of her suit yet.

The living room is only lit by her laptop, an empty case file open on the screen. She avoids looking directly at it. Light feels too bright, like it always does.

It was just a meeting. A talk with a friend and a colleague. You have no reasons to be tired.

No, that's a transparent lie. Naomi prefers not to lie to herself.

You're not calling it a trigger, are you? Of course not – it's as far from a trigger as this headache is from a real migraine. Just a...

Like bumping an old scar the exact wrong way.

She grinds her teeth for a moment. Bad habit.

Shouldn't be this hard. Why...

Stiles. She wouldn't have assumed he was a surgeon if she'd met him outside of work. Anything but. Stiles was a walking disaster area, a chronically late chronically messy chronically lost... absolute prodigy with a scalpel. Naomi knew a fellow prodigy when she saw one.

Maybe even more so than you. She had to smile – Dr. Chase's stories about Derek blundering his way through exams managed to make her laugh like few things did.

Despite it all, Stiles is... level. Adjusted. Not like...

Naomi winces – not just from the headache. She has to think several times over to phrase the next statement to herself.

You can usually tell, can't you. When someone's parents are... less than stellar.

Takes one to know one, hm? Her lips move slightly, but she doesn't say the words aloud. Talking to herself has become a habit, and she wants it gone.

Or... maybe that wasn't such a surprise, after all. Hearing these stories. About what Stiles used to be like – chronically... unsure of himself, unable to believe he could get anything right.

That was telling.

Self-doubt is the mind killer for a surgeon. Hell, on some level, Naomi was surprised Derek became one, after all. The man must've truly been determined. An iron will, buried... deep inside. Quite deep.

She rolls her shoulders – straightening out mechanically, getting rid of the slouch she didn't know was there, taking a mandatory post-surgery deep breath.

...Her own family wasn't nearly that bad, of course. They just didn't care. That was fine by her – she'd seen otherwise in medical school, of course; classmates driven to near-suicide by pressure, weight of their medical clans on their shoulders-

Maybe that's why she coped differently. Grit her teeth, soldiered on, forged herself as if into a scalpel. Forged herself into somebody, seeking... not mere attention, of course; admiration, respect she knew she deserved.

You used to think it'd be better if they cared. Better to get a beating for a bad grade than know they don't care if you even attend school, right?

Naomi winces again. That, again, isn't truth. Not quite – if she ever did think that, well, that was in early childhood.

Her family didn't do anything all that bad. Except not acknowledging her existence after... that... happened.

Not like they acknowledged it before.

She chuckles softly, admitting the humor of that. No, they didn't.

She never went back to Japan.

All right, enough self-pity. This isn't about her, it's about Derek. And he got one rotten deal today.

Mother's Day, hm? Explains all the diabetes-inducing posts across her feed, despite her social networks being purely for work.

Frowning at the light, she checks her laptop. Second Sunday in May. That minutely annoys her – Thanksgiving and Easter are hard enough to remember.

Stiles... She doesn't ever guess at what Stiles was like before transitioning. Nor does she want to guess – the mere thought would feel invasive like a burrowing parasite.

But, whatever he was like in the past, he seems much better off now. Good.

She rubs her temple – it does nothing for the headache, but the bracelet catches unfamiliar on her wrist. She hasn't worn those in a long time, bracelets or rings, strictly forbidden by sterility rules.

Alyssa's gift. A handmade... misanga – she's sure that's Portuguese... friendship bracelet? It's a pretty one, shades of red and white – she knows that Alyssa knows she likes these colors.

It means the world to her. Who'd have thought.

She's still uneasy – a shard of some thought is lodged deep and painful like a splinter, something that angered her so much at the time that-

Ah.

Gently, Naomi undoes the fastener on the bracelet and rests it down on the keyboard. She's afraid she might break it – or anything that might get caught in her hands at this moment.

Tama. The cat's name is unusually certain in her memory.

Funny. She was never a cat person. She still isn't – Chloe, for all her softness, fuzziness, and... purr-iness, is a handful; from waking her up at four in the morning for an unscheduled portion of food (No.) to tripping her up in the middle of the night if she tries to walk somewhere without turning on the lights.

But that cat is precious to Alyssa. And that means it’s precious to Naomi, by some extraordinary, transitional property.

Besides, they both survived Rosalia. The critter was more resilient than she'd imagine.

An endoscopy on a cat... at the time, she justified it to herself by thinking about the valuable data they might get from a feline survivor. But, the truth is a lot more simple.

This is a girl who just lost her family, and this is her ‘kitty’, and you'd be right scum if you simply put it down.

Naomi rolls her shoulders again. Her fingers feel cold and heavy. The headache is worsening.

She's pretty certain she's said something about wanting to die. Thought it, certainly. Anything but knowing how much of a fuсkup she-

She stands up sharply. Those kinds of thoughts are best confronted in better lighting.

The lights turning on earn a disapproving meow. She hadn't heard the cat sneak in. Figures.

Maybe it wants to spend time with you.

That's an unusually positive thought, and Naomi forces herself to welcome it.

She sits back down, picks the bracelet up again. It flows between her fingers, coils up like a small living creature. She feels the rough weave slowly before fastening it on her wrist again.

There's no point in that, not if she's planning to get some sleep anyway, and yet it's somehow very important right now as a... symbol? No. A promise to her kid.

A promise to do better.

#trauma center #trauma team #fanfic #naomi kimishima #derek stiles

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gypsydanger01 · 4 years

Text

THE STORM - Part twenty-two

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x OC

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

Threading dangerous waters

After Noir had taken his leave, Sarah took a few steady breaths and managed to put his untouched slice of cake away before collapsing on the couch.

Lightly tracing her knuckles, she laid on the only piece of furniture that hadn’t been left in shambles. The coffee table had been reduced to splinters, and the tv screen had a gaping hole where he’d sunk his knife to the hilt. Nails were stuck in the wall to her right, and she sighed at the thought of having to disable those explosives that hadn’t been triggered during their fight.

I’ll be back.

She sighed, pressing the back of her hand to her lips. God, what would she do.

[Next day, at Vought Headquarters]

The following day, Noir left his living quarters quite early, a pair of dark brown eyes seared into his mind. He immediately delved into researching information on the latest experimental trials conducted by Vought. He searched and searched, with determined calculation. His eyes traced countless file names, patient numbers, and descriptions… until he found the one he’d been looking for.

He retreated back to his room and settled down, eyes pouring over the damning evidence.

Finally, he stood and left the room.

_ _ _

“All right, folks, how is everyone?”

The Deep started with a small “I’m o—,” but Homelander cut him off, and continued speaking. He didn’t really care, the question had been a pleasantry, an act he had no reason to entertain without an audience.

“—We all know about the break-in that occurred two nights ago while we were at the gala,” he nodded to himself as he slowly paced around the table. “And while our Noir gave it his all, this very dangerous woman played some tricks and is,” Homelander raised a hand in blatant disbelief, “still on the loose.”

Reaching the head of the table once again, he fixed his gaze on each of his team members.

“We also know of the unfortunate release of Compound V to the public, which has generated mixed emotions and alienated a part of our fans,” he paused, disgust pure on his face before he drew his conclusion. “It was her, this delinquent who stole from the archives and spilled to the news.”

The imposing man gripped the back of his chair, “I took this up with Stan Edgar, and he would have me—us, believe that he has it under control, that he’s handling it,” he exclaimed with a small burst of laughter.

Black Noir felt something creep up over his shoulder and settle in his chest: it was dread, a deep-seated sense of foreboding. And knowing what he’d learned that morning, what he’d promised himself, he again found himself conflicted. Focusing on Homelander’s speech, one sentence echoed inside his head: she is good, and he will protect her, she is good, and he will protect her.

“She must be found and swiftly dealt with as she poses a threat to Vought and all Americans,” Homelander announced. “She is obviously powerful if she was able to escape from Noir,” he paused. “I want everyone’s eyes open, and if you find her,” his face lost any sign of pleasantry, morphing with an unidentifiable emotion, “you will come to me first.”

Black Noir knew all too well what that unidentifiable emotions was: it was arrogance and a sense of superiority that underlined the man’s choices, again and again. It was his absolute need to be in the know and at the center of the attention at all times.

Everyone around the table stayed quiet. Maeve was picking at her nails, and Noir was doodling on a piece of paper. The Deep stared at the table’s surface, obviously afraid of the team leader’s mood swings. A-Train sat comfortably, more laid out than anything as he waited for the meeting to end. And Starlight, sitting delicately in her chair, counted down the seconds until she could clear out of the building.

Homelander slammed his palm against the table, “Is that clear.”

All eyes on him, he received a few nods and small acknowledgements.

Starlight tried to maintain her composure, but fear was clawing at her, demanding that she leave the room. She avoided looking at A-Train even though she could feel his gaze burning through her. If America’s favorite superhero found out she, member of the Seven, had leaked Compound V… she wasn’t sure that there’d be anything left of her once he was finished.

The leader of the Seven held his hands behind his back, making him an even more imposing figure.

“Vought is a great big company, our company,” he continued, “And Stan Edgar would have us believe that everything is under control… but he lies. It is not under control. I will find her, and I will end her before she can tear us down.”

His last statement held the finality and decisiveness of a promise.

“Remember, you come to me first,” he repeated, before going to stand by the large, paneled windows. A few seconds later, he glanced back at them.

“Still here?” he asked, suddenly irked by their presence. “Dismissed. Except you Noir, you can stay.”

Noir watched the other team members rapidly stand and leave the room, before letting his gaze fall back on the caped man standing by the windows.

“Noir, I’ll have you know that I trust you a great deal more than anyone else on this team,” he began, “and I trust you the most to gather intel on this Marianna Stacker.”

Sarah, his mind sighed.

“I want weekly updates until we catch her, I want to know who she is, where she lives, who she cares about—everything,” he carefully explained, “I will not have her and her lies destroy everything,” he gestured in general and Noir assumed he meant both the company and his popularity. The darkly suited man lightly rolled his eyes behind the mask but nodded.

He knew better than to anger Homelander. He wasn’t afraid of the maniac, no, he was a safety measure set in place to keep the man in check when the charismatic façade slipped off and revealed the monster beneath. Wasn’t there a saying? That to kill a monster you need a monster? And to do so, he’d rather know what the man was plotting than have to make a calculated guess.

Homelander nodded his head, “We’ll get her Noir.”

Noir stood, nodded, and left.

And Homelander watched him leave, always feeling a surge of respect for the silent superhero.

He turned back towards the windows and watched the busy city unfold beneath him, a murderous glint in his eyes. To hell with Stan Edgar, he was the true center of Vought. Fans called his name, he was their savior.

Finally, he too left the meeting room, deciding to take a stroll through the building..

_ _ _

That day, Sarah had returned to work, deeming a prolonged absence too risky since it could raise all sorts of red flags. She covered up with warm clothes, a pretty scarf wrapped around her neck, and faked a dry cough in the office.

She’d felt a shiver down her spine as she signed in at the front desk and ascended the stairs. Each step heavier than the last, she wondered if they would immediately pinpoint her as guilty. She’d taken sensitive information on one of the most terrible and controversial experimental trials ever: they would be looking for her, and they would employ every method. Her mind strayed to the variable in the equation, the one piece she could not control, the wild card that could make her or break her. Noir. And now that someone else had exposed them for using Compound V on babies to make them into superheroes, Vought was taking a lot of heat from fans, the media, and activists. They’d assume it was the same person who broke into the archives. So, they wouldn’t just be looking for her, they’d be hunting for her, ready to gun her down.

However, she was greeted back into the office with a couple waves and smiles, and everything went smoothly. She’d only been gone for a day, but a couple co-workers asked her about her cough and if she was feeling better. The day before, Martha had reassured a few of them when they’d asked about her so that she’d have an alibi.

And so, time rushed by, and, while she’d calmed down, she felt an inextricable knot in her chest. She was here, hiding in plain sight. And it could work, but only if Noir saw reason, if he questioned his loyalty towards the company and felt any for her.

Soon, it was time to pack up and go back home. She spoke with Martha and waved to a few co-workers before heading down the long hallway to take the elevator. She usually took the stairs, but suddenly preferred the quickest method to leave the building.

After pressing the button to call it up, Sarah stepped back and waited in the deserted hall. She felt, rather than heard a presence grow close. Noir came to stand beside her, seemingly waiting for the elevator himself. She looked at him through her dark lashes and fixed the scarf around her neck. Would this be it? Would he do it here at Vought where they could easily clean up the splatters?

The elevator arrived with a ding and he motioned for her to step in first, him following after. Were there no cameras in the elevators? Was that why he’d chosen this spot?

Noir moved closer to her and she wasn’t sure what to expect. She pressed her back to the elevator wall, feeling that characteristic warmth spread throughout her chest. But he did something surprising by placing his gloved hands on her hips, almost steadying her. He then produced a thin slip of folded paper, which he smoothly slid into one of her pants’ front pocket.

“What are you doing,” she whispered, trying to understand whatever he was trying to tell her.

Suddenly, the elevator dinged once again and slowed to a halt as someone got ready to join them on their way down.

Noir immediately stepped away as though she’d burned him. She soon realized why.

Crimson boots stepped into the small space, and Sarah thought she might suffocate as the doors slid closed. The dark blue suit and American flag taunted her.

Sarah knew what Homelander really was, how the selfishness and arrogance swam just below the surface.

He seemed deep in thought, but whatever trail he’d been following was interrupted by her loud heartbeat. He glanced to the side and saw the beautiful, albeit frazzled, woman in the corner. She stood straight and composed, yet she had a racing pulse.

Noir could also hear it and wished it would slow down to a normal rate. Capturing Homelander’s attention can be a dangerous thing.

She needed to stay hidden in the shadows, blend in with every other person at Vought. He would keep her from harm.

“Ma’am are you all right,” the Seven's leader asked with concern. “I don’t mean to invade your privacy,” he genuinely chuckled, “but I can hear your heart racing, like you're scared.”

Sarah shuffled her feet, “Oh no, I’m all right. I’m not a fan of small, enclosed spaces that’s all.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she suffocated the sudden need to shake it off. Just a few more floors and she’d be stepping off. Just a few more floors.

“Don’t worry, you have the strongest man in the world here, you’re safe.”

She smiled and thanked him before quickly stepping off. She slowed down, not wanting it to seem like she was running away. He’d meant to reassure her, but she could still feel the phantom weight of his hand on her shoulder. Once outside, she made her way home where she was ready to take a long shower and sleep amid her wrecked furniture.

Her fingers itched to touch the slip of paper in her pocket, to discover its meaning. She ultimately decided to read it at home away from prying eyes.

[Vought Headquarters]

Once Sarah had stepped off the elevator, Black noir and Homelander made no move to follow. The doors closed and the caped man pressed the button for the upper levels.

Noir stilled, and suddenly had the urge to break the other man’s neck. He knew Homelander had seen them close together through the walls, and he realized he should’ve waited to hand her the note at her house.

“I was looking for you,” he spoke up with nonchalance, “and imagine my surprise when I saw you in here with that woman.”

Homelander smirked and slapped his shoulder, “You sly dog, Noir, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Noir fingers itched to pull a dagger, but he maintained his composure.

“Just keep your head on straight, yeah?”

Homelander straightened and faced forward, “You and me, Noir, we’re above it all—we were made for bigger things,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t want you distracted as we look for Stacker.”

Little did he know that she’d just rode the elevator with him, and never would he have imagined it possible for Black Noir to grow attached and protective of someone.

The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped out going their separate ways.

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @ateliefloresdaprimavera @ellejo @dust-bun @coco724 @proximio-5 @damiminator @omegahighendpro @rpgluvr95 @sweetrabbitteamx @rayray1463 @mialexisrodrigues @angelocipriano

#black noir #black noir x oc #the boys #the boys tv #the boys amazon #the boys season 2 #fanfiction #oc story

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eryiss · 3 years

Text

Chapter Three - The Visitor

Summary: Freed and Laxus live incredibly different lives. Freed is a corporate lawyer in the capital city, and Laxus works as a handyman in a countryside hotel. Despite their differences, their lives collide when Freed inherits a house in Laxus’ village, and hires him to make the derelict building liveable. But the closer they get, the more they seem to offer each other. [Fraxus Multi-Chapter]

This was written as my admission for Fraxus Day 2020, hosted by @fuckyeahfraxus. This is the third chapter, and you can find the rest in the masterlist below.

You can read this under the cut, on Fanfiction, or on Archive of Our Own. You can find the chapter masterpost here.

Chapter Three – The Visitor

"Here. I wasn't entirely sure what you wanted, so I hope you don't mind black coffee with sugar."

As he spoke, Freed placed the coffee cup onto the splintering kitchen counter, taking a step back and looking down at Laxus. The blonde was lying face up under the sink, a wrench in one hand and a torch in the other. He made a slight noise of affirmation to let Freed know that he had heard him, but didn't make a move to leave his spot under the counter. Freed stepped back, watching the man with a slight raised eyebrow as he grunted.

A moment later, a creaking, snapping sound filled the quiet room and Laxus let out a sound of approval. The wrench was dropped, and after some further grunting and movements that Freed couldn't see, a large crack sounded. Freed winced, but Laxus seemed pleased with it.

"Ha," Laxus almost cheered as he shuffled from under the sink. "Got ya, rusty fucker."

After removing himself entirely from below the kitchen sink, Laxus presented a large curved piece of piping, made presumably out of tin but rusted to the point where it was unrecognizable. Flecks of orange dust fell from it as Laxus tossed it into the large bucket he was using in place of a trash can. He sat up straight, rolled his shoulders, and looked to Freed with a satisfied grin.

"Was working on the bastard all morning," Laxus explained. "And black coffee's great, thanks."

"I assume by the fact you've been working on a single piece of piping all day, we're progressing well?" Freed joked, laughing slightly resignedly at his statement. Laxus sent him an amused grin as he cracked his back and stood up.

"This was keeping them all in place," He nudged the bucket containing the pipe. "The rest 'll be a lot easier. I'll have them all out before lunch and the new ones in by mid-afternoon."

Freed nodded, silently thankful that actual noteworthy work was taking place. He had been in Magnolia for a week at this point, and he and Laxus had spent a lot of time together trying to make any real progress on the house. It was an overwhelming thing to start, and when Laxus had written out a full list of what needed to be done after he'd looked through the place for the first time, the task seemed practically undoable.

But they were working on it. They had decided to take things room by room, starting first on the kitchen as it was both an important room and needed the most work. It was a coin toss between starting there or in the bathroom, and Freed was fairly certain the deciding factor was Laxus' lack of trust for the upstairs floorboards.

The lawyer wondered if Laxus yet regretted it, given he now had a fifteen-minute walk to the nearest public bathroom.

Once they'd started, they'd gotten into a quick routine. Laxus had made it clear that he needed to prioritise his work at the hotel, given that was his more permanent job, and Freed had been fine with it. But apparently Fairy Tail was better managed than Freed had given them credit for, because there had only been two instances where Laxus had been called away from his work at the house, so they had actually managed to do a good amount of work so far.

Not that it looked like that, of course. The kitchen wasn't as derelict looking as it had before, but that was born out of practicality. Laxus couldn't do anything technical with bricks, shattered tiles and awful smelling trash bags covering the floors. Once it had been cleaned to a workable state, Laxus checked over the electrics and the gas to make sure that nothing was going to electrocute them or set off an explosion; he joked that it might damage the property value slightly had someone been enveloped in a fireball.

Freed laughed. Laxus had a good sense of humour.

The sink was the first thing he'd decided to work on. Already he'd installed new faucets, which were working as intended. Unfortunately, this had caused an issue in that the drainage pipe was completely corroded to the point where it was completely useless. This wouldn't have been a problem, had it not been for the fact the water pressure was so high that the faucets wouldn't turn off, and thus the kitchen was flooded with an inch of cold, slightly dirty water.

It hadn't been a good day, but at least it had confirmed that Laxus was the perfect employee for Freed. Because, as Freed angrily stomped through the water and snapped his anger at both the blonde and the room alike, Laxus had openly laughed at him and mocked him for getting so 'pissy about a little bit of water' and claimed 'you are definitely helping when we get to the toilet.'

Freed couldn't work with people who couldn't deal with his temper, as rare as he might show it.

"Didn't think you were gonna be here today," Laxus continued, picking up his coffee and raising it to his lips.

"Evergreen's train got delayed," Freed explained, drinking his own coffee; he would have preferred something a little more interesting, but branded coffee shops apparently hadn't broken into Magnolia yet. "I told her to get a taxi and come here, since she so clearly wants to see the place."

"You know you really ought to be more houseproud," Laxus said in a teasing tone. "A guy your age on the property ladder, ain't nothing to be ashamed of."

"My house is a large gust of wind away from being knocked over and making me liable for the manslaughter of an entire flock of sheep," Freed deadpanned. "And the only reason she's even considering coming here is purely so she can make fun of the fact I now have to deal with this place."

"You don't know that."

"Her last text said she 'was looking forward to seeing the house that the big bad wolf ignored because it was so shit no self-respecting pig would use it,'" Freed said, though a little smile did fight its way onto his face. "She has a habit of being oddly specific when she wants to annoy you or get under your skin. I think it's a trait in all prosecution lawyers. She won't be in here for long though, so don't worry. No doubt she'll start missing the luxuries of the city and demand I take her to the nearest branded store. Unfortunately for her that's a McDonalds, which she hates."

"You can tell you really like all yer friends," Laxus grinned. "The compliments are just flying out of ya."

"She's a wonderful person, but she's definitely a city girl," Freed chuckled. "She probably memorised the map of the subway before she saw an animal that wasn't a pet or in a zoo."

"Big talk coming from a guy who wears Armani to a building site," Laxus smirked, placing his empty coffee cup on the side counter. "You own any clothes that ain't a suit?"

"No," Freed said plainly, and Laxus looked shocked and amused in equal parts. "I wear them for work, I work most days and long hours. Why waste money on things I would only wear in my apartment?"

"I would pay a lot of money to see you in some ratty grass-stained jeans and a fraying old sweater," Laxus laughed, crouching down, and looking at the pipes again. "Just to see what your like without all that city-boy armour and shiny shoes."

Freed frowned a little at that.

He was being judged; that much was obvious. But the flippant way in which Laxus did it, as well as the lack of malice in his tone felt as though it wasn't with ill intent. There didn't seem to be any sense of class-based antagonism, rather just some kind of observation Laxus had made. Of course it was entirely possible that Freed was accustomed to arguments being open and without subtlety because of his work, and Laxus was actually-

"You wanna know how to take out a pipe?" Laxus spoke up again, cutting off Freed's thoughts. "Might save you some money on a plumber if you're ever having trouble at home."

"Of course," Freed said, forgetting the possible insult as he lowered himself to beside Laxus.

The blonde gave a quick explanation as to what Freed needed to do, and what everything under the sink was. There was no level of patronising to his words, and he didn't treat Freed with anything similar to kid gloves. Apparently Freed had proven his practical worth already, and Laxus saw him as something of an equal when it came to getting his hands dirty. He just needed to understand what he needed to do, and he could do it.

Freed found himself quite enjoying some of the practical work that Laxus was teaching him. He had no doubt he was getting the easy jobs – taking out the pipe only required the turning of a wrench at this point – but it was rather satisfying to do something like this.

If nothing else, it was a good distraction.

Under Laxus' instructions, Freed managed to remove the remaining rusted pipes from under the sink. This no doubt took longer than it would have if Laxus had done it himself, but the blonde had seemed willing to act as some kind of plumbing mentor to Freed when he felt it right. A small voice in Freed's mind told him that perhaps Laxus was doing so to get out of working himself, but he shut that thought down quickly. Without Laxus, the work wouldn't be getting done at all. And if Freed ever did need to do any plumbing in his actual life when he returned to the city, he would have the skills to do it himself.

After the pipes had been removed, they both left the shelter of the kitchen sink and stood up again. Laxus went to discard the useless plumbing while claiming he was going to call his supplier to check when the new pipes were coming in. Freed nodded, and walked to the front garden of the house to wash his hands; the hosepipe was working, and the grass was the closest thing to plumbing they had.

As the cold water removed the dirt, he heard a car approaching. The road, he'd found out, didn't lead to much past Albion House, and therefore few cars drove it. When he saw the Taxi's insignia, he smiled. Evergreen left the car a moment later.

"Freed," She shouted with a grin. "Well… holy shit! This is not what I expected."

"Is it better or worse than you thought," Freed smiled, looking over his shoulder at the house.

"I meant your clothes actually," Evergreen laughed, walking forward, and dragging her suitcase behind her. She looked over the house and smiled. "This is pretty much as crappy as I thought it would be, though."

Freed snapped his head up, having been looking down at his outfit and wondering what Evergreen meant. He wasn't wearing anything different from what he normally would, though he had left his jacket over the back of a chair in the kitchen, and he'd rolled his sleeves up so that he could work on the plumbing. But other than that, he wasn't any different to- why were his pants so stained? What even was it? Oil? Where had that come from?

"This is the most presentable part of it, I'm afraid," Freed said, trying not to focus on the oil.

The garden was cleaner than it had been when Freed first saw the house. Just as with the kitchen, practicality dictated that the garden be cleaned up to a point where it wasn't a hazard. There had been lots of thorns, thick grass, and uneven paving. Walking through it was bad enough, but when it came to the point where they needed to bring things into the house, it would be unusable.

Now, it was just an ugly patch of dirt with small patches of badly trimmed grass. Cleaning it, oddly, had been one of the most satisfying things he'd done. It also seemed to be what made Laxus respect his potential for practical skills. Freed was oddly effective with a chainsaw when called upon it.

And Laxus was rather… distracting while wielding a hatchet.

"Would you like a tour, so you can make your mocking accurate?" Freed suggested, snapping his eyes away from the mound of dried dirt. "Laxus is working today, but as long as you don't get in his way it won't matter."

"Sure," Evergreen grinned. "Anything to get away from the smell of manure. How do you deal with it?"

"I suppose I'm getting used to it," Freed shrugged.

He guided his friend into the house, and up the stairs to begin the tour. It didn't take long to show her all of the rooms, all the while explaining what he had planned for each of them while also pointing out anything that could either collapse or hurt her in some way. It was an annoyingly large list; Freed had forgotten just how much needed to be done on the upper floors. Hopefully, it wouldn't be as intricate as the work downstairs at least.

With every room they went into, Evergreen had a comment purpose built to annoy him; all of which he found annoyingly funny. Between the comments, she was informing him on the few things that he had missed both at work and personally. It was nice to have her here, even if just for the day.

"And, as I've mentioned, this is Laxus," Freed made a motion with his hand as they entered the kitchen. "Laxus this is- oh you're under the sink again."

"Give me a second," Laxus muttered from under the sink. He shifted out, standing upright, and looking towards Evergreen with a pleasant smile. "Hey, nice to meet ya. I'd shake your hand, but I've got rust and shit on it, don't wanna give you tetanus or anything."

"It's a pleasure to meet you too," Evergreen smiled. "I hope you don't mean you've got literal shit on your hands."

"Well, I don't think so," Laxus laughed. "But I'm pretty sure a bird was living in the sink at some point, so bird crap is a real possibility."

Evergreen laughed, and Freed found himself smiling slightly. He didn't question why, and instead walked to the shoddy old table that was barely standing, picking up his suit jacket from the chair it was resting on and slipping his arms through it. As they walked through the house, Freed had realised that the charm of the rotting old house – her words, not his – was wearing thin, and she would want to go into the town again. He planned on taking her to a nice tea room, a perfect little middle-class café that she would love. Freed had visited it when the coffee shop had been closed on Sunday; Laxus had recommended it. It was good.

They probably wouldn't allow him to get inside in the state he was in. He really had to wonder exactly how he had gotten in such a state of disrepute. He was normally rather image conscious, as was required of a lawyer. How he'd gotten covered in oil – if that's what it was – was something he couldn't yet fathom.

"We should leave you to your work," Freed interjected as he shucked his jacket to have it better rest on his shoulders. "If you need anything, you know how to reach me."

"Sure," Laxus nodded, reaching for a towel, and rubbing his hands. "Have fun, and it was nice meeting ya Evergreen."

"You too," Evergreen smiled.

After saying their goodbyes, Freed guided Evergreen out of the house and towards the car that he had hired for his time in Magnolia; getting taxis to and from the house every day would be impractical. They climbed into the car together – he even had oil on his face, he realised when he glanced at the mirror – and Freed started the engine.

"I need to go to my room before we go anywhere, make myself more presentable," Freed explained as they left the driveway.

"Sure, that's absolutely fine," Evergreen said, her voice smugger than Freed wanted it to be. "You make yourself nice looking, we'll get some tea and scones, get into a private little corner of the tea room, and then we can talk about the handsome little treat that you've hired for yourself."

Freed's hands clenched around the steering wheel, and let out an annoyed sigh. He supposed this was inevitable.

~~~

The tea rooms were almost painfully middle-class. They wouldn't look at all out of place were they in a soft crime drama shown in the early afternoon of a Sunday. Tablecloths were neatly strewn across tables, with ornate china set before each customer. The smell of freshly baked pastries and cakes, and the gentle heat of a teapot placed before them was a nice treat for Freed's senses; particularly after a morning of smelling mould and dried out dirt.

It would have been ideal, had it not been for the company.

While driving back from the house, Evergreen hadn't been even slightly subtle with her enjoyment of the situation. She was… a good friend to Freed, but often used that position to strongarm her way into his life a little too far. Bickslow did it too, and no doubt that, had he been there with them, he would be just as joyful as Evergreen was.

Freed didn't understand why she was fixating on Laxus in the way she was. Yes, the man was handsome in a conventional way. Yes, they did have something of a rapport between them. Yes, Freed had once confessed he had an odd attraction to men of practicality.

Oh dear god, she was going to be unendurable.

As a member of the staff brought them over their orders – two teas, a slice of chocolate gateau and a cheese scone – Evergreen began grinning unabashedly at Freed. The lawyer looked back at his colleague with an unimpressed expression as he cut into his food. He hoped that his uninterest and distain for what she was doing would be enough of a deterrent to stop her from bringing up Laxus, but obviously luck wasn't on his side.

"Your workman seems nice," She smiled, leaning forward and picking up her teacup. "How did you meet?"

"He works for the hotel," Freed said simply. "He wants to expand his portfolio, I needed assistance. It made sense."

"Well, he certainly seems to be filling your briefs," Evergreen grinned – and oh dear, she was making pseudo-sexual puns. Unendurable indeed. "Almost as well as he was filling out that shirt he was wearing, actually. You could actually see his-"

"I think it's best we begin this conversation by setting up some ground rules for how we can converse when it comes to Mr Dreyar," Freed began, ignoring the muttered 'lawyer voice' under Evergreen's breath. "You may not objectify him, whether in his presence or not. You may not do or say anything to him that would make him uncomfortable or consider ending his employ with me. You may also not imply anything about our relationship, which I feel the need to add, is entirely platonic. He is my employee, we get along well enough, but there is nothing more than that," Freed then glared a little. "And I do not have a lawyer voice. Stop telling people that I do."

"I'll agree to the first two terms without addendum, so long as the latter too are stricken from the record," Evergreen spoke in an actual 'lawyer voice,' unlike Freed, who only had one voice. "Because that is an infringement of both my freedom of speech-"

"Oh for goodness sake."

"My freedom of speech," Evergreen repeated calmly. "As well as a flagrant disregard of my god given right-"

"You're an atheist."

"To annoy my best friend in whatever way possible," Evergreen concluded, and Freed attempted to chastise her with a levelled expression.

"Bickslow is my best friend," Freed said flatly. "You just won't leave me alone."

"If you'd like I can call Bickslow and we can see how he reacts to finding out you've hired the reincarnation of Adonis and made him work on your faulty plumbing, putting him at a high chance of getting wet while he wears jeans tight enough to show off the crease of his ass."

"You're objectifying him again," Freed said, a little firmer this time. "And how closely were you looking?"

"I retract my previous comment," Evergreen nodded, but then smiled without malice and laughed to herself. "Do you think anybody else thinks that our little lawyer arguments are as funny as we do?"

"I doubt it," Freed said, grinning.

They both relaxed into their seats, and Freed brought a small piece of the gateau to his lips. He had been to a good many of the luxurious patisseries in the city, and this was seemingly a good rival for their infinitely more expensive cakes. Though, he wasn't anywhere near an expert on baking, and had someone who knew what they were doing tasted it they could no doubt list off everything wrong with it. But Freed didn't care about that. Those people were miles away.

Evergreen slowly began to nibble away at her own food, and they fell into a comfortable quiet. It was something Freed appreciated with his friends, that they could both allow for silence without seeing it as conversational failure. Their jobs were stressful, it was nice that they could be allowed to decompress around one another.

Though, he knew that Evergreen's teasing wouldn't end. It was just pushed back temporarily.

For a while, that was true. They spoke pleasantly about what Freed had missed while in Magnolia; not much, really. The most interesting thing was that Bickslow had gotten a new case where he would be suing the city for the treatment of children in state funded care homes. Evergreen hadn't been able to give many details of this, however, as they worked for different offices; Bickslow had long since left corporate law and was working for a children's charity as legal counsel. It worked for him, even with a significant pay cut. It was an admirable thing to do.

Unfortunately, news from the city was a limited distraction, and eventually the topic of Freed's new workman reared its ugly head.

"So, let's talk about Laxus," Evergreen began with a smile.

"If we must," Freed gently placed down his fork with a sigh.

"He seems like a nice man," She spoke with an insulation in her voice, but Freed didn't care enough to find out what exactly it was insinuating. "A good sense of humour, he seems to take problems in his stride, good with a tool," Freed raised an eyebrow in warning. "I meant wrenches and hammers and the like. No need to get defensive."

"I wasn't being defensive, I was just maintaining the 'no objectifying' part of our agreement," Freed replied, calmly. "And wondering where exactly you're going with this."

"Well, he's your type," Evergreen shrugged. "I was only joking about you hiring him because of his looks, you know. But, if you wanted to try something with him, I can see why."

"You spoke to him for less than five minutes; you hardly know anything about him."

"I know that you're still here, so you must like him a little bit. Even if it's just platonically," Evergreen smiled. "You're a workaholic Freed, the fact you had a day off to deal with the house at all is kind of surprising. And now you've nearly had two weeks here, and I know that's mainly because of the house but, if you couldn't stand Laxus or he just wasn't interesting, then you would have come back to the city by now."

"So you're implying I should start a relationship with a man because he isn't annoying me to the point where I'll leave him alone in my property just to get away from him?" Freed laughed slightly. "Your view on relationships is concerning."

"Fine fine," Evergreen waved a hand. "I'll let it go. But you could do a lot worse."

Freed, thankful that the topic had been abandoned, lifted the tables teapot into the air to fill his cup again. For the rest of the afternoon tea, they spoke about everything and nothing. Freed, as petty as it might have been, decided to inquire into Evergreen's own relationship status. This was made significantly easier when he saw her eyes wander to a waiter while they were talking. Oddly, after that, she was rushing her drink and wanted to leave. She was red as well.

Her return train was soon arriving at the station, so Freed decided to drive her there rather than making her get another taxi. The traffic was forgiving, meaning that they didn't need to rush. As they walked towards the station, Evergreen hooked her hand between Freed's arm.

"I know you don't like talking about it, but how are you?"

Freed paused for a moment, before speaking. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Evergreen said in an insistent tone. "Because it's okay if you're struggling, or if you don't know-"

"I'm fine," Freed repeated.

"She was your mother, Freed," Evergreen said in a tone so gentle that Freed found himself wishing for the return of her teasing about Laxus. "I know you're not the most… open man with your emotions, but it's overwhelming."

"It's not like we were close," Freed shrugged a little as he spoke. "I'm not going to have a break down because of it. I'll grieve, I'll visit her grave, and I'll be sad. But I won't become an inconsolable mess."

"You can call me if you need to," Evergreen promised, and Freed smiled.

"Your train is coming," He said in response.

Evergreen sighed, accepting that Freed wasn't going to stop being defensive about the situation. She leant up and kissed the man on the cheek, allowing him to do the same in place of a goodbye. She quickly walked towards the train and climbed aboard it, and Freed watched as she left. He smiled, watching as the train went but deciding not to wave as it left. It was pointless to do so, she wouldn't see him. It wasn't that his hand was shaking slightly.

Swallowing slightly, he turned and began to walk back to his car. He busied his mind with the plans of what he would do tomorrow with the house. He didn't have long left before returning to the city, he had to make it count. As he walked, his finger drew patterns on his palm, a habit he started after his father's death, and thought he'd stopped.

#Fraxus Day 2020 #Fraxus Day #Fraxus #Freed Justine #Laxus Dreyar #Fairy Tail #Fanfic #Writing #Event #Multichapter #Word Count 4.5k #Fuckyeahfraxus

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eirabach · 4 years

Text

Just Like Heaven [The Glow Rewrite] 1/8

Well, here it is kids. Kindly betaed by the beautiful @katie-dub. All remaining errors are absolutely 1000% my fault, and any and all incoherence remains despite her best efforts to kick sense into me. All the love in the world to the CaptainSwanRewriteathon team who helped me get this thing finished, even if I dropped out at the very very last second. I love you all. Very dearly.

Emma Swan always gets her man, why would she let a little thing like death get in the way?

A Captain Swan ‘Just Like Heaven’ Movie AU that takes the AU part and eats it for breakfast. Now with weekly updates! Godspeed, dear reader. Godspeed.

Rated M. Ao3. 2500 / 22000.

She dreams of the ocean.

The skies are bright blue, and cartoon-fluffy clouds scud overhead as the ship skips over the waves with her at the bow. The wind catches at her hair and she laughs - a wild, bell-like sound she barely recognises - and spreads her arms wide.

Somewhere behind her, someone is calling her name.

Emma!

Emma?

“Emma? Emma!”

She sits bolt upright, the cheap plastic chair creaking alarmingly beneath her weight as she sways backwards. Her half eaten breakfast doughnut rolls sadly across the table and drops to the floor, and she scrubs at the smear of cinnamon frosting it’s left on her cheek.

“Sorry, what,” she mumbles, blinking grit from her eyes. “I was just - ”

“Snoring,” says her boss, lips twitching into a sneer. “So glad you could rejoin us.”

“Sorry,” Emma mutters again, “it won’t - it won’t happen again.”

Zelena lifts one perfectly manicured eyebrow over the file she’s holding out, Emma cringing inwardly as she realises that every person around the rickety old boardroom table is watching her with expressions that range from amused, to pitying, to - in Jefferson’s case - alarmingly hungry.

“Rough night?” he asks, with a lecherous sort of grin. “We could make it… rougher, if you like?”

Emma squeezes her hands into fists and forces her expression into a tight smile.

“Not in any way you’d enjoy, Jefferson. I might, though.”

Ruby scoffs into her hand, covering it up with a cough, and the two of them exchange a swift look. Ruby’s still in last night’s make-up too, but hers is still practically pristine, her lips still devil red as she quirks them briefly at Emma.

Emma’s carefully applied mascara, on the other hand, is smeared under her eyes and down her cheeks from hours spent waiting in the rain, her lipstick long since bled away.

It really had been a rough night.

Her mark had been a particularly nasty piece of work, skipping bail and leaving not only one well-meaning and heavily pregnant girlfriend to foot the bill, but two, and Emma had been warned in advance that he had form for getting nasty when things weren’t going his way.

He also, it seemed, had form for standing up dates. In the rain.

And possibly Varsity Level Track and Field skills.

She could imagine better starts to the day than dealing with Zelena and Jefferson after six hours of extensive wet-weather cross-country running and twenty minutes sleep. She squirms in her seat, her shoulder aching still from where he’d attempted to wrench it from its socket before she’d finally managed to get the drop on him, and meets Zelena’s gaze with a glare of her own.

“I got the mark,didn’t I?” she says. “I just didn’t get much sleep.”

“I hope you enjoyed your little cat nap, then,” says Zelena, sliding the file over to Emma. “Because here’s the next one.”

Emma’s brow furrows as she looks at the golden embossed motif on the front of the file, the heavy cardstock, the six figure reward for bringing this guy in.

Somebody must have been a really, really naughty boy.

“The cops increased their budget lately?”

“Not for the police,” Zelena says smugly, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. “This is on behalf of a private client.”

“Hey.” Emma drops the file on the table and shakes her head sharply. “We do bailsbonds, not PI work.”

Zelena hums, her eyes going wide. “Is that what it says on my door? Well I never.”

“You don’t have a door,” Emma mutters, but Zelena is leaning over the table now, her eyes sharp, and Emma is forcibly reminded that although she’s good at her job - great, even - Zelena is still very much the boss.

“And you don’t have a choice,” she hisses. “Unless you think I should give the mark to someone else?”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees both Ruby and Jefferson sit up a little straighter, and her eyes drift back down to the file.

She doesn’t know who Mr Gold is, and she has no idea what he wants with the dark-haired man in the grainy CCTV photo - this Killian Jones - but she knows how much money is left for the month. She knows Henry went to school this morning in jeans a half inch too short.

And it’s six figures. Six.

“No,” she says, closing the file and resting her hands on top of it. “I’ve got this.”

The office - such as it is - isn’t the sort of place Emma likes to spend much of her time, even at the best of times which, frankly, this sort of isn’t. Ruby’s nice, outgoing enough to spring the honey traps Emma wouldn’t dare and a personable sort of person to have around if you didn’t mind the constant sound of gum smacking, but even she isn’t a generous enough soul to congratulate Emma on being handed a case that might make her rich. And Jefferson had looked ready to murder her before she’d slipped past the splintered remains of what had once been Zelena’s door and settled herself into the only comfy chair in the place - an elderly padded desk chair reserved for clients that always smells faintly of despair.

Zelena could afford to replace it, of course. Emma thinks she just rather likes the scent.

“All right,” she says, crossing her legs and trying not to wince as her knees protest. “Spill.”

Zelena taps her nails on her desk and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“Afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she says with suspiciously wide eyes. “Is there a problem?”

“You tell me,” Emma snaps back, the file tight in her fingers. “Since when do we take on private clients - since when do private clients want to hire us?” She gestures to the door, it’s smashed glass panel and missing edges a testament to the sort of review Oz Bail Bonds has received in the past. “Something’s up.”

For a moment Zelena’s sneer drops, her fingers still, the confidence she wears like her knock-off suit flickering briefly out of existence.

“That’s none of your business,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Just do your job, Swan.”

“I will,” Emma snaps, “but not if - I have Henry to worry about you know.”

Zelena rolls her eyes in the particularly dismissive manner she reserves for those rare occasions her staff dare to remind her that they have lives outside of the office walls.

“Best make sure you don’t fail, then.” She gestures to the door, her contribution clearly finished. “Although,” she says, “since you’re here…” She reaches into her desk drawer and removes one of the thin, buff coloured files preferred by Portland PD. Clipped to the front is a picture of a red-faced, piggy-eyed man, with slicked back black hair and a smile even a mother would cringe at. “Jefferson didn’t quite bring home the bacon on this one, so to speak. Would you mind?”

Zelena smiles her reptilian smile and Emma thinks of her bed, the three day old take out festering in the fridge. She thinks of Henry’s face as he waits for her to collect him from school only to see Mary Margaret turn up again.

“Would it matter if I did?”

Zelena’s smile almost reaches her eyes.

“Not in the least.”

—

If you were to ask Killian Jones where he’d gone wrong in his life he’d struggle to put his finger on any one event. Too many coincidences. Too little respect for authority. Too much death. Too little faith. Not enough rum.

Well, maybe not that last one, though it is what brings him out tonight.

He stumbles through the night, his collar drawn up against the cold and his hat pulled low against prying eyes. The streets are unfamiliar still, the accents around him notably unlike his own, and it’s a stupid idea, this. Foolish. Idiotic. Risky. Irresponsible. All the things that he’d been, before. All the things that he’d sworn to leave behind, after.

(It seems he’s yet to make a vow he can’t break.)

He’s too sober to be this maudlin. Too sober by far.

Luckily, that’s one of the few things he can do anything about.

His legal team know nothing of the little dockside hole in the wall joint he’s taken to frequenting when they clock off for the night. He’s spent weeks under their watchful gaze, sitting sweet between the four magnolia walls of the safehouse, and maybe they’re as bored as he is or maybe they secretly agree that he deserves what’s coming to him, but gradually they’ve given him a few tiny tastes of freedom. The disposition is pending, after all. His evidence presented in black and white. So perhaps it doesn’t matter that they’ve left a newspaper here. An open bathroom window there.

And he might be nothing else, but he’s resourceful.

He’s resourceful, and soon, he plans to be drunk.

Liam hated him being drunk.

He hated the dive bars he’d frequent, the women he’d bring home, the friends he’d spend his nights with.

Sometimes - most of the time - he wonders if Liam had just hated him.

He’d have been well within his rights.

He’d been left with a feckless little sod of a younger brother to care for when his career was barely beginning, all those early paychecks dropped on a boy who barely understood the sacrifice and wouldn’t have appreciated it if he had. God only knows, even now, how he’d managed to convince his superiors to allow his delinquent younger brother access to the shipyards.

It’s why he sticks to the docks. The scent of brine and engine oil takes him back to those hazy distant days when Liam had tried to save him from himself, and the ships that almost had.

But then, Liam was gone. And along with him any hope for Killian Jones in the world at large.

The Underworld had taken him, and he’d let it.

The black market, after all, did have better rum.

Better than this place certainly, but he drinks the proffered dross anyway. Needs must. And besides, it stops burning after the fourth shot.

Perhaps if he’d stopped there he’d have stood a chance of noticing the man in the corner of the bar. Most unfortunates who patronise a place like this tend to keep their heads down and their drinks coming, but this one - this one has his eye on Killian.

And he’s been cradling the same pint for an hour.

Killian doesn’t notice him, or the anxious way he shifts his weight. He doesn’t notice the glint of silver in his pocket, nor the sweat that blooms across his brow. He would have, once. Would have cared, once. But now all he cares about are the dribbles of rum that slip down shaking fingers and the goddamn waste of it all.

So he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care. Not until he’s eight shots deep and the world is spinning, stinking of garbage and vomit, footsteps behind him and it’s too damn late to run.

Too damn late by far.

---

It hadn’t always been like this of course.

It’s sort of surreal this half-life of hers, lived in the shadows of other people’s mistakes. She works mainly when the streets are dark and empty, sleeping the daylight away as best she can in an old recliner swiped from a skip, her son’s third-hand xbox blaring brightly away just beyond the edge of her consciousness. She’s tired, always, and never quite as well off as she ought to be for the hours she puts in - the stain of Zelena’s fingerprints over every pay cheque - but on balance, it’s alright.

It used to be far, far worse.

At least she was sleeping in her car voluntarily nowadays. Not like those early days before, cold and desperate, she’d thrown herself on the mercy of the only friend she could remember having, her worst best mistake wailing in her arms and her prison issue clothes hanging off too thin shoulders.

And Mary Margaret had let her in.

And let her in. And let her in.

Until their brief High School friendship had developed into something almost like family, almost just right.

She’s getting morbid, it’s getting late. The two things might be connected.

It’s been a depressingly long time since she’d backed the bug into the alleyway outside of the mark’s preferred drinking den, and she’d done nothing ever since but squint into the dark - nothing except fire off a quick text to Mary Margaret begging off school pick up and hoping she’d take mercy.

Again.

It’s a theme, of sorts.

(And if she hadn’t answered Mary Margaret’s follow up call, well. She can’t afford to get distracted on a job.

She can’t afford for Mary Margaret to finally say no.)

From somewhere under the pile of cheeseburger wrappers in her passenger footwell she hears the buzz of her phone and winces.

She sort of should have, maybe, called Mary Margaret back.

No time for that now though. At the end of the alleyway she sees the shadow of a man leaving the bar, the tell-tale lurching gait of the heavy drinker giving her time to slip out of the bug, gun in hand, before he’s able to disappear into the shadows.

This is always the riskiest part - the choice. Does she shout, ensuring the guy currently emptying his guts against a dumpster is the one she’s after but possibly setting herself up for another late night cross country session? Or does she lurk in the dark like some sort of comic book vigilante, creeping along with her back to the damp alleyway walls and hope that she’s able to get the drop on him?

(Her knees hurt. Decision made.)

She inches towards the dark figure, wrinkling her nose up as he retches into the gutter, the street lights casting a yellow halo around his unruly hair. He’s mumbling to himself as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, some sort of half conversation with the demons in his own head, and Emma slides her gun back into her belt. She’s not going to need it.

Somehow, she gets the impression that if she breathes too hard at this one he’ll drop like a leaf.

“Hey,” she says softly, stepping into the glow of the light, her hands open at her sides. “I think you ought to come with me”

He pauses his mumbling, his shoulders heaving slightly from the effort of being sick, and she sees the way his right hand tightens on the edge of the dumpster.

There’s a crack - thunder that isn’t - a sharp, wet, blooming pain in her stomach. Screeching rubber and her own pulse harsh in her ears as she stumbles forward, grabbing for the edge of the drunk’s jacket as she falls.

She gasps. Henry’s name garbled in blood. Her phone’s in her car. She needs to tell this guy… he needs to tell Henry… she needs…

Help.

He turns, a flash of blue against white, and everything goes dark.

#captain swan #cs fic #cs crew #cs mafia #clare vs writers block #jesus ive forgotten what to tag its been so long

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whispersafterdusk · 4 years

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Lost in Time - ch 1

Winter had been very eager to shove fall out of the picture this year.

It had announced its presence with a torrential downpour that turned to sleet that had eventually given way to a heavy snow that had hammered Portia for a good five, six hours straight and brought with it a bitter cold that was a stark contrast to the chilly but tolerable temperature from only a few days prior.

It wasn't often that Arlo lamented living on top of a steep hill but he certainly did now as he and the rest of the Civil Corps struggled to clear the pathway without taking a sliding tumble down said hill; after several hours of work they'd only managed to clear to the topmost landing of the sidewalk ramp and they were all soaked, tired, and bruised up from repeated slips and slides -- if this was a sign of what kind of winter they were going to have this year then it wasn't going to be a pleasant one, and they'd likely need more than the one old shovel and broom they'd pulled out of the closet to get through the season. ((Continued below cut))

Arlo himself was armed with that broom and shovel and was quickly tiring of moving the seven inches of snow that sat on top of the three inches of ice and had, within the last hour, stopped piling it neatly alongside the path they were clearing and instead was just happy to move it out of the way however he could.

Behind him, as he cleared away the top layer of snow, Sam and Remington worked together on the ice - Remington cracking and lifting, and Sam getting it out of the way. Theirs was perhaps the harder job even if Arlo technically had more to move by volume, and after a while (after she chucked a double handful of ice chunks off to the side) Sam straightened from where she'd been bent over, rubbing at her lower back. "Man, even with my gloves on I can't feel my fingers."

"This is weather only Papa Bear's suited for," Remington grumbled as he wedged the blunt end of the pickaxe under the edge of the next section of a freshly-revealed layer of ice. They'd tried earlier to use the actual pick end of the pickaxe to try and shatter the ice but had, in the process, accidentally gouged the sidewalk a few times; the only way to prevent any further damage was to use the other end as a makeshift pry bar - it was harder and would take longer but was better than the alternative.

Remington grunted and threw his weight against the haft of the pickaxe and there was a crackling sound as the ice began to splinter and pull away from the stone beneath it. As the sheet lifted Sam bent again to slide her hands under into the gap between ground and ice. "--think Selene could rig something up to make this any easier?" she grunted as she lifted in tandem with Remington's prying.

"Think of it as strength training," Arlo replied. "We can't run today so this'll have to do."

"Let me rephrase that - think Selene could rig something to make this faster?" Sam went on, huffing a bit and stumbling as the ice came loose and she shoved it off to the side. "It's going to take a couple days just to get this ramp cleared off at the rate we're going."

Remington rested the head of the pickaxe on the ground and leaned against the handle, panting. "Let's switch gears and get the snow out of the way - maybe with some sunlight on it the ice'll melt enough to not be such a pain to pop loose."

"Sounds like a plan to me - give me that broom."

----------------------------------------------------

For the last three days, thankfully, the weather had been clear and sunny, if still frigid. Remington had been right regarding the sun and the ice -even with the arctic temperatures it had thinned out enough that they'd managed to clear down to the landing near Gale's house and also the ramp and stairs that connected with Central Plaza. There they'd linked up with Paulie and managed to get a narrow footpath carved out around the border of the plaza leading north to the research center and south to Martha's bakery within an afternoon of work.

There were, out of sheer necessity, already compacted paths along Main Street made by Portia's townsfolk and the few stranded tourists present; once they'd gotten walkways open to Martha's and the research center they'd started working on what had already been worn in by stomping boots around town. It was a bit easier to bust up the compacted pathways and if more willing hands joined them they'd have it done soon enough -- Arlo had estimated another four or five days at most to get it clear even if it was just the three of them the entire time (assuming it didn't snow again). Knowing there was an end coming helped keep spirits high as they shoveled, slowly digging Portia out from under the worst storm anyone could recall in recent memory.

"At least the kids seem to be having a blast," Remington had chuckled as Toby and Polly went whizzing by on polished wooden sleds to thud into a pile of snow they'd left mounded at the base of the tree planter in the center of the plaza. "Going to have to keep an eye on them, make sure if they go out into the countryside they don't go flying out on top of the river - don't need anyone falling through."

From off to their left they heard a sudden cry then, and turned in time to see Erwa lose his footing and fall backwards onto his rump; with the snow mostly cushioning his fall he at least didn't go sliding down the incline behind the two kids but the ice under the snow left him floundering right at Martha's doorstep, unable to get enough purchase to get his feet back under him.

"-speaking of someone falling," Sam grinned. "Come on, let's go help him out."

Arlo turned his back to hide his smile - it felt impolite to laugh at Erwa rolling around in the snow - and kept shoveling, listening as Sam and Remington's footsteps crunched over toward the portly man. The crunching eventually stopped, as did the sound of shoes scratching against ice, and for a brief moment there was the sound of a conversation that was slightly too far off to hear -- the sort of noise where you could recognize someone was talking but not actually make out the individual words.

"'ey, Arlo - have YOU seen Dawa yet today?"

Well, he definitely could hear that. "Can't say I have. Why?" He jammed the tip of the shovel into the snow and turned toward the trio in the distance - Erwa was back on his feet and had his hands out to his sides for balance.

"Because I can't find him, is why," came Erwa's answer. "He wasn't home when I popped in yesterday, and he's not home right now, and I didn't see any new footprints in the snow aside from mine so it doesn't look like I've just missed him each time. It's not like him to NOT be at the tree farm - not for any length of time, anyway. No one else has seen him either."

Arlo frowned - this was NOT the kind of weather anyone should be wandering around in. "Right. We'll look for him. Did anyone see him recently?"

"Not since the day after that storm hit - Emily said she saw him busting ice off the gates to the farm but she's the only one since then."

"Guess we'll start at the farm then and work our way out from there. Let's get moving," Sam said. She took a careful step around Erwa and began to pick her way up the path, trying to stick to the well-worn and frozen over footprints in the snow. Erwa wobbled a bit in place and Remington steadied him with a hand on the shoulder and then Remington was off up the hill too.

Sticking to the path they'd made Arlo headed toward Paulie's store first and left the broom and shovel leaning against the counter, then he too began to carefully climb up the path and toward Peach Plaza. He didn't see anyone else along the way (not that he blamed them - it was bitterly cold) and it didn't take long to meet up with Sam and Remington at the city gates and head out as a group toward the tree farm.

Erwa was right in that there didn't seem to be any new tracks up this way; Arlo could pick out a single set, shaped in such a way that it looked like everyone who'd walked it had all stuck to the same footprints. They too stayed within the tracks, walking in single file all the way up to the farm's gates and beyond, following the footprints up toward the house where the trail then split into five different ones with only one leading up the steps to the building and the others angled out in various directions all seeming to lead out into the groves.

Arlo eyed the tracks - they were all spaced out enough that he doubted any of them met up anywhere close. "Everyone pick a trail and see where it leads. We'll meet back here in a half hour and see what we've found."

Remington picked a trail that headed along the fence line, and Arlo watched the snow fall from the fencing as the man kept a hand on it to steady himself as he headed off. 'Hope his knee isn't bothering him too much,' he found himself thinking -- he tried not to let it slip his mind that Remington's knee wasn't in the best shape but the man went out of his way to hide when the joint was aching anyway. He'd gotten on his case about hiding injuries or aches before but it always seemed to go in one ear and out the other. 'At least we don't lack for ice packs at the moment.'

Arlo shook himself from his thoughts; Sam appeared to have picked a trail that led out to the middle of the tree farm so Arlo chose one that was nearer to the house but angled to the west, and then seemed to veer to skirt along the northern border of the farm. He knew Dawa liked to walk the property a lot -- he needed to, to be able to catch any issues or potential signs of disease in the trees early enough to do anything about it, so him walking about was a usual occurrence...it COULD be that Erwa had just missed him each time he'd visited, and with the weather being so cold no one was really going outside unless they had to so it was possible Dawa had been outside when no one else was around to see him. Both of those were equally as possible as the man being in trouble somewhere out here and Arlo preferred to hope for sheer poorly timed coincidence as he plodded along.

The branches around him sagged and creaked under the weight of the ice, and the further he went the more trees he spotted that were wrapped in heavy rope and what looked like burlap, and in a few places he saw a couple of trees that looked to be slowly splitting in half; one of them he recognized as a tree that had been struck by lightning a few summers ago -- there were thick metal rods connecting the two halves of the tree, and steel cables up in the crown of the tree holding the two halves together. The repair, as ghoulish as it looked, appeared to have actually saved the tree as, once he got up near it, he could see signs where the bark had grown over and bulged out near the bolts that held the rods in place.

Dawa's tracks led right up to this particular tree and went in a circle at its base so clearly the man was keeping a close eye on this one; Arlo edged around the tree and kept going, eying the trail ahead of him and noting how it stopped its meandering among the trees and, about fifty feet ahead of him, straightened out to...hmm.

To the northeast of here Arlo knew was a bridge that crossed the lake that separated the Somber Marsh from the northern shore of Portia's territory along that lake. Unless he was mistaken it sort of looked like Dawa's path was going to lead him directly to that bridge -- the trail had definitely straightened out enough for that to be a viable destination unless it suddenly veered away far enough ahead that Arlo couldn't spot it from here.

It certainly seemed to be case as he drew nearer to the abandoned Old World building that made up part of the northwestern border for the tree farm, and sure enough as soon as he'd walked the length of that building and gotten to the far side of it he could see the bridge in the distance, and Dawa's tracks bee-lined straight for it.

"Why would he go out there..." he wondered aloud. It didn't make sense to go out to the marsh - there wasn't anything out there except monsters and ruins (even the fishing out there was poor). Dawa wasn't the sort to go anywhere near a ruin, he didn't fish, and so far as Arlo knew he'd never gone after monster-based resources on his own -- he wasn't even the sort to deal with monsters when they happened to invade his farm: he'd always enlisted someone else's help to shoo them away or exterminate them.

As he hurried along Arlo mentally cursed the weather as he didn't dare move at a pace faster than a brisk walk unless he wanted to take a tumble; it felt like it took an age to reach the bridge and even longer to carefully climb up the ice-coated wooden ramp and metal steps. Up at the top he could see the tracks heading straight across the bridge; he followed them across and then began to follow a path that seemed to crisscross at random between crumbling rock wall sections, rusted old buildings, and even a couple of gigantic trees that had gaps between exposed roots.

It almost seemed like Dawa was searching for something...but what? What could possibly be out here that he'd be looking for?

The bridge he'd crossed led to one of two large islands in the marsh's lake -- this particular island was known for the two ruins on it: the Deepest Ruin and the Somber Marsh Abandoned Ruins. Dawa's tracks at least didn't lead up to either of those (not that Arlo thought he'd have any reason to go inside either) but eventually the tracks ventured outside of the crumbling, circular stone walls that partially enclosed the ruins, and once those tracks weren't sheltered by the walls they quickly disappeared -- erased by the cutting wind out here that had blown most of the snow away and exposed the ice to the sun (in fact he could almost see dead grass in several spots where the ice had almost melted through).

So Dawa had come out here, searched around, and then headed out of the walls to... The only other places out beyond the walls was another ruined building and a crashed ship that doubled as a bridge to the far side of the marsh, but surely Dawa hadn't gone out THAT far, right?

Rather than trek out there Arlo instead turned to look at the walls -- they were tall enough that maybe they'd give him enough of a vantage point to see if it was even worth it to check the other side of the lake. He fumbled a few times as he climbed (numb fingers - this cold weather was beginning to get on his nerves) and once he was at the top of the wall he saw an unmistakable black smudge on the far shore to the northeast. It was just far enough away that between distance and the glare of the sun off the snow Arlo couldn't make out much more than a dark mark on the ground but whatever it was was pretty big.

He'd definitely need to head over there now, if only to see what that was.

It was too steep to climb down the outer side of the wall so he had to go back the way he'd come up and then take the long way around; the wooden foot bridge that spanned across the two halves of the crashed ship was thankfully still intact and was even mostly thawed out so he got across without issue, and then it was just a matter of getting over to whatever the big black smudge was.

The trees were thick on this side of the lake, both in number and in canopy cover, and the snow had the branches sagging low so it was difficult to see through them; the big black smudge remained a big black smudge until finally Arlo was almost on top of it, and there he noticed two things.

One: the big black smudge was a freshly opened sink hole.

And two: there were footprints in the mud that ringed the opening that led to a long skidmark suggesting someone had slid in.

The sinkhole wasn't perfectly circular and was about twenty feet across at its widest point, surrounded by upturned rocks and broken tree roots, and the wind whistled eerily over the gaping hole. The earth around the sinkhole was sludgy and angled sharply downward toward the opening as well - he didn't dare get close enough to look into the sinkhole or else he'd risk falling in himself.

'I guess Dawa must have heard this thing opening up and came looking for what caused the noise, and fell in.'

"Dawa?" he yelled toward the opening. His voice echoed back to him; there wasn't a response. "Dawa?" he tried again, louder. Again there was no answer aside from the howl of the wind in the hole.

...if the wrapped trees were any indication then Dawa had to have rope stored somewhere on the farm, and there were trees enough here to tie off to provide a handhold to get close enough to investigate.

Arlo turned and began to hurry back the way he'd come -- by now Sam and Remington would probably be waiting for him anyway, and he'd need their help to get down into the hole.

----------------------------------------------------

"You sure about this?"

"Yeah. You and Sam got me beat in the raw strength category, and if I do find Dawa down there he might need the help to haul him out. I'm pretty sure I can get down there and back out without a problem but I can't promise about him - especially if we don't know how far down this thing goes."

Arlo nodded at Remington; he did have a point - they had no way of knowing if Dawa was in any shape to climb out of there. "All right. Sam and I will wait up here - tug on that rope four times if you need us to help pull you up."

"Give me that other coil, there -- no telling how deep this goes."

Sam handed over a spare coil of rope which Remington slung over his shoulder bandolier-style, then with a nod he grabbed hold of the other rope - the one carefully tied to a nearby tree - and began to carefully edge his way forward toward the sinkhole's edge; the mud here went up to his ankles and then midway up his shins before he got to where he could slip over the edge and begin to carefully rappel down into the darkness.

------------------------------------------------------

Once he was over the lip and down about fifteen feet the incessant howl of the wind across the sinkhole's opening ceased, and now all Remington could hear as he picked his way down was the crumbling of dirt and rock each time his boots touched the wall, and somewhere he could hear a trickle of dripping water -- probably melting snow, and the last thing this sinkhole needed was more moisture to cause a further collapse.

He estimated he was about thirty feet down when he wrapped his legs and one arm around the rope to hold himself in place long enough to use his other hand to click on the little headlamp they'd borrowed from Selene; around him the dark dirt seemed to swallow up the pale yellow light and as he looked down his heart jumped a bit as the lamp illuminated roots and vines that jutted out of the sinkhole's walls.

And the vines looked like they'd once been thick and had choked this entire area out but now there was a large gap through their center, and he could see the glimmer of sap leaking out of hundreds of split and broken ends of the plants as he steadily lowered himself toward them.

"Well, at least something slowed the fall," he mumbled as he went -- he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been silently panicking a little bit as the depth of this hole began to sink in (no pun intended) coupled with the fact that he hadn't seen Dawa or even signs of him until this point. If the vines had slowed and cushioned the man's fall then there was a pretty good chance he'd survived the drop.

Remington kept at it with his steady rhythm as he rappelled, and then just above where the vines began his boots hit the wall with a muffled thump; again he held himself in place as he experimentally stomped a boot against the wall and again got the thump -- it almost sounded like metal. He let himself drop a few feet more and then used a hand to dig and pry at the wall ahead of him; something bit into his finger and he yanked his hand back and (perhaps stupidly) stuck his fingers into his mouth but there in the light of his headlamp was a dull, reflective metal visible through the grime he'd scraped free.

This sinkhole must have opened into an underground ruins.

The way down became more difficult as now he had to pick his way through the vines that crisscrossed what he suspected was some sort of ancient elevator shaft as he was starting to see door-like shapes at through the gloom and vine cover regular intervals as he went. Eventually he reached the end of the rope he'd been using to climb down and he wedged himself into a little gap in front of what he was now sure was a doorway, and tied off the rope's end to the coil he'd brought down with him. When he was certain it was securely tied he let the coil drop and listened as it hit something not too far away beneath him -- apparently there WAS an intact bottom to this shaft, and it was a lot closer than he'd thought.

He went the distance of four more "floors" and then finally he was almost on top of a rusted out elevator...pod? Car? What did the Old World call these things? It was the thing that carried people up and down the cables - whatever it was called didn't really matter at the moment, honestly.

From here he could see the ragged hole in the top where Dawa must have either fallen or climbed through, and the metal around that hole was sagging under the weight of the rope coil he'd tossed down; without a doubt it would fully collapse under his weight, so Remington was careful to aim himself at that hole and slide down through it, pulling the coil of rope with him and finally getting his boots back on solid ground within the elevator...thingy.

The air down here was heavy and smelled of dirt and rot; Dawa had already forced the elevator doors open and beyond it was a hallway full of dust and moldering old carpet. Remington could see footprints in the dust (really, the carpet had mostly rotted into dust itself) and began to follow them...not that he really needed them as there wasn't anywhere he could see to go except down the hallway, though there were doors to his left and right. He did stop to try one of the doors and couldn't see a way to get it open -- they had no handles and were almost flush with the walls.

"Dawa? You down here?" he called ahead of him.

There wasn't anything except his own echo so he kept going. Ahead of him the hallway turned to the left, and the closer he came to the corner the more apparent a thudding, dragging noise was beginning to become, until finally--

"Dawa!"

There around the corner was Dawa -- he had his hand up shielding his eye's from the glare of Remington's headlamp, and was dotted with bruises and cuts that left dozens of bloody spots across his clothing. "Never been happier to see someone in my life, I was running out of matches," came the man's reply.

"The feeling's mutual - had no idea what to expect to find down here," Remington laughed. He reached up to slide the headlamp over to his temple so he could look at Dawa without blinding him. "You in one shape, more or less?"

"I've been better - not worried about a few bruises but I'm ready to eat an entire cow by myself."

Remington nodded. "I bet. Come on, let's get you out of here."

"Yeah, about that... Don't know that I can climb out of here. Not on my leg, anyway."

Dawa gestured toward his left leg and Remington brought the headlamp around again; the yellow of the lamp made the bruised and swollen ankle look ten times worse than it probably was, but even still it was the size of a small melon and looked rather painful. "Ah. Hmm. Well, we've got Sam and Arlo up there ready to pull you out."

"Don't know if I'd trust that -- I mean, don't get me wrong, I trust THEM. But at current I don't trust gravity, friction, or the structural integrity of a regular ol' rope. Not even sure I could hold on the entire time to make it out of here either."

"How'd you end up down here anyway?"

Dawa huffed out an annoyed sound. "It's dumb. It's really dumb. So, I heard a noise out here and went looking - you know how I've been keeping an eye out for Aadit, after that Knight scared him off. So I hear this noise and I think to myself, maybe it's him, or maybe it's that damned Knight come back and is up to no good. I wait out the storm then walk out here and it takes awhile to find anything weird - but eventually I find this hole, and when I went to look at it it became a bigger hole and I fell right in."

Remington blinked at him. "Became a BIGGER hole?"

"Yeah, a bigger hole - it was barely bigger than I am when I spotted it. I guess it'd started opening before all the snow and ice hit, and the storm must've formed a crust over the actual size of the hole because I definitely wasn't near the opening when it all broke loose under me and dumped me in." He paused and looked around them. "Who knew there was an old ruin out here completely underground? Usually these things have some sort of above ground entrance. Wouldn't have gotten near if I'd thought it'd lead to this."

"Yeah...wouldn't have expected something like this." Remington rubbed at his chin, thinking -- if Dawa couldn't make it out on his own and didn't think the others could pull him out, then they'd need to find another way up. "You know, on the way down here I saw a lot of elevator doors lining the shaft. We're down pretty deep but maybe we can find a way to link up with a floor that's higher up and climb up out of that floor's door."

"Yeah...yeah, I like that idea. I think I could do a shorter climb, no problem. And I DID find another elevator back that way-" Dawa jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Couldn't get the door open though, and even if I could've I don't think there's any power going to it anymore."

Remington nodded and then dropped to a knee to swing his pack off his back; he rummaged through it and pulled out an old, battered water bottle. "All right, here's the plan then: I'm going to climb back up and let Sam and Arlo know you're all right, and have one of them get Selene or Higgins so we can get this elevator back up and running." He handed the bottle to Dawa, who began to chug from it noisily. "-I'll also get them to bring you something to eat, too."

"You're a lifesaver, Remington. In this case literally."

With a chuckle Remington pulled his pack back on and tightened the straps. "S'what we do. You need anything else in the meantime?"

"Don't think so. It's actually not so bad down here if you get away from the shaft and around the corner."

"What's ahead of here?"

"There's this big room back there - it's got some old furniture in it, some tables and chairs and a counter. Might've been some old cafeteria or something. Been back there since it's warmer."

"All right, then. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Remington heard a 'don't slip' behind him as he turned to head off; it was going to be a long climb back up.

#Lost in Time #lit #Lost in Time - ch 1 #Arlo #Sam #Remington #Erwa #Dawa #Builder #My Time at Portia

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megalony · 4 years

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Intruder

This is an officer! Ben Hardy AU imagine I came up with which I hope everybody will like. Feedback is always appreciated.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogermeddow @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @rogahs-drowse @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me

Ben Hardy masterlist

Summary: Ben works in the police and wakes up in the night to someone trying to burgle his house.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dad's home!" Those two little words let Ben know that it was going to be a long night ahead the moment he stepped through the door. Ben barely had a chance to take off his jacket before arms were wrapped around his legs like vines binding themselves to him.

"What're you doing up?" Ben leaned over so his arms could properly wrap around his eldest who they both knew should be in bed by this time. His tone showed he wasn't angry but Ben would have preferred if he came home and James was already asleep because now it was going to take a while to get him settled.

Knitting his hand into James' hair, Ben rested his back against the bannister as he closed his eyes for a few seconds, doing his best to hold himself up when all he wanted to do was drop down and go to sleep. He almost fell forward when James pulled away, about to say something but his eyes went wide when he noticed that Ben was still in his work uniform. The boys didn't see Ben in his work clothes very often but whenever they did they seemed to bubble up with excitement. James loved the fact that it had police written on it on the top right-hand side which he always pointed out when Ben tried to tell him he wasn't technically police.

Ben used to be in the police and he sort of still was, but he switched roles so he was a transport officer instead. He either drove the transport vans or he sat in them and took prisoners or people in custody to different places. It suited him better because when the people they transported started to mouth off or try and be cruel, Ben switched off and had the ability not to listen or take things to heart. He was strong and physically active so he could do a chase if they escaped or pin them down if they started to get rowdy.

"Daddy!" Turning his head, Ben smiled and watched the twins barrel over to him but his head turned and followed Finn in particular when he ran behind Ben instead. He twisted around to try and catch sight of the five-year-old who started pushing up his padded vest and grabbing at his belt.

"Where're the handcuffs?"

Ben's eyes automatically rolled and he reached behind him to grab Finn's hand, gently tugging him around so he was stood in front of him instead of almost pulling his trousers down to try and find what Ben didn't have.

"I can't bring them home buddy, there are thieves here who nick them." Ben tilted his head down and rose his brows causing Finn to smile sheepishly as he pulled on Ben's hand. He didn't normally bring the handcuffs home, they stayed at the station but the one time Ben forgot to leave them, Finn quickly found them and it took Ben and (Y/n) a long time to convince him to give them back.

"Come watch tv daddy." Beckett grabbed Ben's other hand and attempted to pull him along into the living room but he didn't hold any strength to move Ben even an inch from where he was stood. He leaned his weight back and started to whine when Ben didn't move.

"Boys you know what we say, when I get home you're all meant to be in bed. But I'm here and all of you are awake, so upstairs and get ready for bed please." Ben let go of the twin's hands and pointed to the stairs further down the hall in front of him. He knew that sometimes they stayed up so they could see him because he usually went to work just as they were all getting up ready for school and he came home when they were in bed. But if they stayed up it took a long time to get them to sleep and then they never wanted to be up in the morning.

When none of them moved, Ben placed his hands on his hips and frowned, raising his brows as he waited.

"If no one moves in five seconds, I'll have to arrest you." He cast his eyes down to where it said police on his vest before he looked at the three of them again, seeing their smiles fade before all three of them turned and tried to push one another out the way to get up the stairs.

When they heard Ben's footsteps following them up the stairs they started to squeal, tripping over one another to get away as they felt like they were being chased. Since they were all in their pyjamas already they ran straight into their rooms and Ben decided to leave them for a few minutes before he went to make sure they were in bed and ready to go to sleep.

Heading into his room, Ben stripped his protective vest and shirt from his frame, tossing them onto the chair next to the wardrobe for the morning before he sat down on the bed next to (Y/n). He pressed a kiss to her cheek before he moved his arms, silently asking to take the newborn from her arms.

"The boys wouldn't go to bed until they saw you."

Leaning her head on Ben's shoulder, (Y/n) gently settled Billy into his arms, watching a fond smile pull at her husband's lips as he looked down at the one-month-old who was their only boy who was actually asleep tonight. Ben lightly ran his hand over Billy's head, ruffling the few tufts of brunette hair that were beginning to grow. Ben loved all his boys and it was great to have sons, but he was hoping to have a girl sometime in the future, the thought of having a girl running around the house that was dominated by boys made Ben happy, he wanted a girl to spoil.

"At least one of my boys is asleep." Ben mumbled quietly before he pressed his lips to the top of Billy's head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blinking a few times, (Y/n) tried to get her bearings and work out why she was suddenly awake. Moving her hand, (Y/n) felt that she was laying in the middle of the bed with Ben half lying on top of her, his head tucked into her neck with his breath fanning against her skin. As usual, the cover was tangled around his frame more than hers because Ben moved a lot in his sleep and he produced so much heat that (Y/n) rarely needed the covers at all.

(Y/n) closed her eyes and leaned her head against Ben's, about to let her mind switch off but a breaking sound caught her ears and jolted her into a more awakened state. It didn't sound like glass being broken, it sounded more like wood being splintered and cracking in half.

"Ben... Ben!" Hissing his name, she rested her hand on his shoulder and pushed him to get him to wake up causing him to roll onto his back, rubbing at his eyes as he wondered if his alarm had gone off yet and it was time to get up. He didn't feel like he had been asleep for very long though.

"What? What time is it?" His voice was gruff and thick with sleep but a groan passed through his lips when (Y/n) turned the lamp on causing his eyes to snap shut at the sudden brightness. A sigh passed through his lips when (Y/n) shook his shoulder again and he slowly moved up into a sitting position, looking around the room in confusion when he realised it had to be pitch black outside because the lamp was the only light in the room.

Before (Y/n) even had the chance to tell Ben that she heard something, both of them jumped when the distinct noise of breaking glass resounded through the floorboards.

"That doesn't sound good." (Y/n) whispered as her hand instinctively latched around Ben's arm like she was reassuring herself that he was actually there with her. Whenever there were noises or bumps in the night Ben never hesitated to have a look around and make sure everything was in order, especially since it calmed down both his and (Y/n)'s anxiety. Him being in the police made (Y/n) feel calmer and safer but right now she didn't feel all that safe.

The tiredness that had consumed Ben had disappeared without a trace because in the blink of an eye he was up and out of the bed, looking out of the window to make sure there wasn't anyone or anything in the garden.

"Stay here, I'm gonna take a look downstairs." Leaning onto the bed, Ben rested his hand to the back of (Y/n)'s head so he could kiss her temple, wanting to make sure she was calm and not overly worried even though it was clear they were both anxious at this point.

"But Ben-"

"Just stay here with Billy please." Ben held his hand out in (Y/n)'s direction to try and tell her not to leave the room like he was about to do. Whatever noise they had both heard downstairs could just be one of the boys trying to grab a drink or a midnight snack without waking them or it could be something outside. But whatever the noise was, Ben would rather have a quick look around on his own because if it was someone trying to break in, he wanted his family upstairs out of the way.

Ben peeked into the cot next to the door, satisfied and relieved that Billy clearly hadn't heard anything because he was sound asleep. Trying to keep his footsteps light, Ben walked out the room and headed over to James' room, opening the door just enough so that he could see if the eldest was in bed or not which he was. Ben moved over to the twin's room and found both of them fast asleep in bed, meaning that either it was a noise outside or it was someone trying to get in. Ben hoped it wasn't the latter choice.

He walked very slowly down the stairs, making sure not to step on the areas where the floorboards would creak just to be on the safe side. They had been in this house for three years now and hadn't had any trouble or even heard any noises in the night like this. This was the safest house they had been in and felt safe in so Ben would rather this not be an intruder.

The last house they had been in hadn't been in the best place, they didn't get along with the neighbours and (Y/n) had come home once to find the door broke in and had to call Ben to come home.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Ben cast his eyes through the darkness and noticed the front door was still locked shut and didn't look like it had been forced open which was a relief. Turning around the bannister on his right, Ben saw that the living room door was still shut like he had left it but he very quietly opened it just to make sure that everything was in order. When he was sure it was okay, he headed down the narrow hall and turned right into the back room they used as the dining room, seeing everything was okay but he backed up against the door when he heard a noise he recognised as the pots in the sink being moved.

Ben swore under his breath as he tipped his head back against the door, there was definitely someone in the kitchen and all of his family was upstairs meaning whoever was in there was uninvited.

If whoever was here put up a fight Ben would be fighting then unarmed in his boxers, that didn't sound like the best idea but he didn't have anything to hand that he could use as a weapon. He didn't necessarily need a weapon, he could try and use his fists and unarm them that way.

Taking a very deep breath, Ben gathered the little energy he had and silently walked into the kitchen, trying to take in everything all at once. The lights were on which made it easier for both the intruder and for Ben, the person was wearing a ski mask and black jacket and jeans but surprisingly no gloves. Ben wondered why this guy was still in the kitchen, statistically, not many people kept valuables or money in the kitchen but he was here trying his luck.

Ben tried to sneak up on whoever it was but they clearly either heard him or noticed a warped reflection in the cabbinet because the guy turned around on his heels quicker than lightning. Relief washed through Ben when he saw that the guy didn't have any sort of weapon, especially not a gun which made this a lot easier for Ben. He stayed still, staring at the man waiting for his next move to see if he would crumble and give in or try and put up some sort of a fight.

The guy seemed to think slowly but act rather quickly because he clearly noticed the knife holder in the corner of the kitchen unit. His hand latched around whatever handle he could get first and he pulled out one of the larger, sharper knives which he held in front of him for defence.

"Put it down." Ben almost sounded annoyed or like he was going to sigh in disappointment as he held his hands out as a sign that he didn't have a weapon and to say that he didn't want to fight but he was going to if needed. His words didn't seem to have any effect though because the man didn't do as requested, nor did he acknowledge what Ben had said.

Both their thoughts seemed to be on the same thing because when the guy bolted for the door leading into the hallway, Ben did the same. Ben couldn't have the guy going upstairs, he didn't want him seeing or getting near any of his family but he could deal with him in here or in the living room. Things could be broken and they could fight down here but upstairs (Y/n) and the boys were at risk and Ben didn't want the boys seeing or hearing anything.

Reaching his arms out in front of him, Ben grabbed the man by his shoulders and slammed him into the wall on the right but it didn't phase him enough. He spun his upper half around enough to flash the knife in front of Ben causing the blond to pull back out of the way before the blade caught his face or his throat.

Pulling back, Ben bent down to be out of range when the buy grabbed hold of one of the glass ornaments on the side and launched it Ben's way.

Bolting forward, Ben forced his weight into his arms and latched his hands onto the man's sides, pushing him down to the floor causing a rather loud thrash against the wooden floor and created spikes of pain in both Ben's knees. Ben tried to slam the man's hand against the floor to get him to drop the knife but it didn't work and the man managed to slice the blade against Ben's upper arm.

Spots appeared in front of Ben's eyes when the man managed to smash his head into the floor but the adrenaline coursing through his veins brought him back to his senses in no time.

Gritting his teeth together, Ben pushed himself up and scrambled forward, latching his hand around the man's wrist that held the knife that he was trying to press to Ben's throat. As quick as anything, Ben bent the man's hand right back until his knuckles were touching his arm and he heard a successful snap and a screech of pain. His fingers spasmed and loosened around the blade that Ben had pushed down against the man's neck, giving Ben time to snatch the knife and toss it behind him into the hall to get it out of the way. Moving his right arm, Ben forced his lower arm down onto the man's windpipe, successfully pinning him to the floor by his throat before he whipped the mask from his head.

"Stay down you little fucker." Ben spat the words at the stranger he didn't know who had chosen the wrong house to break into tonight.

Turning his head to look up the stairs, Ben locked eyes with (Y/n) who he could see clearly was shaking despite trying her best not to since Billy was in her arms. Her eyes were wide and desperate for Ben to nod or blink or give her some sort of sign that he was okay and tell her what to do. The moment she had heard running and the sound of people crashing into the walls she got all the boys into her and Ben's room in case any of them had woken up and were afraid like she was.

"Call the police." The moment (Y/n) nodded in understanding, Ben turned his head back to look at the guy he was pinning down but his head snapped to the side when the guy's free hand curled into a fist and caught him in the nose.

It gave the guy the time to scramble free from Ben and clamber onto the stairs, clearly wanting to get upstairs where Ben didn't want him to go at any cost.

"Don't you fucking dare." Ben muttered the words angrily and without thinking, he grabbed the man by the back of his neck, digging his nails into his skin before he thrust the man's head forward into the bannister. Ben repeated the action again with so much force he could almost hear the bannister creaking in pain. Pinning himself to the bannister, Ben turned and pushed the man back to the floor, breathing heavily to try and get his energy and strength back.

(Y/n) snapped her eyes closed as she pressed her back up against the bedroom door, pushing her weight against it when she felt someone trying to push open the door. She held Billy closer to her chest who was whimpering and crying against her skin, his face blotched red as he was clearly scared. Both the twins were huddled in the middle of the bed under the covers, one of them tired and the other frozen with anxiety next to James who didn't know what to think or do.

"Baby, baby open the door it's me."

Pulling away from the door, (Y/n) spun around the moment Ben entered the room and she couldn't help but look behind him before he closed the door like she thought the intruder was going to be running up the stairs behind him.

"He's knocked out at the bottom of the stairs." Ben whispered the words against the shell of (Y/n)'s ear as he enveloped his arms around her frame, being careful of Billy who was still whimpering in her arms. (Y/n) leaned her head on Ben's shoulder, trying hard to fight back the tears as he kissed the top of her head, carding his fingers through her hair as he rested his other hand to the back of Billy's head. Casting his eyes over to the boys, Ben managed a smile their way to try and tell them that it was okay.

When the shaking slowly subsided in (Y/n)'s body, Ben gently guided her to sit down on the bed and he opened his arms for the boys.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pulling the cigarette from his lips, Ben slowly breathed the smoke into the air before he dropped the cigarette bud to the floor and crushed it beneath the heel of his shoe. Lifting his head from looking at the floor, Ben cast his eyes over to the gates that were opening up which made Ben feel relieved. He didn't want to hang around any longer, he wanted to take whoever they were transporting to the custody building and then head home.

As Ben watched Joe and Liam walking out with the prisoner between them, Ben's eyes widened and a rush of adrenaline coursed through him when he saw who it was.

He watched the word 'shit' pass through the man's mouth before his heels started to scrape against the concrete floor and he leaned back to try and divert away from the transport van Ben was standing in front of. A crooked, sinister grin spread on Ben's face as he watched the man squirm who had broken into his house a month ago.

Joe's eyes danced between the guy in custody and Ben, silently asking if there was a problem but Ben shook his head, trying to bite down his smile but it didn't work too well.

Reaching Ben, Joe and Liam handed the guy to Ben who grabbed him by the cuffs linked to his wrist. He watched the younger man's eyes scan around for Liam and Joe but they were stood a few paces back near to the back doors of the van. Tightening his hand around the cuffs, Ben yanked the man closer to him before he climbed in the van and pulled the chain to get the guy to stumble up the steps. He almost threw the guy down onto the seat and strapped him in before he took his seat next to him, nodding at Joe to close and lock the doors securely.

Ben could see the confusion on the man's features when he realised he was locked in the back with Ben whilst Joe and Liam were going to be in the front driving them to their destination.

Turning his head, Ben grinned at the man who was cowering back because he was locked in place by the belt and the cuffs shackled to his wrists and ankles, but there was nothing holding Ben back and the grin on his face was menacing to say the least. He looked pleased even though Joe and Liam would be able to hear any noise or fighting, Ben was still happy. He was alone in the back of the van with the very person who had tried to rob his house.

"You're stuck in here with me for an hour sunshine, and you ain't getting out."

#ben hardy #ben x reader #ben hardy imagine #dad! ben #imagine #BoRhap #joe mazzello

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evangeline-of-montfort · 4 years

Text

ash garden (iii)

chapters 1 & 2 read it here on ao3

The bison, freed from Atara’s control, whip around in wild fear. They charge blindly, knocking raiders aside like bowling pins. I see a blur of black as Tana evades one with lethal grace. She ducks to the left and spins around again, pulling the trigger and taking the beast in the heart. It collapses, a two thousand pound deadweight, and I can practically feel the ground shudder.

“Those are a protected species,” Davidson gripes under his breath.

Despite the circumstances, I smile. “Given that they’re trying to kill us—” Someone raises a gun, and I make a fist, squeezing his weapon into a crumpled ball—“I don’t think they give two shits about bison.”

“You have a point,” he concedes.

A raider takes advantage of our brief distraction to attack. Davidson reacts before I do, tossing a shield in front of himself like a grenade in a blinding flash of blue light. She slams into it with a sickening crunch.

He staggers back a pace from the effort, and I move to catch him. “Are you okay?”

Davidson throws out his hands. A flickering glow appears between them before blinking out again. “Ability exhaustion. I’m out.”

“I can cover us,” I say, widening my focus. Every bit of metal in the vicinity sings in my perception. My ability envelopes us like a protective bubble, sending enemy bullets flying back towards their owners.

He smiles grimly and draws a gun from his belt. “In that case, we’re about to see how good of a shot I still am.”

We wreck havoc together, covering each other as we push forward. The premier’s aim is steady and unerring. Every time he pulls the trigger, a raider goes down. I’ve never encountered a better shot, barring my Samos cousins.

“I used to be one of the best snipers in the Nortan army,” Davidson says as I wave away another round of bullets. “Not proud of it, but the skill does come in handy.”

A greeny thrusts out her arms, and a tree erupts from the ground a hair from my face. Vines snake from the branches, as fast and agile as a pit viper.

With a burst of concentration, I rip a gun out of a raider’s hand, turning it into a dual set of blades. The vines rip at my skin and hair, regrowing as soon as I cut them. It feels like I’m fighting an entire forest. Everywhere I turn, there’s another one, writhing in my vision until all I see is a blanket of verdant green.

A gunshot rings out, and the vines wilt instantly without the power of a greenwarden.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” Davidson says. The raider topples over behind him, dead before she hits the ground.

“There’s plenty to go around,” I point out, sidestepping the tree. “As I recall, you seem to be the one that keeps saving my life.”

His easy manner disappears, and he looks me square in the eyes. “I consider that a duty, Evangeline. That’s why I’m here.”

Warmth blooms in my chest like a firework. Over the years, I’d worked closely enough with the premier to know that he’s fiercely protective of the people he loves. I’d just never stopped to consider that I had somehow become one of those people.

The last two raiders back into the cover of a pine tree. One is a stoneskin, pebbles and earth sloughing off her rocky flesh. The other is a blood healer, probably a member of the former House Blonos. His face is unnaturally smooth, skin stretched tightly around his skull like a morph suit. I’ve never fought a Blonos son before, and Lord Arven didn’t have much to say about them in Theory. I wonder how hard they are to kill—or if they can be killed.

Before either of us can attack, the Nortans take us by surprise, and they both lunge at Davidson—the weaker target, with his abilities exhausted. He fires reflexively, taking the stoneskin in the shoulder, but she brushes it off with a snarl.

Blonos is on him before he can do anything else, landing a kick to the gut. The premier gasps, doubling over. The gun clatters from his hand.

The feeling that erupts in the pit of my stomach is similar to my reaction at seeing Tolly in danger. Red-hot anger surges in me like a torrent, and I unleash the energy with a shout.

Guns and bullets shred under my wrath like paper. With another burst of willpower, I create a whirlwind of shrapnel, sending it swirling around the Nortans in gales of copper, gusts of steel.

The stoneskin falls under my onslaught, bleeding from countless wounds, dozens of projectiles buried like splinters in her gray skin. I swallow a bolt of nausea and look away. It’s not the worst way I’ve killed someone, but it’s pretty close.

Blonos heals just as quickly as he bleeds. A million cuts open on his too-perfect skin, here one second and gone the next. He curls his lip, utterly unaffected by the maelstrom. “Is that the worst you can do?”

I sneer in response, but I can feel my energy waning already. A metal tornado is not sustainable for long periods of time.

Blue energy flickers suddenly between Davidson’s hands. It’s weak, a shadow of his usual power, but it’s definitely there . Then it flickers one last time and disappears.

Blonos turns to him, his expression still dripping with contempt. The last cuts on his face close over as my whirlwind slows and stops, metal projectiles dropping harmlessly to the ground. “My, how the mighty have fallen. Is this what Montfort is? Runaway Silver daughters and–”

He doesn’t get any further before I spear him in the chest. The lance goes through him like a knife through butter, in and out before he can blink. It’s a clean shot to the heart—one of the only ways to kill a blood healer.

A part of me thinks of Corvium, of how my brother killed Mare’s the same exact way. Some scars never fade.

Blonos falls slowly, as if through water. His frame seems to shrivel as his skin wrinkles and his hair turns gray, decades of anti-aging reversed in a single second. When his body finally hits the earth, it is surprisingly quiet, even somber.

The silence that follows is almost deafening.

It’s over. We’re alive.

We’re alive. I take a deep breath, the first in what feels like hours.

There was a time today when I thought that I wouldn’t be going home to Elane. That perhaps my intended fate was inescapable, and I would end up tethered to a throne after all. Relief washes over me—waves and waves of it, cold and sweet.

“Thank you for showing up,” I manage to say, turning to Davidson. “And for that last distraction.”

“Least I could do.” He frowns at the back of his hands. The tiny shield flickers more violently between them before blinking out again. “I pushed myself a little hard with the bison.”

“The other option would’ve been dying, if you prefer that,” I remind him. “Now, let’s head back, before Elane and Carmadon go–”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. A sixth sense, honed over years of arena battles and courtly intrigue, tells me to stop. Something is wrong.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of movement—a shadow ghosting from the trees—and a glint of white as the sun flashes off her teeth, bared in a triumphant smile.

Tana Iral draws a dagger from her belt and throws, moving so fast my eyes can’t follow her movement. But I was trained in a hard school, trained to be faster than even the silks of House Iral. I barely blink as I push outwards with my ability.

I’ve done this so many times that I see it in my head without even trying. The tiny resistance as I stop the blade in midair and turn it back. The shocked look on Iral’s face as her own knife sinks into her chest and she crumples to the ground.

But that isn’t what happens.

In fact, nothing happens. My ability meets nothing, and the blade keeps coming.

Time hangs suspended—half a second stretching for an eternity—as I freeze, too surprised to react. I don’t understand. This isn’t physically possible.

Sunlight gleams through the dagger: not off, through, and I want to scream. Tana’s wolfish smile makes sense now. The dagger is glass. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.

My mind flashes to Elane, Ptolemus, Carm and Davidson, even Mare and Cal—everyone I thought I would have more time with. Everyone I thought I could make amends with. I’m so sorry.

And then the moment ends, the blip in time brushed over. Someone—Davidson —shoves me hard to the side, out of the way of impending doom. I hit the dirt and roll, springing to my feet in anticipation of a fight, but Tana has disappeared into the gathering darkness. Coward.

“Thanks for the save,” I gasp, turning to him. “I thought I was–”

My heart stutters midbeat.

Davidson staggers, clutching his stomach. Scarlet seeps through his fingers, as red and inexorable as the dawn.

He pushed me out of the way and took the knife himself. Shielding me even without his ability.

“No.” I run to him, lowering him to the ground as his knees buckle and his legs give out. “No, no, no.” This is not happening.

This cannot be happening.

“I’ll get you to Carmadon,” I hear myself saying. “We’ll find a medic. Skin healers—they can fix this. They can fix anything. Do you hear me?”

Even in this state, his composure doesn’t fail. When he speaks, his voice is calm and measured. “Yes, Evangeline… I hear you.” For a second, if I close my eyes, I can pretend that everything is alright; that I am nineteen again, and the premier is chiding me for an impulsive decision.

But I have to open them again eventually, and I come face-to-face with cold reality—Davidson slumped on the ground, crimson still seeping through his shirt. My hands curl uselessly at my sides. I was raised on a battlefield with skin healers in the wings, ready to treat anything. I don’t know what to do in this situation.

Maybe there’s nothing I can do, and that’s the worst truth of all.

The long shadows and mountain air chill me to the bone as I kneel at his side, my knees digging into the freezing earth, but I refuse to move. “They—they can fix anything,” I repeat again, robotically, but this time even I can hear the denial in my voice.

Davidson shakes his head, his gold eyes piercing me to the bone. “Not… this,” he rasps, and blood flecks his lips. I don’t want to think about the way the glass probably shattered and cut up his insides. “There’s no way back, Evangeline.”

My brain refuses to comprehend his words. Dane Davidson was—no, is —a visionary, rebel, fighter, and leader. A man who escaped from Norta’s Silver boot to crush kingdoms to dust. He couldn’t possibly be brought low by an assassin’s dagger.

He couldn’t possibly be brought low saving me.

I’m not worth that.

He grips my hand with surprising strength. His breaths come shallower, and his chest rattles as he fights for life. Despite my denials, I’ve seen enough battlefield deaths to know what will happen next.

The inevitable.

I swallow, surprised to feel tears streaking down my face. Tears I never wept after the death of my father, five years ago on that cursed bridge in Archeon.

But I cry them now. Davidson was the father of a country, an entire dream made reality. And more than that, he gave me advice, mentorship, a new life in Montfort. He was more of a father to me than the man who married my mother.

His life prevented the death of millions, and now, because of me, it’s about to end.

“Why?” I find myself asking. “Why did you just… trade your life for mine?”

“You are worth it—worth dying for. We have more important things… to talk about.” He clutches at the collar of his shirt with trembling fingers, and for a second I think he’s struggling for air. Then Davidson produces a thin chain, and my breath catches when I see what’s on the end.

The ring glints in the waning sunlight, still untarnished after decades. It is identical to the one his husband wears: silver for the color of Carm’s blood, gold for Davidson’s burning gaze.

“Give this to Carmadon,” the premier whispers, Something in my chest shatters at the way he says his husband’s name, the way he pores slowly over each syllable. Carmadon. Car-ma-don, like he doesn’t want to let it go. “Tell him I am sorry. He—he will understand.”

I can only find it in me to nod wordlessly. My vision blurs as Davidson’s fingers slacken, still holding the ring, clasping it to his chest as it rises and falls. “ I am sorry,” I manage to stutter. “I should’ve done more—should’ve—”

“Rage and guilt destroy lives brighter than yours,” he interrupts with surprising force, suddenly gripping my fingers. His hands are callused, still warm, and I take this feeling, this moment, and bury it deep in my chest. Willing myself to never forget it. “You hold your emotions too tight, Evangeline. Please, don’t let this be the case with me.”

“Still giving advice, still trying to better someone else,” I say quietly, but I know he’s right. Ice-cold anger already whispers through my veins, trying to eclipse the sorrow in my heart. Anger at Iral, anger at the Silver Secession, anger at myself most of all. “Some things never change.”

His voice is getting softer, but it is no less assured. I should’ve known a flame like Davidson’s would burn until the end. “That is who I always have been. My entire life. I’m… content with that.”

“That is good,” I whisper. Every other word that has ever existed fails me. They don’t come close to describing the gravity of this moment. There’s nothing else to say.

“But now,” Davidson breathes, “I am done. But you—” He squeezes my hand again, weakly, and with an awful finality—“carry on. Have strength, Evangeline.”

The rise and fall of his chest slows and stops.

I kneel there, my hands still gripping his, my chest hollowed of all emotion as I keep vigil in the bitter cold.

The sun dips below the mountains, gold fading to scarlet fading to deep blue.

I do not move again until the scarlet returns in the east.

~~~

taglist: @freaky-freiday @evangelineartemiasamos @farleydiana @fuvkingmagnus @folkoftheair @lilyharvord @scarletbarrow @gansey-just-gansey @glossy-vanilla

#red queen #red queen fandom #evangeline samos #dane davidson #red queen fanfiction #rq fanfic #rq fandom #evangeline of montfort #ash garden

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fangirl-inthe-us · 5 years

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Querencia Pt. 5

Gif not mine

Summary: Pregnant and alone, you stumble upon a man in the middle of a quarry. You save him from a walker. It all happens fast, but you are in labor and the man you just saved claims to know someone who can help. Will you accept his help or turn the other way?

Querencia - (n.) A place where one’s strength is drawn, where one feels at home; the place where you are your most authentic self.

Author’s Note: Hey guys! I’m back with another part! How long has it been since I updated? Let’s not think about that right now.... I’m not really happy with it though. The ending is kinda meh to me but I hope you guys enjoy it!

Warnings: Swearing, violence, blood, major character death, my grammar.

Word Count: 5k

Series parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Masterlist

Playlist: Querencia

Shane was fuming and his muscles were stiff. As soon as Shane made the first move, everybody else followed. I followed suit but in a slower manner. I still had Edmund in my arms.

A crunching sound came from my right. I glanced in that direction. Beside me, Carol matched my pace. I guess she didn’t want to run either.

Lori was behind Carol and I could hear her shout Shane’s name. She was struggling to keep up like the rest of the group. Shane obviously had a head start, being the first one to witness what came out of the woods.

However, everyone else was in a clump of people stumbling over the grass and sticks which had fallen on the ground. The gravel on the ground near the barn didn’t help. Even with the things in the way everyone persevered.

Shane had made it to where Rick and Hershel stopped. Some of the members of the group had stopped behind Rick and Hershel. Lori and Carl stood in front of Carol and me but behind everyone else.

The closer I got, the better I could see. Rick and Hershel were holding onto poles. The poles had a snare at the end which was currently wrapped around a walkers neck. What the hell is Rick thinking? This isn’t solving any of our problems. It’s causing more problems.

I stopped behind Daryl while cradling Edmund to my chest. I was trying to shield him from all the shouting going on. From behind me, I noticed that Carol had stopped walking and was holding her hands to her chest.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shane roared in Rick's direction.

With the same amount of force, rick yelled back, “Shane, just back off!” Shane had begun to circle around the two men. His muscles were still stiff and a few veins in his neck were protruding outwards.

“Why do your people have guns?” Poor Hershel hadn’t caught on.

“Are you Kiddin’ me? You see? You see what they’re holdin’ onto?”

“I see who I’m holding onto!” Hershel had begun to raise his voice.

“Nah, man, you don’t!”

Rick was struggling to calm down his best friend. “Shane, just let us do this and then we can talk,” Rick looked conflicted. He couldn’t let go of the pole but his words didn’t seem to be making an effect on Shane.

“What you want ta talk about, Rick? These things ain’t sick! They’re not people. They’re dead. Ain’t gonna feel nothin’ for them ‘cause all they do, they kill!” As Shane talked, he stalked around Hershel and Rick. It was as if he was a vulture circling his prey, “These things right here, they’re the things that killed Amy! They killed Otis! They’re gonna kill all of us-”

“Shane, shut up!” Rick still had a grip on the snare pole but looked to be seriously considering letting go to prevent Shane from causing more bad than good.

“Hey, Hershel man, let me ask you something. Can a living breathing person, could they walk away from something like this?” Shane shoots three rounds into the walker

“No!” Rick shouts out.

With the impact of the bullets, Hershel seemed to be a little shocked. His face was blank. Maggie had stumbled away from the walker too afraid of getting accidentally shot.

Those who carried guns, had them trained on the walkers. The others, though, were tense. With wide eyes, they, including me, watched on.

“Stop it!” Rick was helpless. This was his third attempt at trying to stop Shane without getting physical.

“That’s three rounds in the chest. Could someone who’s alive, could they just take that?! Why is it still coming?” Shane fires two more rounds, “That’s it’s heart, its lungs. Why is it still coming?” Shane fires three more rounds.

“Shane, enough!” With the fourth attempt, Rick finally got through to Shane, but it didn’t give the preferred outcome.

“Yeah, you’re right man. That is enough,” I watched as Shane trekked up to the walker and fired one last blow to the brain. The walker’s head, from the force, flew back and its body crumpled to the ground with a thunk.

As the walker fell, Hershel’s grip on the pole loosened. The pole slipped from his hands. Hershel had an unreadable expression on his face; His eyes were trained on the once animated corps as it plummeted to the ground.

Hershel himself fell on his knees.

Those around me were shocked and appalled. A few still had their guns aimed at the last standing walker while others were either staring at the lifeless walker or covering their mouths. Jimmy even threw his hands up to clutch his head.

“Enough riskin’ our lives for a little girl who’s gone! Enough livin’ next to a barn full of things that trying to kill us. Enough. Rick, it ain’t like it was before! Now if y’all want to live, if you want to survive, you got to fight for it! I’m talkin’ ‘bout fighting right here, right now.” Shane’s whole body was still stiff and shaking. Finally, he turns and runs toward the barn doors.

At this point, there are a few sobs. I filled up with fear while my anxiety levels rose. Edmund had begun to cry. The shots from Shane’s gun had woken him up. I tried to calm him down but all the noises were only making him more upset.

Hershel had a distant look in his eyes. Rick tried to get Hershel to take the snare-pole but it was to no avail. Hershel had escaped into his mind. His blank face and his empty stare made that evident.

Behind me, Lori stood closer and called out for Rick. She was trying to get him to hurry up and stop Shane. It was pointless. Hershel wasn’t present and Rick wouldn’t let go of the snare-pole.

Sure enough, Shane made it to the barn doors. He had grabbed a pickaxe and was attempting to break the chains that held them closed. Bang! Bang! Bang! Shane had moved from the chains to splintering the wood of the doors.

As all of this is happening, Several members had taken to shouting, screaming, or simply grew paralyzed where they were. Rick was trying to get Shane to stop by yelling at him. He wasn’t making much of an effort to stop him though.

I Couldn’t do much other than stand and watch with my arms around Edmund. I watched all this go on. I saw how Rick failed to do anything, how Daryl kept his shotgun aimed at the walker on the snare pole, and Lori and Carol stand further back with mouths agape. they let an occasional wail slip. So much was going on at one moment. I was quite overwhelming and I could feel the panic overtake me.

Finally, Shane ripped open the lock and had removed the wooden board that helped keep the barn doors shut. From behind me, I heard Lori call out for Rick. Glenn yelled something out but the panic had prevented me from hearing exactly what it was he said. My first instinct was to step further back to prevent Edmund from getting hurt and so I did.

Removing the useless chains from the door, Shane slammed his had on the door a few times. This aggravated the walkers inside which caused their growls to become more intense. Shane quickly backed away from the barn.

“Get behind me.” Lori, yet again spoke up, but it was more towards Carl than to anyone else.

Drawing his pistol and cocking it, Shane was now a safe distance away from the barn. A few seconds after he had readied himself, the barn doors opened and the undead rushed out.

They stumbled out one by one. Each monster was covered in blood. They looked at each of us as if we were their next meal. As more trickled out the louder their moans grew.

The moans were loud enough to make Edmund screech. His cries agitated the walkers ahead of me. Daryl had moved from where he was to block me. This gave not only protection to Edmund and I but also to Carol, Carl, and Lori.

The gunshots had started when the geeks got close enough to comfort. Shane had taken the first shot which then prompted the other to start as well. Once it had begun, there was no going back.

As one shot was fired a walker fell down dead. Yet as one corpse collapsed another shuffled out. I couldn’t’ve imagined how many geeks were crammed into the little barn.

Somewhere, Glenn hesitantly called to Maggie. He was unsure if it was okay for him to join the others. The boy was concerned for Maggie, he didn’t want to ruin the potential relationship he could have with her. Fortunately for him, Maggie gave him a nod of assurance.

My attention was drawn from the two as Shane turned around. He, without hesitation, shot the walker that Rick still had trapped in the snare. This allowed Rick to release the pole.

As Rick dropped the pole, I saw Lori dash for her husband. She still had Carl within her grasp. Rick had seen Lori move. Soon after, He demanded that they stay back.

I had moved from standing behind Daryl and Rick to standing next to Carol. We both had unconsciously moved closer to each other. Carol was breathing just as hard as I was. She was pretty tense as her hands clutched to the clothing that covered her chest.

AS quickly as it had started, the shots stopped. A few of the members had put down their weapons. From where I stood, my eyes sought out Daryl. I watched as he slowly let the barrel of his gun lower.

We all stood there in silence. I was still somewhat tense. Carol beside me had moved to cover her mouth. One of her hands still grasping her shirt. The people in front of me looked at all the corpses that now littered the ground. Each one of us still taking in quick, deep breaths.

Thankfully, Edmund had quieted down. With the lack of gunshots, Edmund could find peace and fell back asleep. His little head moved up and down as I breathed.

Hershel was still kneeling on the ground while staring at the corpses.

Maggie was right beside him. Patricia and Jimmy were holding onto Beth. Rick was all over the place. I watched as his eye flicked back and forth to the, now, dead bodies then to Shane. Everyone who had guns surveyed what they had contributed to.

From behind me, I could hear someone or something cautiously approach the scene. Turning around, I saw Dale stalk closer to the group. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Then, there came a growl from the open barn doors. At first, my face morphed into one of unbelief. I didn’t want to witness what just happened again.

When another growl bounced out of the barn. I listened to it, carefully this time. That wasn’t any other walker growl. It sounded different. As if it was coming from a child.

A pain shot through my being. It was as if a sharp knife lodged itself into my heart. I felt tears well up in my eyes and trail down my face. A little girl, no older than twelve stumbled out of the two doors. My legs became weak and I fell to the ground.

From the way Carol wailed in pain beside me, I knew that this was the girl this group had been looking for. Suddenly, Carol was darting toward her daughter’s undead form. Before she could get anywhere near her, Daryl caught her and held her back.

“Sophia? Sophia!” Carol continued to sob.

Ahead of me, Lori was Crying out while trying to shield Carl from the scene. Carl, himself, had tears flowing down his face. The poor boy couldn’t comprehend the situation. He had been so sure that his friend would make it out. He was so sure that he would get to see her alive and well.

The closer that Sophia got, the louder and more aggressive her snarls became. Somehow she was able to traverse the numerous bodies that were scattered on the ground. Seconds passed and nobody did anything. Carol, Lori, and Carl’s cries being the only sounds coming from the group.

Finally, rick moved. With stiff movements, he advanced toward the girl. He moved passed the front line only to raise his pistol upwards. Cocking the gun, he aimed it at Sophia’s head. There was a pause. Then, with a loud sound, rick fired and Sophia’s body flew backward.

Carol’s yowls only grew louder after the shot. Daryl still had a grip on her as she pressed herself into the ground. Carol then clawed at the ground in exasperation.

“Don’t look. Don’t look.” Daryl was struggling with Carol. She had begun to wriggle out of his hold.

As a response, Daryl lifted her from to ground so she could stand. Carol broke from his grasp. He tried to grab her again but Carol was slapping his hands away. Once free, Carol turned around and walked away from the group.

When Carol looked up, she let her eyes meet mine. I couldn’t look in her eyes for long. I felt guilty. There I stood with my only child when she had just lost hers. I know I didn’t do anything, but I still felt responsible for getting her hopes up.

When I looked back up, I saw that Daryl had started to walk towards me. His eyes were looking where Carol had disappeared to.

“Hey,” Daryl’s gruff voice filtered through my ears.

“Hi,”

“You okay?” His brows were furrowed and he leaned toward both Edmund and I. Lifting his empty hand, he let his hand brush the little hairs on Eddie’s head.

“I- Um, Yeah. What about you?”

“Yeah, jus’ worried ‘bout her,” Daryl nodded in the direction of Carol.

“Me too. I feel a little guilty.” Daryl’s face morphed. His brows still furrowed and he was squinting his eyes as if to study me.

“What ya mean?”

“Well, here I am with Edmund and She just lost Sophia. It was like I was putting Edmund on display. Or the fact that I encouraged her to have faith that her baby would be okay, that Sophia would be returned to her.”

“Nah, you can’t help that. She knows that too.”

“I hope so.”

With that, Daryl was heading toward wherever Carol had run off to. I decided before anything more happened, that I would leave as well. I did still have Edmund in my arms.

I had begun to turn around when Beth let out a scream. Without hesitation, I was turning back around. I assessed the situation. Beth was being pulled back by Rick and Shane while the others tried to kill the walker that grabbed her.

When Beth was freed, Maggie and Hershel were dragging her back to the house. I wanted to make sure that she was okay, so I followed them. The other members trailed behind me.

Unfortunately, before I could even talk to Beth, both Maggie and Hershel, told everyone off. Then the family walked into their house with a slam of their door.

Once that had blown over, I left to go to the tent I shared with Daryl. I placed Edmund in his crib. Clambering out of the tent, I sat on a log outside. As I sat, I took a moment to gather myself.

I had been on my own for quite some time. I had seen somethings. Today though? I have been fortunate enough to have not run into any children out there. I don’t know what I would’ve done had I been put in that situation.

What was I doing? What is the future going to look like? Am I going to be like Carol in a few years? In a few months? I don’t want that. I couldn’t handle that. I don’t even know how Carol is handling it.

Then it hit me. I’m sitting here worrying about myself when I should be in there with her. I should be helping Carol with her own thoughts.

When I first joined, She had welcomed me with open arms. What am I

doing to repay her? Just sitting around feeling sorry for something that hasn’t happened? I needed to be with Carol.

I got up from where I was sitting and I picked Edmund up. Thankfully, he didn’t wake up when I picked him up. I made sure that he was swaddled in a blanket before I moved toward the house.

I had made it to the others’ campsite. That’s when I noticed Carl was sitting down in his tent. I walked over to him.

“What are you doin’ buddy?” I asked.

“Mom told me to go and rest. I can’t fall asleep so I’m reading one of my comics,”

“Oh, okay. Would you be alright with watching over Edmund? I just want to check up on Carol and I don’t think she’d take too kindly to seeing a baby right now,” The moment I asked him to watch Eddie, Carl’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! I’d love too! I’ll take care of him as if he was my own brother.”

I smiled at the kid's eagerness. I placed Edmund beside Carl and he, with his comic in hand, laid down and began reading to him. My heart warmed at the sight.

It didn’t last though. As soon as I made it to the RV, my mood went down. It was like there was an aura coming off it. I could see that Carol had sat down at the little table.

When I stepped in, Daryl looked back at me. He still had the shotgun. It was sitting in his lap while he sat on the small counter. He also had his arms crossed.

Carol had looked back at me for a moment, then she turned to stare off into space. Without making much noise, I moved to sit opposite her. We sat there in silence for a moment.

“I don’t blame you,” Carol was still looking into oblivion. There was no indication as to who the comment was meant for. “You did everything you could.” She looked at Daryl, “And I won't hate you for having Edmund. You can’t control those things,” Carol had turned to me. “I lost my little girl a long time ago and you don’t need to treat me like I’ll fall apart any moment.”

There was movement coming from my right. I looked over only to see Daryl shaking his head silently. He had his brows drawn and a deep frown had settled onto his face.

Suddenly, Lori was walking in the doorway of the RV. She looked from Daryl to me, then finally landing on Carol. She too had a deep frown on her face.

“They’re ready,” Lori spoke moving her gaze to the floor.

Carol looked back at Lori. She had the same blank face from before. After a moment, Carol, shook her head to decline the offer.

“Come on,” Lori had moved her gaze back to the woman in question.

“Why?” Carol asked

“‘Cause that’s your little girl,” Daryl had moved to his feet and uncrossed his arms.

“That’s not my little girl. That’s some other- thing. My Sophia was alone in the woods. All this time I thought…” Carol took a breath, “She didn’t even cry herself to sleep. She didn’t go hungry. She didn’t try to find her way back. As I said before, Sophia dies a long time ago.” Carol ended with a nod of her head. It was as if she was confirming it for herself.

Lori, still in the doorway, was listening while fiddling with her necklace.

She was looking everywhere but Carol. Finally, she et her gaze and on Carol.

Daryl had sat back down on the counter. He was now staring at Carol as he picked at his cuticles. I just sat in front of her with my head down. I also was messed with my fingers while I let what she said sink in.

A moment passed and Lori backed out. A blank expression written all over her face. Once fully outside, she walked toward the rest of the group.

I felt like I wasn’t needed anymore and moved to leave. Before I did, I reached over to pat Carol’s hand. When I reached the door, I laid my hand on Daryl’s knee. I gave Daryl a tight-lipped smile. From there I stepped out of the RV.

Checking up on how Edmund and Carl were doing, I saw that Carl was still reading to Edmund. He had moved from his sitting position to laying down on his side while leaning on one arm. This allowed Carl to be closer to

Edmund.

As I walked through the camp, I noticed that Dale had taken to standing by the cars. He was watching the two boys. I was thankful there was someone keeping an eye out for them.

Moving from the camp to the house, I walked up to the porch and through the front door. Without thinking, I walked passed Maggie and Glenn’s conversation to stand next to Beth. She was looking better than when she did half an hour ago.

Beth was quietly cleaning dishes. She’d grab a dirty dish, srub it, rinse once, and then put it away on the drying rack. I leaned on the counter next to her.

“How are you feeling?” I wasn’t an idiot. I knew that she clearly wasn’t doing great, but I wanted to hear what she had to say.

She didn’t answer me. She didn’t even acknowledge if she heard me or not. All she did was focus on the dishes in front of her. I sighed and looked away for a moment.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Beside me, I saw Beth fall to the ground. Without hesitation, I was crouching down to her.

“Beth!?” I was turning her on her back to see if she was okay. Behind me, I heard Glenn and Maggie approaching. Both of whom were also calling out for Beth.

The next thing we’re doing is moving her into her room. Placing on her bed, Maggie leaned over her to check out what was wrong.

Beth was just lying there, not responding. Her eyes were open but had an emptiness to them. Her body didn’t budge. Thankfully, her breathing was even. “What’s wrong with her?” I questioned. Looking at Maggie she just shook her head.

“It might be shock,” Stepping into the room, Lori offered her thoughts. “Where’s Hershel?”

Since when was Hershel missing? It hadn’t been a full hour since the Barn and now Hershel was missing. I didn’t think things could get worse than the Barn but I guess I thought wrong.

“We can’t find him anywhere.” Glenn was standing behind me. He had his arms crossed as he watched over Maggie and Beth.

Without another word, Lori was walking away. I sat there as I listened to her call for her husband and Shane. The two men, along with Lori walked back into the room.

When Rick saw what was going on, his brows drew together and a small frown formed. Shane didn’t show as much emotion but you could see the concern. Sighing, Rick asked what Lori had a moment ago and Glenn answered with the same answer from before.

“Where was he last seen?” Shane spoke up.

“Um, I don’t know. I thought I saw him enter his bedroom,” Maggie was staring at the headboard thinking back.

“Is it okay if we look in there? It might give us some clue as to where he’s gone,” When Rick had finished speaking, he looked toward his partner. Shane gave Rick a short nod.

“Yeah, I’ll show you which room it is. (Y/N)?” I looked at Maggie, “Could you stay here while I show them the room?”

“Yeah, I’ll wait here.” I flashed her a small smile.

Returning the smile, Maggie got up and walked out of the room with everyone else following her. I was left alone in the room with Beth. I let my hand card through her hair.

“Hey Beth, we’re gonna find your dad. Don’t worry. You’ll be okay.

Remember when you and I talked? Remember how I said I’d be there for you? Well, I’m here and we're gonna find your daddy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a while, Maggie and Glenn came back into the room. I stayed there for a while longer. It was once Edmund crossed my mind that I got up. I knew he was fine with Carl, but my motherly instinct kicked in and I needed to see that he was okay.

Peering into the tent, I saw that Carl had fallen asleep. He must have fallen asleep while reading because his head was laying on his open comic book. Edmund was fast asleep beside him. My lips moved of their own accord and a large smile found its way to my face.

I crept into the tent and carefully picked up Edmund. My arm brushed Carl’s and it had him springing up.

“What?”

“Shh, go back to sleep. I’ve got him now.”

“Okay…” Carl laid back down and instantly fell back asleep. His little body moving up and down as he breathed.

I didn’t really want to go too far from the camp, so I sat down on one of the lawn chairs and looked out into the farm. I watched how the tree branches blew in the light breeze. There was a calm wooshing noise that came from them. It was quite calming and it slowly lulled me to sleep.

It wasn’t until someone walked out that I came back to it. I wasn’t aware of how long I had dozed off, but I did know that it was for a little while. Carl was awake again. He had gone right back to reading his comic.

“How’s he doing?” I jumped at the sudden comment. Looking up, I saw that Andrea was stood beside me.

“Good, I guess. I was asleep a minute ago.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Nah, you’re good.”

It was at that moment that Lori came stomping into the camp. From the direction she came in, I’d say she had just come from Daryl’s camp. Her mouth was in a set frown. What did the man do now?

“You okay?” I hesitantly voiced.

“I don’t know how you can stand that man. He’s so selfish.”

I raised an eyebrow in question. I got no answer because Lori had turned around and started gathering somethings. I turned to look at Andrea and she shrugged.

In an unconscious decision, I got up. My legs moved on their own. I was walking toward Daryl’s camp. He had moved out a bit farther than before.

Slowly, I approached the hunched man. He had his eyes on a stick in his hands. He had a knife in the other and was sharpening the stick.

“Hey,” There was only a grunt in reply. Rolling my eyes, I sat down beside him. When I had situated myself and Edmund, I looked at the sight before me.

The farm was on full display. I could see the fields as well as the massive house that I just was at. If I concentrated, I could see that Lori was still gathering things. Or that Andrea was nowhere to be seen.

“Why’d you move.”

Daryl stopped what he was doing for a moment, “Why else? Ta get away from ev’ry one else.”

“Am I still welcomed?”

“Seein’ how you got nowhere else to go, yeah.“

“That’s good.” There was a pause, “So, I ran onto Lori.” At the mention of Lori, Daryl snorted. “What? Did you say something to her? She seemed pretty distraught.”

“She was tryin’ ta get me ta go fetch her husband.”

“And what’d you say.”

“I told her, no. I ain’t her bitch to command. If she wants to get her husband, then she can go get ‘im herself.” His face scrunched up as he started to scrape the bark off the stick with more force.

“That’s understandable. You have done quite a bit, but don’t you think that you could’ve said it in a better way?”

The man beside me chuckled darkly, “Ya must not know me then. I ain’t someone tha’ says things nicely. That’s not ma style.”

“You could always work on being a better person. There’s not a better time than the present.” Daryl just scoffed at me and continued with his stick.

At some point, I decided that it would be a good idea to put Edmund in his crib. He caused a little frustration when it came to putting him down. I would put him down and then he would instinctively move and it would set off a bout of crying. After several attempts, he was comfortable and finally fell asleep.

With that taken care of, I came to stand where Daryl was last. I noticed that he was setting up a fire. Instead of standing there like an idiot, I started helping the man gather sticks and things to add to the fire.

Soon, we had a fire going and Daryl had disappeared into the forest behind us. I stayed where I was and enjoyed the fire.

Daryl did come back, eventually. He had managed to catch a few rabbits.

Sitting down, Daryl skinned and gutted them. It got so bad to the point where

I had to move. I went to check on Eddie. By the time I got back, I saw that Daryl put the rabbit meat on a homemade spit. Sitting down, I joined the man by the fire. The two of us ate together in silence.

Tags: @jodiereedus22, @sourwolf-sterek32, @divineangelix, @jaycc7983, @nohemi2500

#Querencia #Querencia pt. 5 #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd daryl #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixion imagine #twd fanfiction #twd fic #TWD series #twd #The Walking Dead #the walking dead fic #the walking dead fanifiction

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hypexion · 4 years

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A Pile of Fanwalkers (Part 3)

Part three of all these fanwalkers. Now it’s time for all the ones who are mean, and should not be trusted. Sometimes because they’ll stab you, and sometimes because they’re just... kind of massively evil.

The basic format for each planeswalker will be a Name/Colour Identity/Pre-Ignition Typeline/Homeplane blob of information, a quickish description of them and some “fun“ facts, and then some hits and misses for extra flavour. Also, I’m going to split this into three posts - “Heroic“, “Okay“ and “Villians“, for I believe I have the moral authority to judge my creations.

Also some of these are going to be from fanplanes, which will go undescribed beyond whatever tidbits come out the character flavour. Others will just have a ?, representing a lack of knowledge and/or sufficent worldbuilding. With that out of the way, let’s go!

Villians

Evil is not a state of being. It is a form of intent, and a form of action. Some of these Planeswalkers can be trusted. Some of them may even appear to be nice. But make no mistake. They have caused suffering. They have altered lives for the worse. Either by design or consequence, their effect upon the multiverse marks them as villians.

Aster - B, Human Warlock, Zodyas - Aster was born under the influence of a bad star, which granted him the ability to draw power from negative emotions. But don’t think that makes him a bad person. Aster’s powers do not compel him to perform evil deeds. They simply enable him. Motivated by nothing greater than his own self-interest, Aster is the truest example of a disaster with a point of view. He was, while it lasted, a member of the Infinite Consortium. After Tezzeret forget how to run it, Aster managed to… convince a number of cells to accept his leadership. While lacking a grand plan for his splinter group, he’s interested in expansion, if only for the sake of increasing his own personal power. Aster may possess a certain kind of charm, and some level of restraint when compared to other ‘walkers, but do not be decieved. The moment harming you becomes worth the effort, Aster will be ready to do so.

Aster is often described as being pale of skin and dark of hair. There’s some weird magic causing that, since different cultures usually focus on different things when describing others. Aster prefers to dress in the fashions of power, whether that happens to be expensive robes, hand-tailored suits, togas or other such clothing. He preferes to wear darker colours, but if opulence is the style of a plane’s elite, then opulent he shall be. While he does carry a mean looking dagger, his primary form of defense are his so-called attendants - humanoid shades he commands via magic. These can perform many tasks, such as “fetch me more wine“, “open that door“ and “kill them“. When Aster planeswalks, he dissipates into a fine black mist. Interestingly, if he’s thinking about planeswalking, his magic generates a similar mist, that trails from him as he moves.

Hits: Power, influcence, tormenting his enemies, using people’s guilt to literally physically crush them. Misses: The undead, constructs, Loxy, Constellation Cults trying to recruit him, being around Ashiok for too long.

Galina - WB, Human Advisor, Ithmorne - In her early life, Galina leaned much more towards the White aspects of her personality. Even as a member of the Zoriac Imperium, she valued their goal of peace greatly, and was one of those that saw certain practices as a detriment to that goal. However, this did not last. When the outpost she was in was raided, everything changed. The ignition of her spark saved her life, but not her right eye. Fortunately for her, Galina arrived on Ravnica within dragging distance of a Simic emergency care clinic, where it was assumed she was an Azorius member who had suffered a run in with the Gruul. This was a role she was happy to take up for real, once the chance provided itself, seeing the Senate as an obvious parallel for the Imperium of her homeplane. In fact, Ravnica seemed to have many similarities with Ithmorne. This could only be due to the work of Azor, the great Sphinx who had brought peace to her warring plane so long ago, and whose Compact still enforced it now. Galina soon realised that her ability to traverse the multiverse would allow her to find more worlds ‘saved’ by Azor, and in turn learn more from them. Ultimately, she decided, those factions on Ithmorne too small to be affected be the Compact would be forced into co-operating. And if not? Then they would perish. Such would be the price of peace. The process had already begun, Galina believed, and if accelerating the pace was necessary, it would be done.

Galina has white skin and long brown hair. Additionally, the events that led to her ignition left her with a noticeable scar, running from her temple, across her right eye, to halfway down her right cheek. Many wonder how her right eye survived such a wound, and the truth is that it didn’t. Instead, she had it replaced by the Simic while on Ravnica. Galina generally wears the standard uniform for those in her position in the Zoriac Imperium - navy blue military robes, kept in the best condition possible. Rather than carry a weapon, Galina relies on her mastery of law magic, using it bind and impede her enemies. She is also capable of many of the standard black mana abilities, especially those which weaken her foes. When combined, these make her a formidable, and potentially deadly opponent. Galina’s planeswalking effect is a jagged and chaotic burst of darkness, which can cause minor damage to living things that nearby.

Hits: Peace through power, Azor, law and order, her own take on the concept of justice, Simic biomagic. Misses: “Barbarians“, insubordination, traumatic memories.

Malius - UBR, Human Wizard, Innistrad - In every profession, there are those that push boundaries. They look at the rules, and wonder which are truly needed. These are the kind of people the majority of Innistrad distrusts. And in the case of the stitcher pariah Malius, they are completely right to do so. While his fellow skaberen found his “wolf with werewolf arms“ experiment a daring new idea, even they had limits. Rumors began that he had started to use demons as a source of parts, and that he consorted with diabolists for unknown purposes. These rumors contained some truth - Malius was interested in demons and had, for a time, used them to “improve” his creations. But over time, he had become interested in the nature of demonic pacts, and how one might acquire the benefits without having to pay the price. Somehow, he was able to construct a device that extracted the source of a demon’s power, and began using it to infuse himself with dark power. For a time, not demon, nor mob, nor torch-wielding monstrosity could stop him. The destruction of the Helvault was an opportunity to Malius, bring him yet more specimins. Everything was going well, until an angel arrived. She cut through his creations, and had both the strength and motivation to kill Malius. In an act of desparation, he activated the extractor, aiming it at the angel. She exploded (don’t worry - she got better (sort of)). This would have been incredibly fatal to Malius had his Spark not ignited, sending him across the Blind Eternities to Zendikar. And so, he soon discovered all sorts of new things to stitch. Including Eldrazi. In fact, Malius was straight-up ecstatic during the events of Eldritch Moon.

Malius’ various experiments have left him with sickly, pallid skin, and pale white hair. His eyes no longer appear human, and those who spend time around him soon feel uneasy. Malius wears the standard dress of the stitcher, a white labcoat, brimming with tools and notebooks. Malius often manipulates his tools via telekinesis, either to work upon a new creation, or as a method of attack. In dire situations, he calls upon the demonic powers he has infused himself with, physically taking on the form of a demon. This grants him signifigance strength, speed and endurance while it lasts, but prevents him from planeswalking, making it as risky as it is useful. When Malius planeswalkers, he disappears in cloud of dark and burning ash, crackling with lightning. This occurs even when he cannot actually planeswalk due to being a demon.

Hits: Extracting demonic power, demonic infusions, terrifying creations. Misses: Angels, torch-weilding mobs, basic medical ethics.

Skath - WBG, Naga Assassin, Orpheri - At first glance, Skath is like any other planeswalker assassin you might meet. She kills people for money, and she does it well. However, she is still a member of the organisation that trained her, a religious order of assassins on Orpheri. So Skath will not kill those standing on sacred grond, those not old enough to be an adult of their kind, and she requires more than just a payment before targetting a diplomat or member of a religious order. Beyond the rules of her faith, however, Skath kills without hesitation, selling death for gold and jewels. When not killing, she is surprisingly thoughtful, a writer of poetry and cultivator of interesting plants. And while unrepentant, she not always unrelenting. Put up enought of a fight, or simple hide in a shrine for a few days, and Skath will move onto easier targets.

Skath has copper-brown scales, and no hair, because Naga don’t have hair on Orpheri. She wears light armor on her torso, which is engraved with protective magic. Her favoured weapons are two scimitars, enchanted to deliver venomous strikes. She also carries a dagger, and a number of poisons, so that she might have the perfect tool for any assassination. In a pinch, she can bite someone, however the Naga Assassins of Orpheri consider this an act of last resort. Mainly because once you identify the cause of death as Naga venom, finding the killer is fairly simple. Skath planeswalks with a flash of pale orange light, leaving behind traces of sand. Interestingly, she is capable of being incredibly precise with her appearance on a plane, and has sometimes managed to planeswalk into a room based on it’s relative position to a know location.

Hits: Getting paid, botany, the statisfaction of a job well done. Misses: Cold places, oath-breakers, Locke, people attacking her from sacred ground (this is actually a bad idea - her religion sees this as an act of desecration, meaning you ultimately forfeit the protection provided).

Look at all these not nice people. It’s probably best to keep a distance between you and them. Of course, their motivations differ greatly, so if you were to find yourself in close proximity to them, you might be able to avoid getting stabbed. Or worse.

#fanwalker #magic the gathering #fan character february

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