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rodeoxqueen · 3 years

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AWAS

CHAPTER ONE: BE NOT AFRAID

“Dante and Vergil return from Hell to tie up loose ends from their year-long absence. While they seek a sense of normalcy, the fates send them anything but.”

Contents: Violence, Blood and Gore, Brotherly Banter, Explicit Language, Slight Angst

Rodeo’s Two Pieces:

I'm very excited to show y'all what I have been working on since hell, November of 2020. Thank you kindly for sticking around.

Back to the present, where the world turned on its axis for months without the weight of the blood of Sparda upon itself, the tides had changed.

In the midnight, had the stars laid witness to the damn near impossible. A portal had opened from the underworld, and two brothers stumbled out. Clutching their swords, Dante and Vergil reunited with the human realm.

How long had it been? Of endless violence and humorous quips thrown at the other, as the years of the gnashing of teeth smoothened the rough patches of their disjointed childhoods?

“We’re back, Verg.” Dante chuckled, arm over his brother’s shoulder.

“We are.” Vergil echoed. The obnoxious weight fell off of him and landed on the ground with a thud.

Dante had got on his knees and kissed the earth that they now stood on.

“Don’t be a fool,” Vergil said, staring at the moon. After years of wanting to become one with Hell, he tilted the false king’s crown to admire the clear sky.

Dante rolled to the ground, sighing in relief.

“We’re back.” He repeated. His brother nudged him with the Yamato.

“Get up. We must find our way back.” Eyes closed and a grin across his face, Dante let the wind pass through his bloodied and matted hair.

“Now we sound like a real team.” Vergil scoffed.

After a few moments, Dante got back up. They had arrived back from Hell to a cliffside overlooking a city that was not Redgrave.

“I assume you have unfinished business in Redgrave.” Dante nodded.

“I sure do.”

The portal became a forgotten relic, the Sparda brothers nowhere to be seen, their demonic presence known to the world.

Dante was known for many things, but mainly for how much of a constant he had remained in everyone’s lives. Never changing, staying the same as he was, an unstoppable force of sarcastic expression.

And also a huge manchild.

Vergil rubbed his temples in frustration.

“Dante. When I referred to unfinished business, I was clearly referring to your shop.”

“Yeah? And I was referring to this.” Dante bit into another slice of pizza, practically moaning.

Vergil sat ramrod straight, sitting awkwardly in a pizzeria. The two were the elephants in the room, both slathered in demonic gore and toting swords. People either gawked or left the establishment.

“You are still an idiot after all this time.”

“Yeah, and I’m also still hungry.”

“Surely your business is more important than this.”

“Meh.”

The blue devil waited for him to finish an hour later, the long-held bill lengthening after months of his absence.

Of course, he had to have indulged a few pieces of his own. It was nothing like the gaminess of demon flesh he had forced himself to sustain upon. It was almost melting in his mouth, unlike the resistance of the shank of a demon. He was never one for vegetables as a child, Dante even more so. Yet the crunch of the toppings was well-received to Vergil, deprived of basic human sustenance for a few odd decades.

However, he found it unthinkable Dante would continue to indulge himself in this for as long as he did.

The door reopened and closed once more to reveal the broad daylight of the streets. Clean, pristine, the sounds of cars and people filled in the crisp air.

Vergil’s boots walked upon a paved road for the first time in ages, man-made and unassuming concrete with stubborn weeds growing from the crevices. No mouth-having crimson blooms that grew to a man’s height. Just simple creatures that fell softly to his weight on their fragile stems.

He had never been here before, where Dante claimed to be his home.

“What’s after this for you, Vergil?” Dante asked his brother, swiping a few demons out of his way.

Vergil, also in his triggered form, huffed a dismissive sigh.

“You know, you should stay with me. Devil May Cry’s always got a spare couch to crash on.”

“Why would I do that?” He slashed a horned devil in two, spewed in putrid green blood. Dante chuckled, knowing there was hesitance in his voice.

“Because I’m offering, big brother. When’s the last time you’ve had a place to call home?”

“I believe you know the answer to that question.” Vergil slid onto his knees under a crouching demon, disemboweling it from top-down. A final gunshot rang his ears, a noise he had to get used to with Dante’s reliance on firearms.

Dull thuds and a flash of red, Dante stood above his brother, offering a now-human hand.

The horde was cleared away like dust on a counter, gone with the wind. Vergil and Dante stood in silence, two children again.

The younger pulled his brother up, insistent stubbornness in his eyes.

“I didn’t hear a no to my offer, Vergil.” Vergil sighed, releasing his hold of his brother’s hand.

“You did not hear a yes either.” Dante chuckled, following his already-leaving brother.

From the past to the present, Vergil’s answer had been neither, never spoken of what he was to do after everything. Yet here he was, now the latter of the two when it came to guidance.

There were many ways the two could have made their entrance to Devil May Cry and have it be a smooth transition back from months of Hell. Dante kicking down the door with a loud “I’m back baby!” was simply not one of them.

Vergil saw that a familiar dark-haired woman was sitting on the desk, absent-mindedly waiting for Trish to return. A girl who once blamed him for her father’s corruption, now a woman with no heed to his presence.

Lady had dropped her nail file, eyes wide at the sight of the two brothers.

“Dante,” Lady whispered as if she was greeting a ghost.

“Yep, it’s me. In the flesh.”

“Dante…”

“Did you miss me? Love what you did to the place.” Dante commented at the cleaned-up shop.

Her face of still confusion warped into anger.

“Dante!”

“Oh boy.”

The next thing he knows, Vergil watches his brother get lectured like a dog. Standing up yet with the attitude of a man in a fetal position, Dante let himself become used to the sound of their tirades once more.

“You had the audacity to give the deed to Morrison. Crazy bitches?! Really!” Dante shrugged.

“I mean if I barked up your tree all day you’d be calling me a-”

“Hey, Lady.” Trish walked into the shop, icily glancing at the two brothers.

“Look at what the hellhound dragged in.” Lady pointed to Dante and Vergil.

“Oh please, I could smell them from a mile away.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Hell doesn’t have any spas. Shame we couldn’t freshen ourselves up before coming here.” Dante sassed. Trish gave a pointed look.

“As much as it was nice to do some hot girl things, we could put Dumb and Dumber to good work.”

“What are you talking about?”

Lady gave a toothy smile.

“How do you think we got this place managed? Money. Money that you now owe us.”

“Hey! I never said you had to do anything.”

“You’d be real upset if we didn’t do anything either, Dante.”

Finally, after sitting through an eternity of harsh words and steep bills, Dante had more than ever landed himself in shambles. Again. At least he was liberated to take a shower. After Vergil of course.

He was surprised to find that the water was still running, and even more elated that it was hot water. Man, maybe paying the bills was a good thing. It felt like ages of grime and gore had been swept off his skin, his hair finally a familiar stark white. In the steam of the bathroom, he breathed out relief.

When he stepped out, he was surprised to see Vergil laying on his bed completely asleep. Usually uptight and composed, Vergil curled in on himself wearing some of Dante’s clean sweatpants that caught dust from all the months they were gone.

With a smile on his face, Dante chose the couch for once and didn’t complain.

They all deserved rest, Dante taking his nap with a magazine on his face. Future Dante could deal with this.

He never expected there to be any neater ends than the frayed knots he left in his human affairs. Yet, he wasn’t alone this time. Neither of them was.

The next few days, Dante gave his nephew a call. Well, more like Nero called him and Dante finally picked up.

Vergil had gotten up after days of practical unconsciousness, foreign to the comfort of a bed, a place to stay, yet much obliged to remain where he laid.

He came down the stairs, rubbing his eyes still. Dante’s voice was muffled until he was in the same room, Dante speaking through the phone to his son.

“Hey, your old man’s here.” Vergil shook his head, having no interest to answer, yet Dante kept waving the phone in his face.

Taking the phone, Vergil heard his son take a breath.

“Hey, Vergil. Nice to see you back from Hell. Um, can’t imagine that was a fun time.” Nero said, unknowing of how to speak to his stranger of a father.

“Indeed.” Dante face-palmed, sitting with another one of his accursed magazines.

“Yeah, um. I have your book.”

“Hmm.” Nero sighed.

“Do you want it back? I’m coming over soon for business reasons.” A hint of desperation and embarrassment from Nero went over Vergil’s bedhead.

“That would suffice…”

“Alright-”

“Thank you, Nero.” Vergil blurted, seeing Dante mouth the words “say thank you.”

Nero stopped for a minute, a few moments of silence on Vergil’s side.

“No problem...Vergil. I got to go. Take care, alright?” Vergil hmmed as a response. The line went dead.

Dante’s grin immensely irritated Vergil, a man who was incapable of second-hand embarrassment.

“Stop that. Wipe that expression off your face. You wanted a conversation with me and Nero, there you have it.”

Dante propped his face up with his hand, a cat that ate the canary.

“Nah.”

Vergil growled in annoyance.

Unfortunately for Dante, and luckily for Vergil, bills had to be paid and jobs to be done. Morrison had arrived a few days later, pleased to see an old friend returned from the underworld. Walking in, he was barely surprised that the shop had returned to a pig-sty appearance.

“Morrison! Nice to see you again.” Dante welcomed, sitting at his desk. Vergil eyed the unfamiliar man, reading through a book.

“Got a new job for you boys. About time you got those girls off your backs about having your little vacation in Hell.” A familiar smell of cigar smoke traced the air, Dante leaning back on his chair, intrigued.

“So Morrison, what nasty demonic critters does this gig entail?” Dante asked, arms crossed.

“There’s a demon runnin’ around towns, causing a lot of trouble.” Morrison placed a photo down, blurred and poorly taken. Although, the grotesque purple skin and rippling eyes on its body didn’t leave much to admire.

“Huh,” Dante mumbled. Vergil examined the picture.

“I’ve never seen a demon like this before. Sure is ugly, though.” Dante noted, pointing at a flat and angular head, pallid yellow eyes that bulge out of its sockets on the sides, and needle-like teeth in multitudes.

“My sources say it’s been going North, the last town they passed was here. Just this morning. It’s making some distance, I’d get to it as soon as you can.” Morrison revealed a map, a red circle around a certain landmark.

“It’s scaring the shit out of people and causing some casualties to be contained.”

“Alright, we’ll take ‘em.” Dante stuck his hand out, expecting cash. Morrison tutted, patting Dante’s shoulder.

“You’ve been spoiled, Dante. Nah, you’re gonna bag this son of a bitch and then we can talk about payment.”

Dante groaned, taking the job. Morrison tipped his hat to Vergil. Vergil glared in return.

“It’s been nice catching up with you boys.” He called out, leaving the shop.

The door thudded as it shut, and the two were alone once more.

“Well, we just got our get-out-of-jail card. Come on, let’s get going.” Dante grunted.

“Must you complain about everything?” Vergil muttered.

Outside, it was late morning with a slight breeze. The familiar sounds of a motorcycle came to Vergil’s attention.

Dante had sat on Cavalier, expecting Vergil to get on.

“Must you rely on that garish thing?”

“It’s too bad you can’t fucking teleport somewhere you’ve never been. Get on the motorcycle.”

Dante patted the seat, Vergil obeying for once.

“Ready for your first job?”

“More than you are.”

They tore through the streets of Redgrave, going north.

The sun rose and started to fall, endless roads leading through towns and cities that paid them only a slight turn of their heads.

The map’s glaring red bullseye had become a dead-end of sorts, the two resorting to walking instead.

Redgrave had always felt muggy with the air of hell creatures around. Here, in this unmarked territory, it had felt clearer. But also more unsettling, the idea of a demon scuttling about more of an awful surprise.

They felt consumed by the empty streets, busted in windows, and vacated shops and residential places in their lonesome wandering.

Something before had wiped this location clean of humans, and now something else was lingering in its place.

“This area has been abandoned.” Vergil walked over giant cracks through the ground, leading to a deserted town.

“Not surprised,” Dante answered, thinking about a certain tree, “good thing we don’t have to deal with any more civilians.”

A buzz in his blood reminded Dante that something was certainly there. The alleys were a perfect spot for creatures to linger, waiting for prey.

As below, so above. A ringing through the air was quickly parried by steel. Dante’s sword stopped a shower of needles from stabbing him, a stray one cutting the side of his cheek. It jolted him as a creature bounded the rooftops of the buildings, a hulking mass of reptilian skin.

Vergil raced after the creature, having blocked all the assailant’s long-distance attacks. Claws dug through the tiles, running on all fours from rooftops to silently treading the paved roads.

It’s clearly after an objective.

Dante chased after the beast from the ground, firing shots at the agile demon. Vergil jumped buildings, gritting his teeth at the demon’s inherent ability to evade and attack back, dodging tail spikes.

The streets all lead to the town center, where a fountain long cleaved in two from giant roots, stood.

Dante and Vergil came across the demon, purple skin stretched over its pointed bones, facing a cloaked individual.

“Hey, pal-” Dante was shushed by Vergil, the two standing a distance away from the hunched-over beast, much taller than either of them when standing on its hind legs.

Neither of them had expected another person in this area, clearly an oddity in the shambles of civilization.

“Famulus. Servant of Raphael.” A rumbling growl echoed in the night in response.

“I’m obliged, filthy halfling.” It hissed, crouched over and leaning to leer to the monotonous voice.

“You will tell me where he is.”

“His brothers may have underestimated you, but my master has known of your presence. Sending his best, I, to exterminate you.”

The person said nothing, as all that was all that needed to be said.

“Looks like we found it’s been searching for,” Dante mentioned, alerting the attention of the formidable monster and unassuming humanoid.

Glazed-over eyes narrowed with bloodlust met the twins as they readied themselves for anything.

“I will bring Raphael the heads of Sparda, once I am done with you.”

The hooded stranger turned their head to the two. With their face void of any expression, the twins had no idea what to think of them.

A pulse went through the air, Dante and Vergil’s skin jolting at a sudden warm wave in the air. Milliseconds after, a rotating ring of golden energy rattled through the stones, passing through the spaces in the pavement that lead to Dante’s boots.

Vergil and Dante were thrown like ragdolls meters away by an unseen force, Dante hitting the ground twice and rolling to a stop as Vergil stuck a landing with the Yamato through the floor.

A golden sphere surrounded the bruise-colored demon and the humanoid, who cocked their head in a disinterested manner, glaring at the taller creature.

Dante touched the wall before them, warm and pulsing with life. Despite the magnitude, he noted how it didn’t seem to hurt him, only pushing back from his own applied pressure.

Vergil paid it no mind, conflict occurring right before their eyes.

Famulus lunged at the smaller person who dodged, hands grappling at a giant maw, throwing its body to the barrier.

Tail spikes unfurled and bristling, Famulus’ hackles rose.

On hind legs, the demon stood well-over the miscreant, who allowed the beast to come to them. No matter how fast Famulus struck, claws phased through the empty air where it expected pliant flesh. Even swipes of its giant tail between quick strikes and heavy blows had been easily dodged.

A rain shower of blade-like projectiles flew at them, their body dropping down to avoid several. Dozens stuck above where their head was, a near fatality.

A needle whistled as it was caught by a calloused hand, palm tightly wrapped around the quill aiming for their chest. Several had torn through their cloak, nearly pinning them to the ground. They let out a startled noise, moving themselves up.

Famulus ran at them, prepared to rip them apart while they were down. Surely a cowardly move than preferred, but a move nonetheless.

They whipped their head around, jaw gritted. The same clutched quill was thrown like a javelin straight into Famulus’ snout.

Pulsating pain and white-hot agony made the beast screech, purple flesh burnt and smoking.

They shook themselves free of any spikes, clad in ancient robes. Nothing a common human would wear now. Even a demon could tell something was off about this one creature in human skin.

This was no common miscreant come to place vengeance upon its master. Raphael had requested Famulus to obliterate this insect as if none of his lord’s underlings could defeat them.

You shall return them to their grave, Famulus. A low gravelly voice rang through the demon’s head, a present message. The snake-like eye in the middle of its forehead rolled back and returned when its master’s command became silent.

“Yes, I shall.”

The foe stiffened as if they had gotten the answer they had been looking for. Famulus knew that. And like the devil it was, it goaded their curiosity.

“You will never make it to my master’s domain. I will gnaw on your bones, putrid being.”

If only if Famulus knew that there was no goading a foe that was already plotting several paces ahead.

Lashing out, a meter-long arrow-like appendage was fired at them once more while the demon began to collect its true power from the air around it.

It missed the mark, sinking into the ground to have the intended target land upon the blunt end, balancing coyly. Several more jabbed at the barrier, sticking into the protective sphere as the cloaked being ducked and turned to avoid scythe-like claws and disemboweling long-distance attacks. Famulus struck a blow that surely meant death, supposedly cornering the prey, until they vanished in thin air. A hazy afterimage materialized and faded away, swiped into nothing.

Immediately, they appeared to the side of the demon, who just began to rear its head to perceive this teleportation.

Legs bent as they were parallel to the ground, they drop-kicked the reptilian brute, scaly skin rippling at the impact.

Famulus’s neck snapped the wrong way, letting out a moist creaking noise as the body stayed stubbornly rooted to the ground. Incapacitated, it could not stop the smaller fighter from leaping onto a begotten tail spike from the ceiling of the barrier, yanking it, and falling back down to its capitulum.

The hooked and jagged arrowhead bit through toughened flesh, securing them to the flat of its head, glowing hand pressing against the middle eye, the key to finding Raphael.

A once distinguished demon, Famulus lashed its head about like a common beast. The joints in its neck realigned, sickening crunches with each segment joined.

Pushing their energy into the convulsing eye, Famulus felt its connection to its lord become not of its own.

Paralyzed from the sensation of a pulling force, tugging away at flesh, and seeping their own life force into it, digging into its mind, Famulus’ muscles twitched and convulsed like an animal to be dissected.

Famulus snarled to itself.

The veins leading to the spike stuck in its head pulsed, conducting electricity straight to the open palm. A strained cry left their mouth as they relented their hold.

The final twist of its head thrashed them off to hit the ground.

Flashing images of a lair, of an iron throne, flashed through its mind.

Famulus had failed to hide his master’s location. And with that, its murderous intent grew.

Despite the finality of its fate, its tail swished with anger and boiling rage to either do the job or keel over in defeat.

The thief got up with little grace again.

Its many eyes had noticed the bloodstains within their cloaked form, old wounds from recent battles. There wasn’t much damage left for them to take.

No one could dodge the Mjölnir.

Dante felt the hairs on his arms stand at full attention. Brows crossed, the older Sparda swiped through bits of his hair that lilted up from their slicked-back position.

“Hey, do you feel that-”

A beam of dark lightning was emitted from Famulus’s tail, striking straight into the opponent’s chest, shards of pure energy slicing through the air with a symphony of cracks rattling the street. Several pebbles flitted off the earth, scorching hot.

The lightning was overpowering, the cries of the stricken muted, body curling to itself with arms stiffening at the chest.

Dante and Vergil both believed defeat was imminent, preparing to have to take out the demon themselves.

When the flashes of demonic power died down, Famulus had witnessed the impossible.

Even with the golden shroud having been faltered, the thunderstruck figure had not been smitten.

Famulus’s needle-tooth grin dropped at the turn of events, rearing back on all fours.

Black lightning danced off their skin, flickering yellow sparks onto the cobblestones.

“No one of that stature could be capable of such an atrocity, and still be human.” Vergil thought to himself.

Famulus was the strongest of the Pessulum litter, demons that nursed from the deadliest of storms to emerge the top of their species. The demon had killed bigger and stronger with less than it had exhibited today.

And now, this runt of a creature had stood against it with no fear, not even close to death? Taking its strongest attack with no problem?

A rush of fear chilled its electrified veins. Stories of the being, whispers amongst Raphael’s underlings, its master’s own grinding teeth at the news of his brothers and their sudden falling, proven true by the might of this mysterious being.

Famulus would live with no merit to his name, scorned by Raphael, seen as less by its inferiors.

“If that does not kill you then I will!” Famulus jumped, claws extended like scythes to slice flesh to ribbons.

Clumsily taking one step forward, tense arms fought back to form one hand pointing to the snout of the devil, the other to the skies.

The thunder was released from its subjugation, deafening annihilation.

A blinding beam of sheer gilden lightning shot right into the demon, many opaque eyes centering at the color of death. Through the other hand, thunderbolts went off like firecrackers into the atmosphere, exploding rapidly and chaotically.

“Holy shit,” Dante exclaimed, sparks dancing off the paved path and flittering in the air.

Vergil ground his heels to the ground, the frontward force of the explosion pushing against him.

The blow sank into purpled flesh, veins and nerves turned from putrid black to nearly white, keeping the demon trapped in the air, still positioned to pounce and disembowel. Famulus didn’t even make any noise, the renowned servant burned alive.

Seethingly hot, with the very air molecules shaking at the display, the twins watched skin and bone become ash and dust. Killed by one’s trump card.

Not even a fallen tail spike was left, the aftershocks settling the twice-over-cremated remains scattering to the wind.

The redirection of the lightning strike had taken a toll on the hooded figure, who straightened up shakily, face revealed for all to see.

A pair of eyes were two suns in the dead of night, a contrast to the light blue ones that perceived them.

Standing alone, centered by destroyed store windows and melted streetlights, they seemed impassive to their might. It was as if they weren’t just blasted with lightning, where their fabric was scorched the only evidence of the offense.

Dante and Vergil didn’t know what to do, not knowing if this person would attack them as well.

They stayed where they were, the moon right above their head, shining around their crown of messy hair.

“Be not afraid.”

Voice hoarse, their mouth moved differently than to the words they just called out.

Before the twins could think of anything to say, the figure beyond them collapsed.

Vergil was silent, still processing all of this. Who was this person? What were they looking for? Who was Raphael?

Dante rushed forward, heavy footsteps raising ashes from their resting place.

Vergil followed, the Yamato ready to be unleashed at any hesitation.

Dante turned them over, noting the strange force surrounding them had remained. As if someone larger was there.

A human face from under the worn, textile cloak greeted them, exhausted and at peace with unconsciousness.

Two lines dripped down their face from their nose. Bleeding crimson, a human above all. In-and-out, slow breaths moved their chest just enough to know they were alive.

“A half-demon?” Vergil questioned himself.

“If they killed the demon, do we have to split the cash with them?” Dante blurted. Vergil raised an eyebrow at the inquiry.

Before he could retort, Dante had lifted them, their stature dwarfed in strong arms.

“Let’s ask them when they wake up.”

“Dante, you are not bringing that thing back.”

“You’re right. I’m not. You are. Open a portal.” He said with a shit-eating grin.

Vergil reluctantly did so, the Yamato ripping open the fabric of space. He would regret this, he was sure of it.

#dante and vergil finally arrive #vergil x reader #dante x reader #devil may cry #vergil sparda #dante sparda #nero sparda #lady devil may cry #dmc trish #devil may cry series #series #AWAS

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sabraeal · 3 years

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Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 5

[Read on AO3]

Written for @vfordii‘s birthday which was....five months ago. BUT LISTEN, it’s still better than last year’s six months so like...improvement. IMPROVEMENT.

“You know why I called you here.” The Marshal’s voice is soft, barely louder than the hum of the fluorescents. “I presume.”

Shirayuki catches herself at the edge of her seat, chest pitched forward, neck craning to decipher every word and--

She settles back with a frown. Even a PhD isn’t a defense to the cheapest tactic on the pop-psych bookstore self-help shelf, it seems. Worse, Izana knows it, his mouth tipped so subtly toward a smile. And now he knows she knows it, and--

Her mug has gone cool, but it’s at least a credible distraction, a convenient way to buy some time and save face. Not something she ever expected she’d care about. Doesn’t mean she won’t take the opportunity.

“Zen.” The ceramic clacks like a shot as she sets it down. “You want to talk about the drift.”

“Yes.” He breathes, long and labored. “And no. I want him back in the cockpit.”

Come see me at your earliest convenience, his email had said, practically polite by PPDC standards. Manners atrophied when a body spent so much time in the higher altitudes of the chain of command. I’d like to discuss a few things with you.

She’d known what this would be about. What it was always going to be about. And still--

Shirayuki is still disappointed. “You have to be joking. It took him three years to get him into a jaeger at all, and you want to just...push him right back in.”

“No,” he hums, fingers still and steepled over his desk. “I want you to do it.”

There are rules of engagement for tangling with the Marshal. Voices are to be kept low, steady. Think before speaking. Don’t react. Showing an emotion in front of Izana Wisteria would be as good as handing him a rope to hang her with. “I’m not his commander.”

His fingers knit, knuckles popping in the silence-- “I know that, Doctor.”

Her own are curled into fists; at least then he can’t see them shaking. “Then I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job,” he tells her, with only a pause for breath before he does. “I am merely suggesting that it is far past time to remove the kid gloves you have been handling him with.”

Her fists clench, hard enough to leave vivid crescents in the meat of her palms. “I believe I’m the judge of that.”

“Of course.” Every word drips with insincerity. “But I’m sure a little encouragement from you would--”

“I’ll do what’s necessary for the health of my patient,” she informs him, words clipped. “You’re not my commander.”

Izana stills, gaze riveted to her. “I am well aware of that, doctor. But I need him in a jaeger yesterday.”

“You’ve needed him in a jaeger for the past three years.” Shirayuki bolts to her feet, and oh, if only she could locate at least another foot of height, she might be able to finally have the high ground in one of these arguments. “I don’t see what the rush is now.”

His voice doesn’t raise above a pleasant chat, but bitterness weighs down every word. “You should.”

Shirayuki doesn’t believe in violence. Or rather, violence is a choice, and she doesn’t believe in choosing it unless no other option remains that causes less harm, but, well--

She’s got a very short list of people who deserved a black eye, and Izana Wisteria sorely tempts her to put his name on it. “What do you mean by that?”

The Marshall is all tense lines behind the battlement of his desk, a buttress against the fall. “Aren’t you a part of K-Science?”

The only distinction that mattered in the dome was between combatants and non; that a licensed therapist fell more into the ‘administration’ box rather than ‘research scientist’ was the least of their concerns. At least as far as the placement of her office. “Tangentially.”

“Well then.” His tension washes away like debris after the storm. “It’s all in the numbers.”

Shirayuki has been trained extensively in conflict resolution, in effective communication, in managerial manipulation, and still, still-- annoyance dogs her every step, nipping at her heels as she loses herself in the dome’s labyrinth of corridors. For once it would be nice to leave the Marshal’s office with something more like a sense of purpose and less like a reprieve in shoving boulders up a muddy hill in Tartarus, but this far into her tenure with the PPDC, she knows better than to hope for impossible asks. It’s not a new feeling by any means-- there’s certainly a hole worn in her heart for just this sort of fruitless anger and a monkey on her back with Izana Wisteria’s face, but he’s certainly devised an entirely new way to get her hackles up today.

Long limbs insinuate themself next to hers, a white-clad arm weaving its way around her elbow. She looks up-- not far-- into a pearl white, movie star grin.

“Well, well,” Yuzuri lilts, halfway between a drawl and singsong. “Someone’s looking stormy.”

Shirayuki doesn’t know how tall a person has to be to be considered thunderous, but if the crinkle to Yuzuri’s eyes are any indication, she’s well below the mark. “I was meeting with the Marshal.”

Yuzuri swings a single, impressed note. “Yeah, that’d do it. Or, I’d imagine it would. Not like he asks to see many of us in K-Science.”

Funny, she doesn’t say, since he’s so comfortable quoting your data. “You should probably count yourself lucky on that one.”

“Oh, yeah.” Yuzuri waves a hand, bangles jangling down her wrist. “Garrack handles him. Honestly, I think she enjoys the aggravation.”

Knowing Garrack like she does, Shirayuki certainly wouldn’t discount it.

Slender fingers flick out a sharp snap. “Hey, maybe you can send her the next time you need to deal with His Majesty. I’m sure she’d kill for a distraction just about now.”

“Oh, no! I’m-- I don’t need any help, it’s just...” She frowns, rifling through the satchel slung over her shoulder. She hardly has anything in it-- lip balm, her notes, a pack of tissues, her civilian identification, her wallet-- but still, her keys are shifted underneath the whole of her life, jingling just out of her reach.

It’s a metaphor, probably, but her love affair with literature is at too much of a standstill these days for her to bother unpacking it. Not when it’s probably going to end in her storming back into the Marshal’s office and demanding he show her some form of respect if he expects her to do her job.

Yuzuri’s mouth curls into a sly smile. “He’s top brass that’s used to having full grown adults ask how high rather than why?”

“That’s part of it,” she admits begrudgingly. “But it would also be nice if he could say what he means, instead of--youch!”

Metal teeth digging painfully into her palm, but she holds on anyway, dragging the ring right out, hair ties and all.

“Instead of...?” Yuzuri prompts, far too amused.

She heaves a sigh, plucking rubber bands off her hand. “Making it all some sort of...logic block word puzzle.”

Blonde brows slant skeptically. “I thought you loved those things.”

“For fun. Not for...” She waves a hand, keys jingling and brightly as Yuzuri’s bangles. “...Professional conversations. I’m not here for his entertainment. I don’t have time for-- for games!”

“Not when you could be doing your actual job.”

“Right.” Her actual job, which has almost exclusively been managing Zen’s feelings regarding Izana for months now. “And now he wants me to...“

She hesitates, teeth sinking into her lip. Outside the dome, patient confidentiality is the backbone of her profession, but here, when everyone eats and breathes and lives on top of one another--

“Lemme guess,” Yuzuri drawls, “get that boy in a pilot seat?”

-- it’s impossible. “I just wish he would show some faith.”

“In you?”

“No.” That’s asking far too much from a man who has only ever trusted as far as the drift could take him. She heaves a sigh, flyaways fluttering in her peripherals. “In Zen.”

A laugh huffs out of Yuzuri. “That’s asking a bit much from an older brother, don’t you think?”

Shirayuki has never, strictly, had a sibling. Ryuu certainly straddles the line between friend, colleague, and family, but she’s never doubted his drive, or the rigorous course of his research. He wouldn’t be her first choice to stand in front of the PPDC committee and defend her findings, but in a pinch, she would trust him wholeheartedly, with no reservations, to do the job.

That does not seem to be the unifying sibling experience. “Is it?”

Yuzuri grins. “You are definitely an only child.”

She restrains her scowl to a disapproving frown. “Maybe, in this case, that’s a good thing.”

They turn down a corridor, and relief floods into her-- this is it, the hall that holds her office at the end. She takes a step forward, but Yuzuri holds her back, gaze fixed leagues away.

“Do you really think he’ll do it?” She blinks, eyes finally focusing down on Shirayuki. “You really think he’ll get back in that jeager?”

“Yes.”

Yuzuri recoils, blinking. “Wow, no hesitation on that one, huh?”

“None,” she agrees, a smile lingering at the edge of her lips. “I know Zen might be hurting right now after--” the most disastrous drift she’s witnessed in her entire career-- “everything, but he...”

She takes in a breath, putting her back to her door. “No matter what happens, Zen always does the right thing.” It’d been that unwavering moral compass that had drawn her to him, a shining bright light among the downtrodden heart of the dome. “He may need a little time to pick himself back up, dust himself back off, but he knows that one day, he’ll have to sit down and talk this out, not run--”

“But not today, it looks like.” Yuzuri’s hand darts right over her shoulder, plucking something off her door.

Shirayuki blinks, letting the yellowed square of paper come into focus.

Something came up. Rain check ~Z

She stares, fingers numb as she swipes the scrap out of Yuzuri’s hands.

“That sunovabitch,” she grits out, paper dinting beneath her grip. “He’s avoiding me.”

“So.” Yuzuri cocks her head, mouth stretching wide. “Wanna grab some grub?”

“I’m just saying.” Suzu’s hand scribbles across a napkin, dropping symbols more arcane than any rift. “If I could just get any of the brass to take a good look at this, things would be different.”

“Different how?” Kazaha drawls, accusation dripping from every word. At least, that’s how it sounds-- it hadn’t taken Shirayuki long to realize that’s just how the man speaks, every phoneme meant to cut glass. The asshole accent, Yuzuri calls it. “Does this somehow improve the quality of life in the dome? The world? The--?”

“It’ll certainly improve my quality of life if I don’t have to hear about it,” Yuzuri deadpans. “C’mon, we’re eating dinner. Let’s put the toys away.”

“It’s not a toy, it’s a tool,” Suzu grumbles, finishing it with a flourish. “And if we used it, we’d know when the kaiju would show up, instead of just waiting for them to wade into the Sea of China or whatever.”

That, at least, gets the team to bow their heads over it, passing around frowns and furrows alike.

“If that was the case,” Kazaha sniffs, pushing it away. “Garrack Gazelt would have already put this in front of the Marshal.”

Suzu scowls, yanking it back. “You know that none of those jarheads appreciate good science! Until I get this paired up with some pretty little graphs, I might as well be speaking Japanese.”

Izuru perks up at that. “Doesn’t the Marshal speak Japanese?”

“That’s besides the point.”

“Hm.” Ryuu squirms next to her, craning his head over the napkin. “I think you’re missing a variable.”

“Impossible.” Suzu stares down at it. “Just look here--”

Shirayuki glances down, letters and numbers do-si-doing between roots and over fractions. Izana might shove her office all the way down in K-Science, but that certainly didn’t give her the training to decipher this little bit of mathematical prognostication.

Suzu pitches forward, felt-tip pen rolling across his knuckles in a bit of sleight-of-hand she would have never thought him capable of. “--you’ll see that by putting ‘a’ over ‘n’ squared--”

“All right.” Yuzuri’s fingers knit in the cotton of his button-down, dragging him back down onto the bench with a thump. “I think we’ve had quite enough of that.”

With a lift of his brows, Suzu’s face shifts from fox to puppy in eight muscles flat. “But, Yuzuri--”

“No buts.” Her fingers pluck the pen out of his, dropping it back into a pocket with a firm, warning pat. “Now, as I was trying to say: His Highness is avoiding you.”

Shirayuki blinks, gaze dragging up to where Yuzuri waits with an impatient smirk. “N-no! That’s not it at all. Something probably came up--”

“Izana’s avoiding you?” Suzu swings a wide, gaping stare at her. “Didn’t you just have a meeting today? What did you do to him?”

Her hands fly up, waving off the accusation. “Ah, no, I didn’t--”

“No, not His Majesty, His Highness,” Yuzuri corrects, blowing on a spoonful of the mess’s finest chicken noodle. “And he is avoiding you, which is bullshit.”

She has to bite her cheeks to keep her lips from peeling back into a grimace. “Zen has lots of work to keep him busy--”

“What work?” Kazaha scoffs, meticulously cutting his chicken into bite-sized pieces. “He’s a ranger without a co-pilot. It’s not like he can just jump into a jaeger and fight kaiju with half a working mecha.”

Yuzuri swivels toward him, hands held out with a level of emphasis Shirayuki can’t help but feel is more than the situation truly deserves. Especially since some of the rangers are starting to peer over their way. “See, even Kazaha knows it’s bullshit.”

His mouth purses into a tight frown. “I don’t know why it’s even Kazaha--”

Yuzuri’s brows make a dubious stretch toward her hairline. “I’m pretty sure you do.”

“--I’m very socially astute, even Shidan--”

“--just because he lets you out of the lab doesn’t mean you don’t offend people by breathing--”

“I dunno.” Suzu’s forehead furrows, tapping a spoon on each of his oyster crackers, drowning them in broth. “Zen seems like a real upright guy, you know? Forthright. If he had a problem, he’d say something, not just ghost you.”

Yuzuri stares at him. “He buys you one bubble tea, and now he can do no wrong.”

“Do you know how hard those are to get out here? He had to go all the way out to--”

Whatever else Suzu means to say, it’s lost in the siren.

This isn’t Shirayuki’s first time in the dome-- far from it-- but it’s never easy.

The siren’s moan shivers through the air, something she feels rather than hears. Her teeth rattle in her mouth, and there’s nothing she wants to do more than curl up beneath the table and ride it out, eyes squeezed shut and hands over her ears. She wouldn’t be the only one; already half of K-Science is on the ground, tears streaming down more than one ashen face.

Man’s worst enemy is fear. Grandpa had told her that, letting her dip her toes into the bay. She’d been small, young enough that she still wondered if kaiju might lurk under the surface, waiting to pull tasty little girls beneath the depths. Kaiju can only kill you once, but fear kills a hundred times. His hand sits heavy on her shoulder, a comfort, a cage; and she--

She gets up.

Pilots and personnel scramble; one tech stands up too fast, boot hooking on the bench’s edge and sprawling face-first into the floor. It’s only ranger reflexes that keep her from getting trampled, dodging around the splay of her fingers with a dexterity that would make Shirayuki’s jaw drop if she wasn’t trying to keep all her molars from jittering out of their sockets.

There’s a hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t just imagined it, a goad to get her standing. She traces the hand back, up ranger fatigues to dark hair, brows raised, and beneath them--

It’s violet eyes, not gold. Not Obi, but a ranger she’s never seen before, his mouth quirked with cold consideration.

“It would be safer,” he says, voice somehow Altantic-crisp over the cacophony, “if you stayed in your seat.”

Her mouth opens, working around the sounds to thank him, but he’s already gone, disappeared into the crowd of PPDC personnel around her. Shirayuki’s eyes shift over the mob, trying to-- to find him, maybe, or at least a face she knew, someone that she could talk to, someone to memorize one last time--

She finds one, silver-blond hair shimmering at the door, too pale to be anyone else. Zen. It’s Zen looking right at her, those deep blue eyes inscrutable, mouth carved into a line more grim than he’s ever shown her.

He turns away.

“It’s too soon, though,” Suzu murmurs, staring down at his napkin. The screens are on now, muted by the siren’s wails, and there’s a Kaiju on it, frill rigid around its reptilian face as it tears a city to twisted metal ribbons. It’s just buildings, streets, impossible to tell which one, but all that matters right now is not here.

“As I said,” Ryuu says, only just audible over the drone. “You dropped a variable.”

What hurts most, once her teeth stop rattling and her heart ceases to pound in her chest, is that Yuzuri is right-- Zen is avoiding her.

“The sessions are his choice.” Labeling tubes isn’t quite how Shirayuki had envisioned her evening going, especially with her mind half-away, pondering over the Pacific, but it’s something to do. “No one can force him to come.”

“Sounds like that’s half the problem,” Garrack mutters, forehead pressed to the hood, leaving a faint, oily smear across the glass. “Free will. Foils gods and men alike, doesn’t it?”

Her mouth pulls down at the corners, a bow stretched too tight, just like her patience. “I don’t want him to be forced. Therapy only works if the patient wants to change.”

Which, by Zen’s conspicuous absence, tells her he doesn’t. He’s happy as he is, wearing the fatigues but never getting in the cockpit, waiting for a copilot that’s already shown how little he cares about anything but lining his own pocket.

“Of course. You can lead a horse to water, but you’ll never make it drink.” It’s impressive to watch Garrack work; even in rubber sleeves, her grip never trembles, never slips. In the same position, Shirayuki can barely close a fist, but Garrack’s got the same dexterity in the hood as she does out of it. “Good thing you get paid regardless.”

Shirayuki flushes, heat pricking at her pride. “I’m not worried about that.”

“No, I wouldn’t think you are,” Garrack murmurs. “I’m just saying it’s nice. Salaried, with room and board to boot.”

Her frown falls further, flirting with a glower. “I’m aware that I’m in the unique position of not having to care in an official capacity if he bothers to come back. But personally--” her breath catches, stomach doing one, solid somersault-- “I do. I want him to want this.”

Garrack hums, not an agreement or judgement, but an acknowledgement. Tactic permission to proceed.

“Izana wants me to tells him to climb into a jeager, to use my-- our personal connection to manipulate him into the cockpit, regardless of what his personal feelings are.” Her breath rushes from her lungs, suddenly ragged, frayed at either end. “No, encourage. That’s what he told me. That it’s my job to do it for humanity.”

One thick eyebrow arches under Garrack’s cap, her eyes bright with interest. “And how do you feel about that?”

It’s strange being on the other side of this question, to be the analyzed instead of the analyzer. She squirms, teeth worrying at her lip, mind racing with possibilities.

“C’mon now,” Garrack chides, mouth hooking into a smirk. She picks up her rack, rattling the small tubes in their holes. “I gave you those for a reason. Idle hands are the devil’s playground, you know-- at least, that’s what people say when they’re afraid of what you’ll get up to if you start thinking.”

She tosses her a wink, ejecting the tip of her pipette into the trash before fitting on another. “Too bad they don’t know that drudgery clears your mind. Have all my best ideas when I’ve got a sharpie and a hundred two-mils to get through. So come on--” she grins, all conspiracy-- “tell me. What do you think of our illustrious leader’s idea?”

Her teeth click shut around her first opinion-- saying Izana Wisteria should go suck eggs would not only please Garrack far too much, but would be around the rest of the base by morning. The last thing she needs is the Marshal inviting her into his office and reading that off one of his hundreds of emails. “...Think that’s beyond my professional scope to comment on.”

“Oh please.” Garrack waves her off, one rubber arm flailing behind the glass. “I’m not asking you to issue a formal complaint about the marshal’s policies. I want to know if you think that kid should get in that steel coffin and kick the closest kaiju in whatever passes for their balls. If throwing another body at the breach is what’s best for humanity.”

“I...”

It shouldn’t be. There’s more rangers on this base than jaegers to fit them; one career pilot pulling back to fill the ranks shouldn’t be more than a drop in the bucket, a chair to fill. But this is no ordinary jaeger-- this is Rex Tyrannous, the most advanced piece of machinery to roll out of a PPDC facility before or since. Rebuilt from the same blueprint as the Mark I, reconfigured with the best technology the Mark III could offer, the Mark IV’s older, more deadly brother, and--

And the money for it hadn’t come out of Defense Corps coffers. No matter how many hopefuls washed up at the dome, the King of Kaijus wouldn’t come out of its box for anyone less than a Wisteria, not as long as at least one was still standing.

“Yes.” She spits the word out like poison, but still she feels unclean. “There’s no one else that can do what he needs to.”

Garrack’s mouth twists in a wry curve. “Then there you go.”

“It’s a conflict of interest!” Shirayuki insists, the sharpie in her hand shaking as she tries to form a 4. “If there was anyone on this base that had the credentials, I’d-- I’d put in the referral myself. He deserves someone that’s impartial--”

“Shirayuki.” With exaggerated care, Garrack pulls her arms from the hood, letting her hands fall down to her lap. “Do you think there is a single soul in this dome who could do the math you did and not be partial?”

Her mouth works, opening once, twice, before settling shut with a snick.

“I didn’t hire you because you lacked bias.” Garrack’s voice pitches low, softer than she’s ever heard her, knuckles white where they clasp her knees . “You wrote a paper about PTSD in rangers that lost a partner in the drift. A paper, might I add, that showed a great deal of knowledge in jaeger production and use. The sort of thing no one learns unless they’ve been locked up under a dome for years before being released in the wild.”

It’s not an accusation, not yet, but Shirayuki’s hands still anyway, clammy beneath latex.

“Because of that useless wall, we’re years behind in jaeger production. We need new mechs, and Rex Tyrannous is the best model we got left, whether it’s been sitting in its box for half a decade or not. ” She settles back, brow arched. “But I don’t need to tell you that, now do I?”

No. Her fingers clench hard around the sharpie. She doesn’t.

“Shirayuki, I know you’re a good kid, but you do get to be selfish sometimes.” Garrack grins, too pleased at the prospect. “You’re human, just like the rest of us. There’s no one who doesn’t have skin in this game.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “But it’s my job to do what’s best for him as my patient, not just--”

Garrack snorts. “Oh, is the discontinuation of the human race not going to affect him?”

Shirayuki frowns, opening her mouth to-- well, to say something quelling, no doubt. But-- “Oh.”

Garrack hunches over her lap, forearms braced on her thighs. “I know the Wisterias put on a good show of being gods, but they’re flesh and blood like the rest of us. It doesn’t do anyone good for them to sit out the apocalypse. Not even themselves.”

“But, I...” She sets the tubes down, gloves crinkling into fists. “I don’t know what happened in the drift, just what the readouts said. It could have been a failure on Obi’s side just as much as his, and if they’re not compatible--”

“Then just ask him,” Garrack sighs, swiveling back toward the hood. “You don’t need to try to read minds.”

“But he’s not talking--”

“Not that Wisteria prick.” She chucks her chin toward the door, toward the vague direction of the dome beyond. “The other one. Seems like the real problem there might be getting him to stop talking.”

“Obi?” She blinks. He’s friendly, sure, but she wouldn’t say he’s been one to volunteer information.

“If that’s the one that’s down here every other day, talking my ears off with Suzu, then yes.” One rubber arm flails at her through the glass. “Now get out of here, and get those two little shits inside their tuna can before a Cat 5 can make it down the coast and make us regret it.”

When she steps into the hall, Shirayuki has every intention of following Garrack’s advice. It’s solid, after all; in a two-sided problem where one solution makes itself unavailable, the obvious answer is the best approach-- especially when in this labyrinth of a dome, there’s only so many places where he can hide.

She stops by the mess for a peace offering. Obi might be disposed to be friendly toward her at the moment, but she knows all too well how far good will will get her if she’s going to start rummaging around in things he’d rather keep cooped up behind that smile. Quality coffee and some contraband cookies might not mend the bridges she burns, but it’ll at least keep them standing while she’s walking over it.

It’s a good plan, a solid plan; she just doesn’t anticipate the company.

“Shirayuki.” Dark circles ring dark eyes, but Mitsuhide smiles just as warm as he always does, sprawled stiffly on the bench. “It’s good to see you.”

“I should be saying the same thing!” she gasps, her and her tea sliding in across from him at the formica table. “I thought you’d be out...” in your tuna can.

She bites her cheek, just hard enough to keep the words from spilling out. Sometimes she really, truly wishes she didn’t listen to Garrack quite as much; her mouth and Garrack’s words made a volatile mix. The sort that would get her a dishonorable discharge, if she weren’t a civilian-- or careful.

“We were. I mean, I was. Both Kiki and myself.” His body twists with a good, solid shake, eyes clearing. “Sorry, just had to exorcise the ghost. You know how it is.”

She doesn’t, but she does. There’s papers on the subject; reams of them-- Longevity of neural imprints in active rangers had been a favorite when she’d been in undergrad, as well as the far more entertaining, Ghost Drifting: How does one leave a ghost while still alive? It’s still novel to witness it, to see that spectral presence cling to the neural stem so long after--

“We just got back a little while ago.” He shifts, his right leg stretching long across the floor, knee bucking stiffly. “Kiki hit the rack, but I needed to, ah, take a walk.”

That’s his-- his good leg, as Kiki likes to call it, the half of him that becomes Redwood Dancer to pair with her left. That’s what makes them first line defense, even in an older Mark III; Kiki’s a real lefty, not one made by the drift. When Dancer throws a punch, both sides come full powered.

That’s what you get being the best of the best, Zen would say, envy and wistfulness thickening his voice, everyone knows they can count on you to serve.

That seems less like a good thing as Shirayuki sits across from it, watching the shadows shift in Mitsuhide’s eyes.

“Did you see it?” she asks, voice a whisper in the cavernous lair of the mess. “The kaiju?”

Mitsuhide grunts, shaking his head. “No, we were kept on standby. Got there after some of the boys in Hong Kong did, and they handled it.”

He doesn’t offer how well; she doesn’t ask.

“Ah,” she hums instead, hunching over her mug. “So it was out that way?”

“When they get that far down, yeah.” One of his large fingers wraps around the handle of his mug, bringing it to his mouth for a long, steady drag. “Not many wander out this way.”

“Alaska--”

“Yeah, there’s a few up north, and I think Seattle always has a good sweat when that happens, but...” His brows furrow, just a small wrinkle in the center of his forehead. “Not so much down here. Not anymore.”

Her palms press against warm ceramic, lips curling into a thin smile. “I guess we don’t have what they want. Whatever that is.”

His mouth gives a wryly twitch. “Thank God for small blessings.”

It would be nice to let the silence between them mellow, to allow herself a companionable respite after swallowing around her heart for half a day, but--

But there are things that won’t keep, no matter how much she’d like to set them aside, set them down even for just a moment. “Mitsuhide...”

He stiffens, the way a dog does when it hears its name shouted in the key of trouble. There’s two ways to respond to conflict, they used to say, fight or flight; years later they added freeze with as begrudging a reception as any change to common wisdom was given. But Mitsuhide does none of those; he just hunkers, eyes warm and dark and wary when they meet hers, hedged by hunched shoulders. The sort of man who grew up in a place where natural disasters are weathered in bathtubs and basements, or else watched from afar on front porches.

“I meant to talk to you.” Her fingers knit into the natural ridges of her mug; the only way to keep them from trembling. “After...after. I mean, not this, but before. The, um...”

It’s ridiculous how many calamities can cluster in a few hours. She’ll need to start numbering them to keep them all straight.

“The drift,” he rasps wearily. “Zen's talked about it with you, hasn’t he?”

Her mouth works; her duty to her profession says to keep it shut, to keep her patient’s business confidential, but her duty as a member of the human race, of a species that is growing more endangered by the year-- “He skipped his session.”

Shirayuki couldn’t have moved him if she hit him, but this rocks him back in his seat. “I’d been hoping...” He shakes his head, mouth curling into a rueful smile. “I thought I’d be the one trying to work something out of you.”

“Ah.” She bows her head, watching the leaves swirl in her tea. “So you haven’t had any luck either?”

Her shakes his head, disappointment stark in every sway. “He won’t talk about it. After he got out of the hanger he went and locked himself in his rack. He only agreed to come to the mess if we promised to drop the whole thing.”

Shirayuki winces. “I’d normally never ask, but when he didn’t show up to our usual appointment...”

Mitsuhide lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I don’t know why he’d do that. I’d give some of my teeth to let someone else listen to my head sometimes.”

She blinks. “You’re always welcome, if you wanted to.”

“No.” His mouth rucks up in a rueful curve. “I really couldn’t.”

“But--”

“The thing they don’t tell you before you get into that cockpit is--” he takes a deep breath, the air emptying out the tension in his shoulders-- “is that the second you hit the drift, all your secrets aren’t your own anymore.”

“Oh.” The drift is two minds laid bare to one another, the deepest form of trust, but in all her studies, she’d never thought what that meant. How tangled and deep a mind could become in things that weren’t theirs to know, weren’t their secrets to carry. “Can I ask you something?”

His eyebrows ruffle up an inch, curious. “Of course. Anything I can answer.”

“When you first came to the dome, you were...” Shirayuki bites her lips, considering. “You were Zen’s copilot. But then Kiki came...”

The PPDC might be the one that’s stamped on the letterhead, but the Wisterias are the spine of the jeager project as well as its face. Their neural net stretches far and wide through the Corp’s hierarchies, fingers in every pie, and although Zen might not be in the upper echelons of leadership, the sort of state secrets someone might glean from the casual details rattling around in his head...

Well, it’s a good thing the Seirans were just as entrenched.

“Why did you do it?” she asks finally, though it’s miles away from what she means. “Why change when you already...?”

“Ah, well...” Mitsuhide’s shoulders heave awkwardly. “It was an emergency, at first, and then...I don’t know how to explain it. We just fit. Not that I didn’t with Zen, but this was...”

He hesitates, smile edging towards a kind of self-deprecation that doesn’t quite fit him. “It was different. If that makes sense.”

“It doesn’t,” she admits. Not to her, at least, someone who has never been in a cockpit, who has never drifted over a set of pons and tried to make a connection. But to someone who has, who has spent the last half decade rotating through a list of hopefuls and throwing them all in the trash-- “But I think...maybe it could.”

Shirayuki would love to say that she’s experienced a perception shift, that a few words with Mitsuhide gave her a clarity that she needs to pore over before acting on, but the fact of it is-- she’s too anxious to approach Obi, pure and simple.

Not that he’s given her much cause; he’s scarce after that failure of a drift, but his absence lacks the marked purpose of Zen’s. It’s hard to find anyone after an attack; everyone’s on high alert, hypervigilant, waiting for another call to come like an aftershock. It’s never happened before, but to assume that means a double event is out of the question--

Well, humanity stopped making assumptions about what lurked beneath the Pacific the day Trespasser ripped the Golden Gate off its moorings.

She catches a glimpse of him every once and a while, always going the wrong way but with a smile to share before he disappears. He’s not avoiding her, he’s avoiding everyone else, and she’s just too much of a cog in the dome’s machinery to not be a casualty of it. It’s nothing personal, she’s sure, but with all the people giving her a wide berth lately, it’s hard not to feel that his absence is pointed.

Still, there are things that just won’t keep. She can’t just keep avoiding this because she’s afraid of one more rejection.

And that’s how she finds herself in the middle of the dome’s combat room, on the business end of Obi’s smirk.

“Doc,” he hums, kicking the end of his staff up to yoke his neck. He makes it look easy, like the jo is an extension of him rather than a separate piece. She can’t help but think of what he might do with a hundred tons of jeager strapped to him, how easy he might make it move. “Funny seeing you here.”

She nods, rocking on her toes. “It’s been a while.”

He swaggers toward her, stopping barely an arm’s length away, hip cocked. Sweat dews along every inch of him, his tank damp and clinging to the hard planes of his stomach, tighter than the lycra in her own gear. His pants swing low, leaving a sliver of skin between it and his shirt, and she--

She should really be looking elsewhere. He’s not a giant, not like Mitsuhide, but when she looks up, it’s a long way to meet his eyes. They’re laughing at her when she does.

“You’re not gonna get anything out of me, you know,” he says as if he’d like to see her try; a challenge rather than a defense. “What happens in the drift stays in the drift.”

Her mouth works; this time stuck less on the sweat crawling over his skin and more on how quickly she’s been made. “I didn’t say I was going to.”

“You had the look.” He shifts, hips drawing her gaze with them. When she glances back up, he seems to find that funny too. “Besides, why else would you come in here? Most shrinks I meet aren’t, hm, combat ready.”

“I-I work out!”

His eyebrows raise, mouth following suit. “That so?”

She flexes arm, baring what, in her humble opinion, is no small bicep. Kiki might have her beat, but in K-science terms she’s practically buff. “See?”

Obi slinks close, hunching over, jo and all, to give her offering a good squint. With a hum she’d like to think is at least mildly impressed, he straightens, suddenly so close she can smell the sweat on him and the faint whiff of his deodorant.

“Well then, I stand corrected.” His smile stretches Cheshire-wide as he steps aside, sweeping out a hand. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Shirayuki peers past him, fighting to keep the grimace from her face. She works out, sure, but more along the lines of slow and low. Yoga. Tai chi. Pilates. Things that promote mind and body balance. But even in the gym, all the equipment is meant for bulking muscle, for building the sort of bodies that can bear up a skyscraper. And the combat room...

Well the only equipment here is the jo in their rack and the tatami on the floor. This isn’t for people looking to do a pull up, it’s for rangers looking to spar.

“Tell you what, Doc,” Obi says, no small amount of amusement or pity in his voice. “I could use a cool down.”

His jo whips down from his shoulders, lightning fast, hands thrusting out in the air, and she--

Her hand rises to match, catching the jo mid-air. She sags under it, a little heavier than she expected from a stick that size, but keeps her feet under her. She glances back at Obi, wide-eyed, but he just lifts his brows, impressed. “How about we go a round, you and me?”

It’s a normal request-- maybe not to her, but the rangers certainly aren’t shy about taking conversations to the tatami. But Obi’s voice does something with it, pushes it down into a register that feels more mattress than mat, and she shivers as she lets the jo drop more naturally into her grip. “Me?”

“Well, I really thought you wouldn’t catch it.” His chin juts toward her staff. “But it looks like you at least know how to hold it.”

Her finger flex around the wood, settling against its smooth surface. “I’ve done it once or twice.”

A half dozen years ago, but he doesn’t need to know that.

His mouth twitches. “Great.”

Obi’s not a mountain of a man, not like Mitsuhide, but when he falls into stance, he could make himself one. It would take an earthquake to move him, and she has the world’s smallest lever. “Come at me.”

Shirayuki shuffles awkwardly on the mat, twisting the jo to rest on both her hands. It feels like she’s got two left ones holding it-- neither one of them are as good as Kiki’s-- but muscle serves her better than memory. Center yourself, Grampa told her, yanking her chest above her hips, feel the earth come to meet you. You’ll be part of it one day, and it’s ready.

Morbid, but it works. Her spine jolts into a straight line, weight teetering between her feet, and she takes her swing.

Obi doesn’t try to dodge. He could-- even in that split second, his muscles twitch, goading him to flee-- but he just raises his staff, a jolt she feels right down to her shoulders. The puny clack echoes in her ears. It’s nothing even close to how him and Zen were sparring.

“Go ahead.” He shifts his weight as she recovers, bracing himself. “Again.”

Right. Her feet flatten against the mat-- or at least they try to, pressing instead against the foam of her sneakers. Her sneakers that she’s still wearing, since she came in here thinking there would be an elliptical, or weights, or not this.

That won’t do at all. She toes them off, setting them at the edge of the tatami, the only spectators to her impending humiliation.

She hesitates, fingers peeling socks over her heels. Obi’s already said she won’t get any information out of him; she doesn’t need to do this. She could walk away right now, and the only consequence would be his teasing. And yet--

And yet, Shirayuki walks back, feet grounding against the weave beneath them. The jo settles between her hands. Obi grins.

When she moves again, it’s with more confidence, memory fueling her strike. He catches it again, but this time it doesn’t rattle her. At least, not until he moves too, viper fast, and then she’s scrambling again. She’s no noodle-armed K-science geek, no matter what Obi might say, but when she thrusts her staff up overhead to meet his swing, her arms tremble, teeth jangling in her mouth.

Obi retreats, amusement clinging to his lips, and she huffs. Maybe she can’t take the same sort of beating Kiki can, but she isn’t about to be some pushover.

She comes at him again, lower this time, on the outside. He’s not prepared-- she can tell the way his eyes widen-- but reflexes smooth his response, drawing her back with a few of his own strikes, and then--

Then it’s just trading blows. Not like his spar with Zen; he’s too skilled and she’s too inexperienced for this to be anything but a planned draw, for him to do anything but go easy on her. But still, still-- there’s a strange electricity every time they meet, more than just their jo rising to meet each other, an anticipation--

Obi steps back, brow furrowed. “Hm.”

Shirayuki’s panting, drenched, and he’s barely broken a sweat. “Is something wrong?”

It certainly doesn’t feel wrong to her.

“N-no.” He plucks her jo from her grip, the swagger gone from his hips as he mounts it on the wall beside his. “Just. Interesting.”

“Interesting?” she prompts hopefully.

Obi shrugs, like there’s an itch between his shoulders. “Did you need anything else, Doc?”

“I...” She bites down on the impulse to ask, to demand to know if he felt it too. “No. I should, um. Get going.”

“Nowhere to go but people to see, huh?” he laughs, but it’s weaker than his usual, stilted.

“Yeah,” she breathes, turning away. “Something like that.”

We just fit, Mitsuhide said with that strange look on his face, a yearning she knows now. If that makes sense.

“Obi?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from another mouth, not her own. Maybe it’s just because she’s bent in half, working cotton over sweaty toes. Maybe it’s because it feels like she’s only working with half a body.

His head swivels, chin peeking over his shoulder. “Yeah, Doc?”

“It wasn’t you, was it?” He blinks, head tilting with confusion, and she clarifies, “It wasn’t your failure.”

His breath tumbles from his like wind over water; she swears she can feel the ripples of it even where she stands. “No,” he says, so soft it’s nearly lost over the rattle of the vents. “Not yet.”

The static fizzles on her skin, belly rocking as she bends to slip on her sneakers, and oh, Mitsuhide’s words might not have made sense before, but--

But she’s worried they’re starting to now.

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #pacific rim au #my fic #this chapter ended up being much more of a beast than i thought #and this is WITH some scenes getting moved to next chapter for like...SPACE #but that's pretty much what took this so long #trying to rearrange this to cover some of the big points that HAD to be covered by Shirayuki POV #so that this was only like...6K instead of 8K and double the chapter length of any one before it #DEEP SIGH #this is a hobby i choose to do for fun

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malkumtend · 4 years

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7 Nights (and what comes after) - A Breezepelt fic.

The first night, Breezepelt knew he was asleep, so he passed her off as a dream. He knew he was asleep because he hadn’t remembered walking into the moors at night. Certainly not far enough that he was this close to the Thunderclan border. Not close enough that their stench made him retch.

Despite his perception that he was asleep, he still felt how cold the night was. Underneath a gleaming moon, there was no air rustling his fur, but deep in his bones, it was freezing. Freezing enough to sting.

He turned and found her on the border. Emerald eyes burning into him. She looked as young as the last time he’d seen her, but there was something about her, something pale and wispy, that made her appear like something out of an ancient legend. When moonlight struck her pelt, tiny spirals of light flickered from each strand of fur, sprinkling the air with a glittering obscurity.

She never spoke. She just stared. Patient. Daring.

But she was just a dream. So Breezepelt glared back and turned away. He wouldn’t be threatened by fantasy. He left her waiting, so far until she was just two green orbs winking in the ebony mist. He didn’t feel his pulse rising, and his face contorting into a scowl. He just left her.

She knew he would come back.

...

The second night, she was still there. Still not speaking, still just sat there. Her tail lay flat in the freezing grass, but Breezepelt could have sworn it was beckoning him to come closer.

Breezepelt growled, teeth chattering and breath steaming. His fur now felt like it was buried in ice. He still didn’t know how he’d got there; he could now remember falling asleep beside Heathertail and their daughters.

How many cats dreamt the same thing twice?

He felt an anger he’d promised himself to suppress burning in his jaws. He wanted to sprint over and swipe away the vision with his ever-digging claws. He glared still at the figure, baring his teeth in a warning snarl.

She didn’t move a whisker. Her stare was now regrettably unnerving.

It made Breezepelt’s head hurt and his throat go dry.

He growled again with audible fury before he left her again.

This time he ran.

...

When he saw her again the next night, Breezepelt knew these weren’t ordinary dreams.

He gave in, standing a tree-length away from the dark figure.

“What is this?” He demanded, sucking in air through his teeth. Even though his fur still laid unmoved, he could feel the wind striking his entire body.

The green-eyed molly cocked her head to the side. Unlike the last time he had seen her, there was no blood gushing from her throat. “From how you reacted before, I assumed you’d decided it was a dream.” Her voice was smooth, but still carried the cockiness he remembered from their apprentice days.

It still made his claws unsheathe.

“It is a dream!” Breezepelt hissed. “But why are they of you? Why would I ever dream of you? Are you the one causing this?!” He took a small step towards her, his yellow eyes blazing.

She shrugged, “Maybe, maybe not.” There was a remarkable lack of anything in her tone. It was like they were nothing but strangers. “Why do you think I’m here?”

The Windclan tom narrowed his eyes. “To terrorise me?”

“That’s pretty presumptuous.” She seemed to pierce through him and into him simultaneously. “Why would I do that? Do you deserve to be terrorised?”

The chill that raked across Breezpelt’s spine was not because of the wind.

Breezepelt flashed his fangs at her viciously. “Are you trying to make me mad? Just because you’re a dream, it doesn’t mean I won’t tear you apart!” He arched his shoulder up as he got into a threatening stance, his fur spiked with violent intent.

She blinked slowly at him. In the crisp rays of moonlight, Breezepelt could just about make out the placid line of her mouth. “If I’m a dream, it doesn’t matter what you do to me.” She mused in a thin voice, “So why don’t you come over here?”

Breezepelt stiffened as the coldness began to enclose around him. His fur quivered as he could sense the night’s darkness crawling across him like a pitch-black tongue. He wondered if she could sense why he didn’t want to approach her.

“E-Exactly! I don’t need to because you’re just a stupid dream! A whole bunch of nothing!” He spat at her, mustering a familiar hostility he had abandoned for moons. But now, it rested back on his shoulder like a snake bracing to strike.

It was something she had seen him wear like a second coat of fur.

Her stare responded, glaring mockingly at him. Fearlessly waiting.

The tom’s expression twisted, he suddenly felt like he was being choked. It awoke something. He needed to get away.

“I don’t have to waste my time with you!” Breezepelt snarled, turning on his haunches and raking the grass as he left her again. “Don’t come back here! If I see you again, I’ll make you pay!” He hoped he wouldn’t need to keep that promise.

He didn’t see it, but he felt it. The molly moved. Her tail curling, amused.

“It’s good to see you’re the same as always.”

There was no venom in the way she said that, but it still made Breezepelt start running again. Now carrying an expression of pure horror.

…

He stormed up to her on the fourth night. Now she was within a tail’s distance and Breezepelt could see her clearly. Her black fur still sparkled under the stars, augmenting her presence in the stormy night.

If it wasn’t for the moon, Breezepelt was sure that he wouldn’t be able to make out the moors anymore.

But the increasing darkness wasn’t what was on Breezepelt’s mind.

“I’m not like back then!” He declared. His heart pounded and there was a strange hissing sound in his ears. She smiled. It was a fake smile, but she smiled, dripping with scorn.

“Could have fooled me.” In the flickering green of her eyes and the dry aura of her voice, there was life. Life beating from a force made up of stars and hope that Breezepelt had once refused to believe in. Life that was beyond death.

“It was moons ago!” Breezepelt pressed, still clinging onto his nerves with an escalating irritation. “I’ve proved myself to my Clan since then! Your own brother has stuck up for me and told the clans he wants to forget what happened!”

She twisted her head in a movement that flowed with the rolling of her eyes. “Yes, and my other brother wanted to let you die until our father convinced him otherwise.”

Our. That made Breezepelt feel so much more sick than it should have.

He was sure she knew that.

Breezepelt cringed, the picture of Crowfeather begging for his life was so strange it could have been seen as unnatural. He also felt the sting of debt. It had been Jayfeather who had gifted Windclan the life saving medicine. It had been Jayfeather who had saved Breezepelt’s life.

It had been Jayfeather that Breezepelt had almost killed. Wanted to kill.

“Can you see it? What you did?”

Breezepelt thrust his head up, rapidly breathing as he saw an air of smugness surround the celestial cat. Her fur began to slither in the breeze, stoic to the chill, but vindicated by his own self-slaughtering thoughts.

A creeping horror embedded itself into Breezepelt’s spine. How could she tell what he was… No. Of course she knew his thoughts, she was part of them after all. A shade of his own making. The tom took a step forward to show he wasn’t going to cower.

“I made up for that long ago! I was young and I made some terrible mistakes, that doesn’t mean-”

She started to laugh.

Her eyes still joined with his, a grin snapped across her muzzle, before blooming open as she laughed straight at him.

He’d heard her laughter before, once, but never like this. Then it had been mischief and arrogance. Now it was crude and mocking.

It rattled along the air, falling on Breezepelt like icicles. He could have sworn the horrible sound echoed over the hills but never travelled too far away. Her laughter was a storm, and Breezepelt was the eye.

“A mistake?” She threw her head back, one emerald eye glinting like a dog’s tooth. Her laughter morphed into something crooked, like she was spitting out death berries. “Is that what you tell yourself?” She sneered; disgust ripe on her tongue.

Breezepelt glared at her.

“You always were terrible at lying.”

“My clan has forgiven me.” Breezepelt said slowly.

She whipped her head to the side. “Good for you. I suppose that means it never happened, right?”

“Lionblaze said that he-”

“Lionblaze would be dead if you’d had your way.” Now, the revulsion was stark and terrible on her face. Inside those burning green orbs, Breezepelt saw nothing but hatred.

It wasn’t something unfamiliar to him. It was something he thought he had escaped.

It still made his blood turn cold. Even if it was from her instead of his own clan.

But was that entirely fair. It was the same look he’d given her corpse.

“Oh, so you pick now of all times to think of that?” She scoffed. The starlight shimmering strands of her fur moved as if the stars were mocking him with the parody of disgusted laughter.

Breezepelt stiffened. “W-What do you want?” He descended his voice into a growl as his stammer overwhelmed him with a humiliated indignation.

“To see that look on your face.”

Breezepelt turned his face away and fled once more. He was still panting for breath and his chest still ached from exhaustion and fear when Heathertail nudged him awake.

…

“What do you want me to say?”

He kept the same distance as the previous night. Tonight, she was remarkably still. “Nothing that you want to hear.”

His tail lashed and his yellow glare burned. “Just tell me!” He shouted, groaning as the echo throbbed around the darkness of the moors. He hissed a breath that immediately fogged in the air, so thick it may have blocked her image for a moment.

“How about why?” She said disdainfully.

“Why?”

“Did I stutter?��

Breezepelt’s snarl churned from the smoking anger in his stomach. That was what she wanted? She already knew why? Every cat in the forest knew what he had done! He’d had moons of distrusting glares and cautious whispers from his own clanmates to be reminded every wretched day of the mistakes he’d made.

Was that her goal? To make him grovel. To make him squirm. She was mouse-brained if she thought he was still weak enough to do that. He’d had a lifetime of living out of his own shadow; what was a few minutes more?

“Fine! I messed up! Is that what you want to hear?” He shouted, taking a step closer to those unblinking, judging eyes. “I was young and I felt that no one around me, not even my own parents, believed in me. Can you blame me for being happy for once that a group of cats believed I was strong? That I meant something!”

She blinked, and Breezepelt continued before she could open her mouth again.

“I trained in the Dark Forest to become strong, and they told me that I was. Obviously I was wrong to join them in the Great Battle but I didn’t think I had a choice! You, your siblings, Thunderclan, Windclan, my own father! After all that had happened between us, why would I ever believe any of you when you said that I was fighting for the wrong side? The Dark Forest said they trusted me, and Crowfeather-” Breezepelt grunted, trying to keep his claws sheathed. “Crowfeather was on your side instead of mine. Like he always was.” He hid the softness that suddenly overtook him with a low growl afterwards.

He hated thinking of those times for many reasons. The rejection he saw in his father, the way that the forest had trusted a trio of half-clan cats over a cat like him who had pushed himself every day to be the Warrior they would respect, the way that he had lost everything in that battle and continued to suffer for it for moons.

But most of all, he hated remembering how it was all for nothing.

Inhaling deeply, he calmed his tone. “I was wrong, okay?” He looked up to her eyes, hoping his form radiated composure rather than submission. “I’ve admitted that. I’ve been forgiven for it. Those times were another moon, can’t I be allowed to move past them if they’re something I regret?” He asked her bitterly.

He didn’t know what he expected from her. If he was honest he hoped she would be satisfied enough with his answer to leave him alone. He was growing sick of the chill and the darkness and spending his nights thinking about a cat he didn’t care to remember.

Her head cocked, and she frowned. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Now, Breezepelt was furious. He’d told her about what he’d done, he’d been open with her, he’d admitted that it was wrong! “Then stop wasting my time and tell me what you want?” He screamed, the pounding in his head just made him angrier. He leapt forward until her emerald stare was glinting off his fangs. “Why what?”

Her tongue traced over her teeth and she took a dismissive moment to clean her paw. “Why should anyone forgive you?”

By Starclan, he hated that smug look in her eyes. He wet the inside of his drying mouth, it didn’t help much as the cold air somehow drained away any moistness, leaving him dry and bare. “I said I regretted what I did.”

“So what?”

“What do you mean, ‘so what’?” He demanded. “It’s not like I didn’t suffer to! I had to work for moons to regain my clan’s trust.”

“I wonder why.”

Breezepelt clenched his teeth. “No cat would even look at me! They wanted me dead!”

“I am dead.” She said bluntly.

“That’s not my fault!” Breezepelt yelled, his paw crashing down resentfully. She didn’t even blink. He also hated how much this cat looked like him. The same dark flat fur. The same strong legs. The same lean body. The same glare that could penetrate stone. They were a picture of the other and he hated that so much! He always had!

Temporarily, his neck fur trembled.

She felt it.

“Okay then.” She mused, her head turning to the side. “So, you regret it, right?”

“I just said that.”

Her gaze changed – darkened. “So that means you regret what happened to me?”

“What?!” Breezepelt drew back, actually offended. His paws felt heavier than normal. “I wasn’t the one who killed you! That was Hawkfrost!”

Her eyes closed and a low groan left her. A groan of utter disgust. “Still the same mouse-brain.” Scorn seemed to spark around her. “I’m not asking if you killed me or not, I’m aware of who it was, I’m asking if you regret that it happened.”

“But why should I regret something I didn’t do?” He had regrets. He regretted betraying his clan, he regretted disappointing his mother, he even regretted not listening to his mouse-brained father from time to time. But he wasn’t the one that opened her throat, he hadn’t stooped to that.

A momentarily wry look painted her features, one fang loomed judgingly over her lip. “Fine. I’ll spell it out for you then.” She groused, “Are you glad it happened?”

Breezepelt froze. A sudden pain came to his side.

A motionless moment passed. She spoke again.

“Or rather, are you still glad that it happened?”

Like a rapid blast of nightmares, the great battle carved its way back into his mind. Breezepelt’s blood chilled as her words cleared like the sun over the river. He was there again. Soaked in blood, but grinning. His claws buried into Lionblaze’s chest, one paw raised to land the killing blow he had dreamt about for so long.

Then, with an unrelenting clarity, he saw the horror twist on his half-brother’s face. Puzzled, he turned his head swiftly.

And there she was again. Underneath the glistening paws of Tigerstar’s son. Limp, lifeless. The crimson seeping from her throat to cover the dark grass.

Breezepelt felt it all again.

The shock electrifying his muscles.

The satisfaction and relief flowing through his blood.

He was back in his dream once more. And there she was. Life and mystery and knowledge tracing around her like an ever-expanding celestial orbit.

She was patiently waiting for his answer.

“Of course I’m not.” Why did he sound so quiet?

She hummed, knowing the truth. “What about Jayfeather?”

The blind cat, scratched, beaten, bloody. Under his mercy.

“Yes.” That was true. He did! “I regret it!”

“Poppyfrost?”

The pregnant cat whimpering and shivering by the moonpool, fearing for her life and the lives inside her as she watched a Warrior tear apart a medicine cat.

“I already said it!” He yowled at her, the anger was growing high and distorted. Turning into something else that made the Windclan tom convulse and tremble. “I regret it all!” How many times did he have to say it until it was true?

She looked up, examining the dark sky as if she could see a plethora of stars.

“I suppose that’s what you’re sticking too.” She sighed, her mind already made up. “But honestly, what does it matter?”

Breezepelt lunged forward, his nose was now a stroke from hers. He couldn’t stand this anymore! It wasn’t fair! He’d fought for his clan, day in and day out, to escape the kind of looks that she was torturing him with! “Why can’t you just get over it? I’m not the only cat that’s made some stupid choices in my life!” His mind sparked, “What about your ‘mother’? What about your real mother? They both made choices that ruined you as well as me! Why should they be forgiven over me? They did terrible things as well! Are they deserving of your ‘forgiveness’,” He spat the last word in a mocking imitation of her voice, “Over me? They paid for what they did as well as me! Why should I continue to suffer when cats like them are treated like they’re heroes now?”

He finished, fury, justification and pleasure leaking out of his breath. She was the guilty one, not him. She’d been the one to reveal their little secret after all. That was a funny way of showing how much she ‘forgave’ them. She had no cause to treat him like some kind of rogue!

He sneered, eagerly anticipating whatever retort she had planned.

She looked at him as if he were pathetic. “Because the mistakes they made, they did for the right reasons.”

Breezepelt’s sneer dropped. He became vaguely aware of the scent of carrion, faintly tainting the surrounding dark.

She shrugged; a small hint of her own regret twinkled in the emerald space of her eyes. “I didn’t see it myself for a long time, but it doesn’t change that it’s true.” She met his eyes again, undeterred and strong. “They did everything out of love and care, and maybe it wasn’t always right, but they never wanted to hurt anyone.”

With a translucent energy, she began to move. One foot forward. Breezepelt stepped back. “You on the other paw.” Her eyes dulled and now anger was beginning to flare.

Breezepelt was suddenly aware of his own fear.

“Everything you did, was to hurt, to cause pain, to ruin everyone you blamed and hated.” She left the Thunderclan border, entering Winclan territory. Breezepelt wasn’t about to bring this up. The more he backed away, the more she came forth.

“You made your choices because the only thing you ever cared about was yourself. And innocent cats, cats who you had never even met but were still more than you could ever be, were hurt because of it.”

She stopped. The deathly scent was growing in the air. Breezepelt’s entire body was stiff with terror he didn’t know he could bare. But for a split second, her look was almost pitying.

“And maybe I understand you. Because I blamed other cats for my problems for a long time as well.” She said softly, “I did some terrible things to, things I didn’t think I could make up for.” She let this linger for a long moment, long enough that Breezepelt had the nerve to relax.

She stripped that away with another piercing, star filled stare. “But I paid for it. Because I was wrong, and I fought to make up for it. Because my loyalty to my clan never left me.” Her head arched back, narrowing her stare at him. “Can you say the same?”

Breezepelt was silent. Not because he wanted to be, but because he had to be.

She dipped her gaze, hissing with enmity. “Well, maybe you can.” She looked up again, hard. Staring right at…

No.

She was staring at something behind him.

Breezepelt’s pupils shrank, and the scent of death and rot grabbed his senses with a pulsing familiarity. His stomach turned cold and dark as he remembered it. Absolute, petrifying panic tore into him like the sting of claws and talons.

As he turned, her voice, calm and casual, yet somehow condoling, rose up and disappeared.

“If your loyalty still lies with them.”

Breezepelt turned.

The moors of Windclan, of home, were not there.

A thick entangled mess of wood and shadows ripped up until they were severing the stars. A red mist dawned everywhere he looked, only penetrated by the army of dead trees and white, cold eyes that winked with dark invitation. The whispery voices lulled over him, begging or demanding him to come home.

The tom turned to run, but the border, she, was gone. He was in the middle of the red mist, the dead, forgotten earth sinking around him. The eyes closed in and the voices descended on him like falcons.

Breezepelt was still screaming when he woke up.

…

“I’m sorry!”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am! I swear!”

“You’re scared, that’s all.”

“Of course, I’m scared! You can’t tell me that I belong there! I’ve done everything I can, I’ve never betrayed Windclan again! You have to believe me! I know what I did was terrible, but I promise you that I’m sorry for what I did!”

“They all say the same thing when they see that.”

“W-What are you talking about?”

“Whenever a cat like you learns that’s what’s on its way. They always start mewling about how sorry they are. But Starclan have a way of knowing if it’s the truth or not.”

“It is the truth! I’ll say it a thousand times if I have to!”

“You mouse-brain. It doesn’t matter what you say! You can say anything, but it’s what you do that’s going to matter!”

“What else can I do?! I’ll live by Windclan until the day I die, I’ll regret what I did every day, I’ll do whatever I can to make it up to the cats I hurt! I’ll do anything to prove it to you!”

“It’s not me you need to prove it to.”

“To prove it to Starclan then! I’m sorry! I swear on my life, I am so so sorry for what I did and I know that it doesn’t change anything about who I hurt or what I tried to do! But please! I’ll do anything you say I need to, just tell me what I need to do!"

“…”

“…please…”

“I think what you did was evil.”

“…”

“You regret it?”

“I do!”

“Then make up for it for the rest of your life.”

She turned away from him and disappeared back into the clouds of stars and light.

…

On the seventh night she was not there.

Breezepelt called, screamed, begged for Hollyleaf to return. He did it until he was awake again, his tears still wet on his fur.

He never dreamt of the border again. He was left on his own choices.

#breezepelt #crowfeather #hollyleaf #Warriors #Warrior Cats #Thunderclan #WindClan #fanfiction #warriors fic

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scatter-the-stars · 4 years

Note

Hi! I don’t know if you are still doing this but I propose this prompt: Kurt/Blaine birthday. Thank you🥰

The last notes of Happy Birthday ring out in the restaurant as Kurt leans in and blows out the sparkling candles on his birthday cake. Cheers and claps fill the silence that followed his friends finishing singing to him.

Kurt laughs as his friend, Anna, leans over and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Happy birthday, old man!”

“I’m only twenty-five,” he states; swipes a hand over where he was kissed.

“Yes, but this officially makes you the oldest person in our group.”

“Only for the next six weeks. Someone’s” he waves a finger in Anna’s face, “birthday is soon. Then you’ll be in the same boat as me.”

“Ugh!” Anna makes a face of disgust. “Don’t remind me. My mother keeps reminding me that I’m getting older and need to settle down, get married, have kids. Blah blah blah.” She makes a gagging noise. “Goes to show how much she knows me. I don’t do want the American dream.”

“I know,” Kurt says with a soft laugh. “You want the guy who holds your interest for the moment.” He casts his eyes to the guy on the other side of Anna who is currently ignoring her and scrolling through his phone. “I must say, your flavor of choice at the moment seems to be a sour one.”

Anna looks at her...whatever the guy is, looks back to Kurt. “Eh. He fucks like a champ. I’ll keep him a for a bit longer because of that.”

Kurt snorts.

He accepts the plate with a slice of cake on it that Trevor hands to him.

“What are you two gabbing on about?” Trevor asks as he slices into the cake again.

“Significant others and their magnificent skills in bed.” Anna minutely tips her head in Oscar’s direction, who has yet to look up from his phone.

Trevor chuckles. “Of course.” He hand new slice of cake to Bailey. “So, we still going to the club after this?”

“No,” Kurt replies at the same time as everyone else says yes. He looks at Anna. “No. I don’t want to. I plans in the morning.”

“Going to the Farmer’s Market are plans I’m sure you can cancel. Besides, it’s your birthday. And I know for certain that you haven’t been out since Paul ended things with you.”

Just hearing his ex’s name has pain pulsing through Kurt. He fights back a wave of emotions while trying to maintain a look of calm and indifference.

That’s hard to manage, though, when he considers that he seriously thought he would be spending the rest of his life with Paul. He was making plans for their life together when Paul suddenly sprung on him that he wanted to end things. That he had even been seeing someone else for several months.

Anna must see the hurt on his face. “Shit! I’m sorry.” She grabs his hand. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Kurt shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“You need to get over that asshole,” Trevor states.

Bailey agrees with a nod of her head. Her braids bouncing with the movement. “He doesn’t deserve another moment of your time.”

“Yes,” Anna says. “That’s why you need to come out with us. Have some fun.”

He considers Anna’s reasoning. Figures he is due for some fun after months of moping. Plus, it is his birthday. He deserves to do something for himself on this day.

“Fine. Let’s go have some fun.”

“Yes!” Anna loudly exclaims before hugging him tightly.

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

Sat alone at the bar nursing his drink, and watching over his friend’s, Kurt politely declines a guy’s attempt to talk to him. He watches his friends all have fun out on the dance floor. Anna dances with Oscar while Bailey and Trevor dance with guys they’ve managed to attract.

Anna comes back to the bar after a couple more songs. A thin sheen of sweat covers her body while strands of her hair clings to the side of her neck. “Are you going to sit here all night? Or are you going to dance?”

“I’ll dance. I’m just working myself up to it.” It was only after he arrived at the club that Kurt remembered he isn’t so good with publicly dancing. That he would rather run a marathon than dance in front of complete strangers.

“No one cares, Kurt.” Anna grabs his hand and yanks him onto the dance floor. “Dance!”

He awkwardly stands in the middle of his group of friends as they all dance around him. Only slightly moves his hips to begin with. Tries not to think that the strangers around him are judging him for his terrible dancing.

Several minutes pass before the alcohol starts to take affect and he loosens up considerably. He closes his eyes and moves without a thought or a care to what other people may think.

Back at the bar after dancing for several songs, Kurt finishes the sweet alcoholic drink he ordered in one drink. Reminds himself that it’s his birthday, and that he can do whatever he wants. Even let himself indulge in a few drinks more than he would.

The happy mood he’s in shatters as reality comes crashing down on him when he looks out and spots Paul with his new boyfriend dancing on the floor. Anger and hurt and sadness quickly replaces his carefree mood. Tears spring to his eyes. But he keeps them at bay. Will not let himself cry in public. Or cry over Paul again.

He stands there and watches Paul. Watches the way he pulls his boyfriend close; runs his hands down over his body. How he laughs at whatever he tells him. Lets his eyes fall close when his boyfriend leans in for a kiss.

It’s seeing that, seeing Paul so happy while he still suffers over what he did to him, that cause him to snap. He orders a shot of tequila. Alcohol knocked back, he slams the glass on the bartop and decides to do something about what Paul did.

Out on the dance floor, close enough to Paul so he notices him, he grabs the closest guy to him and begins to dance with him. Presses back against the stranger’s body. Takes notice of a lean body with hard muscles. Bites back a moan at the sensation of his thick cock rubbing into his ass. Does moan when his large hands roam down the front of his body and down over his cock.

Eyes shift to Paul, who has taken notice of him. A proud smirk spreads across his face when he notices the anger and jealousy in his eyes.

The stranger grabs at his hips and grinds harder into his ass. Sends tendrils of want and heat through him at how wonderful his cock feels against his ass.

Although it’s been months since he last had sex, it takes him by surprise how much he wants this guy he’s dancing with. He has no idea who this person is. Has no clue what kind of guy he could be. But he knows for sure that he wants him. And it’s the first time since Paul that he’s felt that feeling.

Eyes fall closed and he tips his head back on the guy’s shoulder. Whimpers as he drags soft, full lips against his skin. Fights the urge that tells him to turn around and kiss this guy.

A hand grabbing his wrist and yanking him away from the stranger has him throwing his eyes open and finding Paul staring at him with anger.

“Do know who that is?” Paul admonishes him, like he’s a child in trouble for hanging out with the bad kid in the neighborhood.

“What do you care who I’m with?” Kurt yanks his wrist free. “You’re not my boyfriend anymore.”

“Still, Kurt; he’s not good news.”

“I don’t care. It’s my birthday. I can do whatever I want.”

With that, he turns to face the stranger and finds his breath stolen as his eyes land on the most attractive guy he’s ever seen. With short, curly hair, tan skin, hazel eyes that look at him intrigue and desire, and a mouth that can only be described as sin with desirable lips turned up in amusement.

“Happy birthday, Kurt,” the stranger says.

Kurt doesn’t stop the guy when he pulls him close and crushes their mouths together.

He’s been kissed before. Shared thousands of kisses with Paul. Kissed many guys before him. But this kiss right here, this kiss that makes him weak in the knees, and causes tingles from his head to his toes, blows all those other kisses out of the water.

This stranger claims his mouth in the most amazing and dizzying way. Plunges his tongue past his lips and into his mouth with a force that would knock him off his feet if the guy didn’t have his arm wound around his waist holding him up.

The kiss is the most rough one he’s ever experienced. Paul was always so gentle and careful with him. Never wanted to go past a certain point. And the guys he kissed before him, never kissed to this extent. So this is all brand new to him. Is exciting and thrilling. Leaves him hungering for more; to know what it would feel like to be fucked by this guy.

A hand glides down his back and grabs at his ass. He whimpers into the guy’s mouth. Presses closer to him. Presses his hip as hard into the guy’s as he can. Moans at feeling how turned on he is making him feel.

Before things get too carried away, he pulls away. Lips swollen and feeling well attacked, he stares into hazel eyes that burn with a fire that he wants to help put out.

But the rational part of him, the part that is still sober, reminds him that he doesn’t know this guy. That going home with a complete stranger is the worst thing he could do.

As much as he would love to stay in the guy’s arms and continue what they were doing, Kurt pulls away from him. He barely hears Paul as he says his name. Keeps his focus on the guy in front of him. Doesn’t look away once when Paul attempts to yank him further away.

The guy steps closer to him. A grin on his delectable, and addicting, lips. “Let’s get out of here so I can give you a real birthday present.”

Oh, god, yes!

“Stay the fuck away from him!”

Kurt barely hears Paul’s reply to the guy’s request. Is too busy trying to talk himself out of not accepting his tempting offer.

“This your guard dog?” The guy tips his head to Paul in annoyance.

“My ex,” he replies.

“So, he doesn’t get say in whatever choices you make.” The guy looks at Paul. “Fuck off!”

“No. He may not know who you, or your reputation. But I do. And I won’t allow it.”

That leaves Kurt curious. He wonders who this person is before him. How Paul could possibly know him.

The guy pulls him close and kisses him again. And Kurt finds his resolve dwindling with each passing second as the guy’s lips are on his. He pulls his arm free from Paul’s grasp. Grabs at the back of the guy’s head and deepens the kiss. Parts his lips and once again welcomes the guy’s strong, firm tongue into his mouth. Moans as he massages it against his own.

After a few moments, he breaks the kiss and steps back. “I have to go.”

Every fiber of his being wants to go home and let this guy give him a wild, memorable night. But a one night stand is not who he is. He doesn’t sleep with men he doesn’t know.

Right as the guy steps forward to try and stop him from leaving, he turns and disappears into the throng of people. Quickly makes his exit from the club. Pulls in a deep, steadying breath once he’s outside. Hails a cab and leaves before someone comes outside and finds him, and he does something he will regret. Especially the guy. Because he’s sure if he were to see him again, he wouldn’t be as strong a second time in rejecting him.

Back home, he climbs into his bed and falls asleep while thinking about those phenomenal kisses.

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

The constant pinging and buzzing from his phone is what wakes him early the next morning. He grabs it, thinking something terrible happened, only to find dozens of texts and emails and notifications.

He opens his phone and goes to Anna’s text first. Is confused by what he reads.

Anna: HOW THE FUCK DID YOU END UP KISSING BLAINE ANDERSON?

He has no idea who or what she’s talking about. Opens Trevor’s and Bailey’s texts and finds much of the same from them.

Confused and in the dark, Kurt decides to do what any person does in this day and age: goes to Google for answers.

He types Blaine’s name into the search bar and lets out a loud and surprised gasp when the results pop up.

The first thing he notices is a new article that has a picture of him being kissed by the stranger, Blaine, the night before. The title reading Bad Boy of Basketball Blaine Anderson Caught Locking Lips With Another Guy.

There are dozens of more articles that go along with that one. Pictures of him in a deep kiss with Blaine as he grabs at his ass splashed all over website after website he visits.

He makes the mistake of reading comments on one website. Grows upset with each new one he reads that call him all kinds of things. Doesn’t understand how people who don’t even know him could say such horrible things about him.

Phone thrown down on the bed, he covers his face with a pillow and lets out the scream that built inside him

Looks like he made a huge mistake the night before. One that was captured by someone, and is now internet fodder for gossip sites and news stations.

He takes relief in knowing that last night was a one time thing with Blaine. That he’ll never see him again. Because, based on what he read, Blaine has a reputation for sleeping around. At moving from guy to guy to guy. Which makes what Paul said the night before finally make sense.

As far as birthdays go, this has to be the most memorable and craziest.

#klaine #klaine fic #klaine fanfic #Kurt Hummel #Blaine Anderson #got some of my writing mojo back #YAY!#hope you enjoy this

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smeraldos · 4 years

Text

stuck in second gear

so no one told you love was going to be this way.

summary: the tables have been set, the guests have arrived, and congratulations are ready to be made.

all you have to do is show up...

wedding!au

pairings: taehyung/reader, namjoon/reader

genres: love, suspense, bittersweet symphony

words: 2.6K+

Once upon a dream, you’d thought your wedding would be a fairytale. Now you know why some stories have to end: what lies beyond "happily ever after" isn't always so pleasant.

Which is why you're trying to prevent it.

Sure, you don't have the best timing, but it's better late than never. Even if it means sneaking out your dressing room in a ton of satin.

"______? How are you doing?"

Startled, you step back from the window. "Great, just give me a few."

“A few what?" Phoebe quips from the other side of the door. "Hours? Years? You know we don’t have that time.”

“You don’t have it or you aren’t willing to give it?”

“Honey, I offered you help and you didn’t take it, so that’s on you. Now are you going to let me in or are you coming out?”

“I’ll come out.” You scramble to gather the train of your dress, but it’s too long. Spotting a pair of scissors leftover from ribbon cutting, you grab it and start cutting off the fabric. “In five minutes.”

“So what do I tell your fiancé?”

“Not to worry because it looks ugly on him and only I should see his ugly face.”

She laughs. "You got that, pretty prince?"

"I'm writing it in my vows," your fiancé says, and maybe you'd find it funny in a sitcom, but it's your life. You panic. The dresser you pushed against the door is not heavy enough to keep him out.

"You're welcome," Phoebe replies for you, oblivious to your dread. "Now shoo. I better not see you up here until ______ walks down the aisle."

He makes a kissy noise in return, right before you hear a loud beep.

Oh.

“He’s a total kid, I don’t know how you put up with him," Phoebe says to you now. "Actually, don’t tell me. Just hurry up before he comes in and whisks you out himself. Five minutes!”

You don’t need to be told twice. As soon as her footsteps recede, you make quick work of the train and step onto the windowsill. A branch hangs before you, connecting to a tree that is your only way out. It’s risky. Not to mention you haven’t scaled a tree since you were a teenager, and clearly not in a dress of this size. Well. Either you go big or you go home.

You know which one isn’t an option anymore.

...

Taehyung met you in middle school, when he'd moved from the valley to the city. As much as he hated to gloss over people, he'd admit he wouldn't have become your friend if you hadn't been his lab partner first. Not that you weren't fun or interesting or cool - in fact, you were all three, but you ran in a different circle than he did. His was full of troublemakers. He was one of those kids who got bored easily if they weren't being challenged, so it was a good thing Jimin (the only other kid with a Korean name) and you came into his life when you did.

He'd also considered it a miracle you both stayed. Or so he hopes.

"Hey," Jimin, elevated to best man, steps up to him and pats his back. "Earth to Galactica, what's the status update?"

Taehyung tries to smile, but it's hard to do when his mouth is stuffed with strawberries. He's been sneaking them in to get his mind off of feeling nervous and the fact that you're supposed to show up soon, but why does he have this weird feeling that you won't?

He hides it with a joke. "In 150 characters or less?"

"Preferably zero with that mosh pit," Jimin says, gesturing to his mouth. "Chew with your mouth shut. I'll wait."

Taehyung glares. Jimin can say what he wants now, but he's forgetting he used to chew gum like a cow on grass and who would let him get away with it? Taehyung, that's who.

And because he's such a good pal, he does as instructed. That's not to say he doesn't gargle some water, obnoxiously loud, to get back at him. At the end of the day, their friendship is built off of moments like this.

It's why Jimin snorts right as Taehyung starts to speak.

"Sorry," he says. At least he has the decency to look like it. "You should have seen the look on those girls' faces. They were ready to give you the stink eye for gargling, but the minute they saw you, it was game over."

"The game has been over since ______."

"Right." Jimin gets back on topic. "So what did Phoebe say?"

"______ will be on her way in five. I just don't know if she will at all."

"Did something happen?"

"No, she just won't accept any help. Don't you think that's weird? Apparently, the dress is a piece of work."

"And if anyone can pull it off, she can," Jimin assures. "You know she doesn't let anyone bug her in the middle of doing something she cares about. She's probably in there triple-checking all the details."

Taehyung has a feeling that isn't the case - they haven't addressed the elephant in the room. He mentions it first.

"You don't think she's getting cold feet, do you?"

A flicker of worry crosses Jimin's face, gone in an instant. He'd always been good at that: putting on a brave face.

"Tae," he says, "you're it for ______, and you've both come this far already. I doubt she'd change her mind now. But in the smaller than my pinky chance she does, she won't do it without telling you."

Here's where Taehyung should agree (and laugh). But a couple weeks ago, you'd distanced yourself, and no matter what he tried, you wouldn't say what was wrong.

So he'd given you some space. To cheer you up, he left a Happy Meal outside your door, and instead of a toy, he'd placed little matryoshka dolls, inside of which lay a ticket to the Met. He knows you went - you'd sent him a pic of yourself next to Starry Night later that week. Yet you still haven't told him why you were stressed.

Taehyung takes a breath, thinks of a quick prayer. It’s as much for you as it is for the guests you both loved, for his best man who shouldn't be worrying on his behalf.

"You're right," he says, faking an easy smile. "Thanks Chim. Remind me to give you that bottle from Napa later."

Jimin's eyes smile right back.

...

Incoming Call: Mr. Park

He swipes to red before you can see it. A text appears.

Did you find ______?

Jin did not sign up for this. He came for free food, a good time, and if he were honest, the chance to distract himself with someone else's happy ending. Small joys. If he stacked them up, maybe he'd have a nice building to look at. Maybe that nice building would block the dull view of the parking lot he woke up to each morning.

Instead, he is chauffeur to a runaway bride eating animal fries in the backseat. You gulp down some Coke and release a loud burp.

"What?" You ask when he gives you a look. "It's the baby."

The laughter dies in his throat when you abruptly stop, your cheeks growing red. So you hadn't meant to tell him that...which meant it wasn't a food baby. He places another hand on the steering wheel. Usually, he's the one giving people a ride, not the other way around.

"How far along are you?"

"Two weeks," you say. "Give or take."

"I see," he says. "So what's the deal between you guys, if you don't mind me asking?"

You give him the lowdown because he doesn't seem to care. And if he doesn't care, he won't judge. You watch his eyes through the rearview mirror, noting they look too honest to belong to someone who claimed to be a liar. Maybe that's the point.

Or maybe you've seen too many movies and they're getting to your head, Taehyung would say. To which you'd say it was his fault for dragging you to the discount theater too often. And he'd agree, admit he's a bad influence with his boyish smile, the sunlight crowning his head like a halo.

"Let me get this straight," Jin says. "You want to go through with this?"

"Yes."

"You don't sound very sure."

Have you always been this obvious or is your guilt starting to show? You settle for the closest truth. "It's a hard decision."

Jin doesn't push you, just keeps his eyes on the road. Before he drops you off at the airport, you ask him to stop by your apartment. You need a change of clothes.

"Big day today?" A tenant asks, beaming at your dress.

You hope your smile doesn't look like a grimace.

...

The fact that you don't live with Taehyung makes it easier to pack up. Kind of. He leaves behind belongings as naturally as Chopa sheds fur, and if he weren't so great at distracting you, maybe you would have noticed just how much of him you'd accumulated. His felt jacket is slung over the arm of your couch, his records are tucked in your shelves, the print he'd given you of Basquiat's Now's The Time is on the floor, leaning against a wall. Each of them comes with their own memories, some you'll one day forget. But now, looking at them all, you remember everything. You'll always hate yourself for that night you cheated on him, for ruining what could have been a happy life with the man you love.

As you empty out your drawer, you will yourself not to cry.

...

In the end, Taehyung finds you. When you open the door, he's standing in the hallway, looking like he wants to talk. You have no doubt he'll try to understand. He's quick to listen and slow to anger, an advocate of second chances you don't deserve.

The instant he registers your suitcase, however, he stiffens. "I'll grab my things."

"Taehyung--" you try to say, but he brushes past without another word. Resigned, you follow him in, watching as he plucks some records off your shelves. An envelope falls to the floor, facedown. It's still sealed, so he must have meant for you to find it, only you never did. He picks that up, too. He sweeps his scarf off your coat rack, his bracelets off your counter, and the bag of Chopa's dog toys off the floor. The felt jacket he skips over.

"Isn't that yours?" You ask quietly, sinking into the couch.

"No," he says. "It's yours."

You're pretty sure it's his...until you realize it isn't. He'd borrowed it a while ago, and you thought it looked much better on him than it did dwarfing you. He takes one last glance around the room and turns to go.

"Wait," you say, "I--"

He doesn't let you finish, stepping into his shoes and heading straight for the door. You don't know what to do. Impulsively, you run in front of him, blocking his way.

"______," Taehyung says, his voice so solemn it scares you, "weren't you going to leave?"

You plead with your eyes, unwilling to budge. "Please just let me explain."

He makes a sound that is somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Like this is easy? Leaving you?"

"You already did it," he says. "That was your decision to make, and this is mine. I'll take care of the guests. Don't keep your driver waiting."

You might as well have been slapped. Your conscience smarts from the sting of it.

"Forget him," you bite out. "I don't care about getting on a flight to who knows where since I didn't get a plane ticket. Did you know that? Because up until a few minutes ago, I wanted to marry you, Taehyung. I still do. But I'm pregnant and..." The rest of your words dissolve into tears.

Taehyung can’t believe this is happening. Or rather, he doesn't want to believe it. Then the pieces start falling into place - your hands trembling as you told him you cheated, the weeks before the wedding when you insisted on being alone, your ill-timed escape - and it's twice as painful. That baby you're carrying isn't his.

He has every right to resent you, but how could he, when you're like this?

Quietly, he lets go of his things and gathers you into his arms, holding your tear-stained face to his chest.

"I'm such a jerk." You suck in a sharp, shallow breath. "I was scared to tell you because I'd messed up our relationship once, and once is too much, you know?"

"I know."

"I don't deserve you."

"Of course you do." His voice is wet, and when you look up, he gently brushes away your tears. He's crying, too. "I love you."

...

A few years pass before you see Taehyung at the altar. Jimin reprises his role as best man and leaves with a pat on the shoulder.

Next to you, Jeongguk sniffles loudly. “What?” He says when you turn to him. “It’s touching.”

"Oh, stop. Nothing happened yet."

"Weddings just get to me, okay? I need to squeeze out every last teardrop so I don't interrupt the ceremony." Then he asks Annika if he can have a tissue. Annika, kind as always, does one better. She pulls him in like a mother hen and lets him cry on her shoulder. "Go ahead, honey. Let it all out," she murmurs, glaring at you as if it's your fault he was crying in the first place.

"There, there." Yoongi, beside Annika, says halfheartedly. You shoot him a sharp look, but he just shrugs, mouthing: What did I do?

You sigh. You guess you can't blame him for being smitten with Annika. She took you in after all, helping you to move on once you'd parted ways with Taehyung. Phoebe had introduced you to her, Namjoon, Yoongi, and Jeongguk, and you couldn't have wished for a better group of friends. Or a better set of aunts and uncles for Nina. Your daughter is standing right in front of the church doors now, a woven basket of confetti clutched in her hand.

She looks so adorable you want to embarrass her. (At 5, she's adamant on being a big girl. And that meant you couldn't blow kisses at her or squish her cheeks without getting the cutest annoyed pout.) Unfortunately, someone stepping on your foot distracts you.

"Sorry." Namjoon gives you a sheepish grin. He'd just run back from the restroom. "I didn't miss anything, did I?"

You reach out to pull a lick of his slicked back hair over his brow. "Now you did," you say, cheeky, and he's about to smother you in a hug as payback when the pianist begins to play. Nina has too much fun scattering the confetti.

In walks a line of bridesmaids and groomsmen, two by two. They separate to either end like the petals of a flower in bloom.

Then comes the bride. Lily. You don't have to see her to know she's beautiful. You can tell by the way Taehyung's face lights up, the sun on his face making him golden. You're happy to see him happy, although you have to look somewhere above them when they kiss.

The fact is, you still love him. In a different way, one that's familiar because you've been friends long before becoming anything romantic. But in rare moments, you catch yourself feeling blue.

Namjoon squeezes your hand. You didn't realize you were gripping his.

"Are you okay?" He whispers.

You look at him, Yoongi and Annika, Jeongguk. Phoebe, who's making the stranger to her right hide a laugh. (His name is Jay, she'd told you excitedly. But he moonwalks like Michael.)

"I'm okay," you whisper back, and Namjoon smiles. It isn't until you say it aloud that you realize it's true.

...

a/n: happy 7th birthday to bts, who give me hope that dreams aren’t a lost cause 💜

title taken from the infamous Rembrandts’ song, which you might recognize here.

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miss-tc-nova · 3 years

Text

Ursine Ire - Hermod x Fem!Reader

I’ve been dying to do something with Hermod and his temper, so here it is! And I think I’ve finally got my chaos in check for a while, so hopefully I can get another fic or two out before Christmas rolls around. Also, sorry this one feels a little more straightforward than most of my stuff.

~~~~~

I’m late! I’m so late! They’re gonna kill me!

Feet hit the stone path as fast as I can manage without blindly running into innocent bystanders—though there were a few close calls.

Today, my friends and I are off to see a production Vor and Urd have been demanding we all attend—I was supposed to meet them half an hour ago. Now I’m racing like a rabbit from a dog praying I don’t have to face the wrath of the female wielders.

Rounding a corner, my heart, just like my foot, skips when I nearly collide with the crowd I’ve let down.

An outstretched arm intercepts me before I can crash. “Woah! Slow down!”

Hermod, my boyfriend and the reason I have a great group of new friends, pulls me upright. Steadied by my grip on his haori, I heave so hard my lungs might just fall on the concrete.

“And here we thought you’d forgotten,” teases the red-head. When I can’t stop gasping, Bragi tacks on, “Geeze, I thought Eraqus was Tardy Fleetfoot.”

Said ‘Fleetfoot’ leans down. “Are you okay?”

One more breath gives me my voice back. “I’m so sorry I’m late! I was reading a book and I lost track of time! When I looked at the clock, I freaked out and ran all the way here! I’m so sorry!”

Soft chuckling brings my attention to the young man with an arm still around me. “It’s alright. We’ve still got some time,” he chuckles. A dip of his head connects his lips to my forehead, washing over that anxiety with a sweet serenity.

“Cut it out, you two,” Urd insists, clearly not pleased by my tardiness. My boyfriend leans back, still happy but with a tad bit of sheepish mixed in. “That time we have is not enough for you to make out. If we don’t get going, we’ll miss the show.”

“It might already be sold out!” little blond Vor exclaims.

“Then let’s get a move on,” urges the boy in black.

The group agrees and scampers through the streets towards the theater. When we get there, we see the mass of people shuffling into the stadium.

“Okay, Vor and I will get the tickets,” insists the taller girl, holding her hand out expectantly.

The boys rifle through pockets, but when I notice Hermod doing the same, I take his sleeve.

“I’m paying this time,” I say.

“Oh, it’s alright. I don’t mind.”

“I don’t care if you mind. You paid for the last date; it’s my turn.” His mouth opens to argue. “Don’t make me ask nicely.”

As it so happens, my asking Hermod ‘nicely’ is actually giving him the best puppy eyes I can, letting my bottom lip slip forward just a little, and saying please. My poor teddy bear has yet to refine any resistance to this technique. Due to this unfair trump card, I reserve it for dire occasions but sometimes just its mention is enough to tilt things in my favor.

Shoulders slouch. “Fine.”

Victoriously smiling, I place a peck against his cheek and scurry after the girls. As we chat, a peculiar couple comes up behind us. The woman tears into the man about them not showing up on time—I kind of feel sorry for him. Even so, their conflict is so unbearably awkward that it completely silences the light-hearted conversation we’d been having. There’s only a single person in front of us, but they cannot move fast enough to get us away from this disaster. Thankfully, after Urd gets her batch of tickets, the man sends the woman away, leaving the queue in an uncomfortable silence.

Vor grabs hers next and bustles away while I quickly purchase mine. About halfway between the ticket booth and my friends, a hand takes my shoulder: it’s the man.

“Uh…can I help you?” I ask, disquiet quickly simmering in my gut.

“Yeah, actually, you bought the last two tickets. Mind if I take them?” There’s not even a trace of politeness in his words—it’s more like a statement than a request.

Eyes dart to the group gossiping not that far away. I point in their direction. “Actually, I’m here to see the show with my friends. Sorry.”

Anger rivaling the woman’s snaps into place. “So what. They can tell you about it later. Give me those tickets!”

Not exactly a fighter myself, I step back. As I do, he reaches for me.

A flash of green swipes up, swatting the grasping hand away. My boyfriend has come to save me with suspicion written across his face.

“Is there a problem here?”

“It’s none of your business,” growls the man.

Slate eyes turn on me and I tell him, “He wants our tickets.”

“And you paid for them?” I nod. Ever polite, the young man says, “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t have our tickets. Please excuse us.” He turns back to me. “Come on. The show’s starting.”

Relief takes over too soon when a fist appears around my wrist. So tight is the grasp that my hand quavers and I’m certain there will be bruising. This sudden spike of pain draws a yelp from my mouth that the heckler doesn’t acknowledge as he jerks me closer.

In the next instant, I’m free. In the same manner, a hand crushes the thug’s wrist. An existential dread rolls over me and the man seems to realize he’s made a mistake.

I’ve always described my soft Hermod as a bear: he’s the biggest sweetheart, always looking out for me, and as cuddly as one might expect. However, another reason my brain thinks of a bear when concerning my boyfriend is his rage. He has a saintly patience; it takes something truly serious to push him to anger—something like assaulting his girlfriend—and when he reaches that point, he is terrifying. I’ve only ever seen this one other time when he was having a truly miserable day. He apologized afterwards but I will never forget the fury he exhumed, almost as if he were another person. He is the embodiment of a bear, anger and all.

“Hermod!” Vor shouts.

“Hold on there, Brother Bear!” Bragi appears and places a hand on the threatening arm.

“How dare you,” Hermod snarls lowly, ignoring his friends. Barely veiled violence hides in his eyes. “She is under no obligation to give you anything and her refusal to do so gives you no right to put your hands on her.” I see his grip tighten, bringing the assailant to his knees. “Now apologize.”

There’s resistance but a further constricting grip accompanied by bared teeth coerce a response. “S-Sorry!”

Hermod’s hold releases, signaling that his uncertain classmates can relax.

“You’d do well to learn some manners,” growls the irate boy. With that, an arm gently ushers me away from the scene. Every bit of that tense anger can be felt in his shielding arm. Anxiety bubbles in my chest but I follow without fuss.

Only a few steps away and the man shows us he’s learned nothing. A boot to the back of my knee messes up my balance. My elbow scrapes across the ground though I’m far more concerned with the ensuing roar. Peering back reveals a frenzied Hermod swinging his keyblade. The weapon strikes the man hard enough to send him across the clearing into a brick wall where he crumples to the ground. Only three straining boys stop the young man from resuming his rampage.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING COME NEAR HER AGAIN!” My jaw drops—I’ve never heard Hermod utter a single curse word in all our time dating, even on his worst days.

The girls dash for the downed man. Urd exclaims, “He’s out cold!”

“I WILL DESTROY YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

“He can’t hear anything!” Xehanort shouts.

“You got ‘im!” adds Bragi. “He’s done!”

Their words fall on deaf ears as the fight to get at his foe floods Hermod’s mind. It’s frightening, far worse than the last time I saw him like this. If the others let him go, who knows what he’d do to that man—I can’t even guarantee murder would be off the table.

As I watch the struggle, his name barely escapes my mouth. “Hermod.”

Nothing changes; he’s still fighting—fighting to defend me.

This is for me…

Shoving off the ground, I rush to help the boys. Fists snag handfuls of the haori and push against his chest.

“Hermod, stop! Please!”

It all freezes; only heavy pants from the four boys breaks the silence. Almost afraid of what I might find, I peek up at my boyfriend’s face—it’s blank, like a chalkboard wiped clean. I don’t know if this makes me relieved or worried.

Vor breaks the silence with an announcement. “Guys, he might need a doctor.”

The wary boys release their classmate and Xehanort leans towards Bragi. “We’ll take care of the moron; you get these two someplace they can calm down.”

“Good plan.” A palm to the chest pushes the impassive boy back. “Alright Brother Bear, let’s get outta here. You too, chickadee, come on.”

Bragi steers the two of us down the street away from the mess we left. Silence stirs the distress I’d been boiling throughout the ordeal; I’m unable to stop ruminating on images of that fury.

At the student dorms where the keyblade wielders train, our chaperone branches off. He leaves us in the entrance hall, still stifled in quiet, but returns rather quickly.

“Yo, Hermod.” He shoves a box into the taller boy’s arms. “You might wanna patch up your girlfriend.”

A light finally sparks in his eyes and Hermod turns on me. “Are you okay?”

This is my Hermod and it’s almost alarming how this gentle giant could turn into something so vicious.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

That pain adds to my uncertainty, but it all goes out the window when my feet leave the ground. Too stunned to do anything about it, I let Hermod carry me through the halls of the student dorms; I do, however, flinch when his door flies open and closes with another slam. Hermod’s back hits the wall and he slumps to the floor, still clinging to me.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into my shoulder.

It takes a moment to gather my words. “That…That was pretty scary,” I whisper back.

“I know and you deserve to be mad at me. I was out of line and I wasn’t thinking, but when he…”

I already know why it happened, not that it makes it any better. Still, Hermod’s actions were for my sake; I don’t condone what he did but that man made it clear he wasn’t giving up without a fight. My boyfriend was protecting me.

“Thank you.” Those slate eyes give me a perturbed look. I let the corners of my mouth turn up. “For sticking up for me.”

Gods, I wanted to make him feel better, not add to that misery. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“I know.” I brush the hair from his face. “You’re such a sweetheart. But maybe next time we don’t knock someone unconscious with our keyblade.”

He let’s a guilty sigh escape him, dropping his gaze. “I’m so sorry.”

A finger leads his gaze back to me. “I forgive you. And I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

Again, his face hides against me. “It’s not your fault.” Pushing him back, I take his face in my hands and raise a brow; he gets the hint. “But I forgive you.”

“I love you, Hermod,” I say, running circles across his cheeks with my thumbs.

There’s the smile I’ve been looking for. “I love you too.”

Content with the response, I kiss him. It’s short but oh so sweet—they always are with Hermod. I’d spend hours on end kissing him if there weren’t other matters to attend to.

“Hermod?”

“Hmm?” It’s a dreamy, peaceful sort of hum.

“Who taught you the F word?” My accusations are mostly in jest but the results are perfectly entertaining. My gentle teddy bear bursts into a blush and begins stammering like a fool. “It was Bragi, wasn’t it?”

“I—I—you—wh—”

“I’m only teasing,” I sing, pinching at his cheeks. “Now fix my elbow please.”

This vexed sigh comes with an adoring smile as he reaches for the first aid kit.

#hermod #kh hermod #khdr hermod #hermod x reader #fem!reader

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oyesmendes · 4 years

Text

love is...

a/n: everything i dreamed of with the right person. this is a WIP that i’ll be adding onto whenever i have new ideas!! just bc love is alot of things and there are many concepts that i adore. ❤️

love is walking your dog on a Saturday morning no matter how tired you are.

There was no explanation as to how Luke and Quinn fell in love with one another, it just happened. They were like two peas in a pod, puzzle pieces that fit perfectly with one another. Maybe they had their dogs to thank, but neither of them would ever admit that.

The pair met each other on a Saturday morning, where Luke was dragging Petunia on a walk while Quinn was being dragged by Bowie. The park was quiet seeing that it was only 8AM, but Quinn had to get the energy out of Bowie or she’d never have a moment of peace during the day. Luke and Petunia on the other hand, they didn’t have a reason to be at the park but up till today, Luke was thankful that he was.

“Oh come on Bowie, don’t shove your face into her ass” Quinn tugged on the leash, pulling her German Shepard towards her.

“S’alright, I don’t think she’d mind having a new friend. Isn’t that right, Petunia.” Luke cupped the face of his dog, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Quinn smiled at him, then releasing the tug that she had on Bowie. He ruffled the top of Bowie’s head, earning a bunch of kisses from the large dog.

“I’m Luke.”

“I’m Quinn.” They shook hands like normal strangers but it was no doubt that they noticed the beauty of the other person - Quinn saw the way Luke’s eyes shone under the light, and he saw how Quinn’s smile was brighter than the sun. They let both their dogs off the leash, allowing them to get to know each other as their parents interacted. Little did any of them know that the two dogs would become best friends, just like their parents did.

It’s like the warmth of the sun rays hitting your skin

They were out on a hike again, this time without their dogs. The afternoon sun beating down on the pair mercilessly as they hiked uphill. Her hand was intertwined with his, the skin to skin contact was sweaty, but comforting. It had only been three months since they started going out with each other, a month since they shared their first ‘I love you’ and two weeks since she met his best friends. Everything seemed to be going at top speed, but it all felt right to Luke, like things had fallen into place and he was finally seeing light again. Quinn enjoyed these moments with him as well, getting to know Luke for who he was off-stage, as a normal human being.

It took them three hours to reach the end of the trail, the magnificent view of LA right below their feet. Luke had his hand around her shoulder, Quinn’s arms wrapped around his waist as they took in the sight. They always stood like this at the end of their hikes - just to take in the view and bask in the sun. They talked about their lives while they hiked, what they had missed before they found each other. Quinn told him about her massive family, her boring 9 to 5 job, her favourite food, and anything she could think of. Luke told her about his extraordinary job as a musician, the travelling and his bandmates who he called his brothers.

They’d drive to either of their homes, dogs bounding at them when they entered. Quinn would dance while she cooked, and Luke would hum softly to the tunes while admiring his girl. They would kiss more than cook, often times causing a scene with their food.

“Luke! The pasta!” Water was overflowing out of the pot due to their lack of attention to it. She’d panic but Luke would laugh it off, saying how they should order takeout the next time. Though throughout the rest of their relationship, no one ever recalled them ordering takeout.

It is midnight driving with no destination

“You sure we should leave the dogs alone at this hour?” Quinn questioned as she put on her sneakers, Luke grabbing both their jackets in his hand.

“They’d be fine, they’re both well trained. Besides, they’re probably tired out after hanging out with each other the entire day.” Quinn still had her worries, but she wouldn’t pass off an opportunity to be with \ Luke, so off they went. They were driving on the somewhat quiet streets of Downtown LA, no destination in mind. Just soft music playing and talking about the little things in life. Quinn had a bag of McDonalds on her lap, feeding fries to Luke two at a time as he drove onto a street that up to the hills. He stopped at a random parking lot, one with a view of the skyline and they both got out of the car to sit on the hood. She was snuggled in his arms, fries and chicken nuggets devoured a long time ago.

“Quinn?” She hummed in response.

“Do you want to get married?” He looked down at her. Her head was resting on his chest, a soft smile graced her lips.

“Are you proposing right now?”

“No, but I would like to in the near future.” She sat up so her eyes met his. He watched as her hands grazed his cheeks, across his lips and along his jaw before she leaned in to press her soft lips against his. She smiled into the kiss, just like always because it felt good, she felt happy.

“I would love to marry you, Luke Hemmings.”

But love is also ugly

“Don’t you dare put this on me, Quinn.”

“Put this on you? Fuck, who was the one who walked into the house all somber and moody? Who was the one that snapped at me when all I did was ask how you were?” He could see the fire in Quinn’s eyes, the anger bubbling in her chest.

“I don’t need you breathing down my neck every second of the day!”

“I’m not doing that!”

“Fuck!” Luke swiped his hands across the kitchen island, throwing the beer bottle to the floor. Quinn’s eyes widened as she took a step back, wrapping her arms around her torso. The dinner she spent the afternoon cooking was now long forgotten, sitting ice cold on the dining table. She looked at Luke who had his hands gripping the counter top so tightly, his eyes squeezed shut as he breathed. Quinn put her hand atop Luke’s, stroking it softly. She already had her keys in her pocket, hoodie over her T-shirt and Bowie’s leash in her hand.

"I-I should go."

"Don't." Luke said barely over a whisper.

And you have to realise, it’s not always 50/50.

Quinn approaches him slowly, hand resting on his back. She hears him sob, tears dripping onto the counter top. Her touch brings him back to reality, pulls him out of those thoughts and his grip loosens from the table. She takes this chance to move him so his body faces hers.

"Don't go" He chokes out. Quinn could feel her heart physically break from the sound of his words. She cups his face in her hands so their eyes meet.

"Okay, I'm not leaving. I'm here." He leans his head on her shoulder, arms wrapping tightly around her waist. She tries to take as much of his 6’3” body into her tiny frame, rubbing circles on his back. She lets him cry his heart out, and babble incoherent words.

"I just want to love you in the way you deserve." Luke pulls away first, wiping the tears that stained his cheeks.

"Baby, you are doing that. You’ve always done that.”

"No, not on days like this. I can't give you what you deserve when I'm like this." His head is now hung low, back pressed to the kitchen sink behind him. She approaches him, hands intertwined with his. Quinn kisses his knuckles softly and brings his hands to her chest.

“You can, and you always have. Lu, you’ve given me your everything the past eight months we’ve been together. You’re human and it’s impossible to always give me the same amount of affection and love every day, you need to understand that. This is life - we give, we take and somewhere along the way we might lose some; but that doesn’t make me love you any less.”

Through it all, love is crazy and it works, especially between the right people.

Quinn bounces on her feet as she’s stood in the arrival hall of the airport, a huge sign in her hand that reads ‘I’m looking for Quinn Barker’s Boyfriend!’ In neon yellow against a black background. She spots his tall figure a mile away, head of curls hidden under a hoodie with his large suitcases in tow. He was too engrossed in a conversation with Michael that he nearly misses her. Thankfully, his brothers had long noticed her striking sign, a smirk forming on their face once Luke noticed her.

It felt like a scene from the movies when his eyes locked with hers. She was running towards him and he opened his arms for her to crash straight into him. Tears of joy filled both their eyes, finally being able to hold the other person after being apart for six months. Quinn grinned as she pulled away, reaching into her jacket pocket to take out a black velvet box.

“I have something for you.” She mumbles. Luke looks at her in surprise - is that box what he thinks it is? She opens it, and in it holds two gold rings. His smile grew even wider and her face was starting to hurt from the permanent grin on her face as well.

“You made me wait too damn long, Lu. So I’m gonna ask you - will you marry me?” He kisses her passionately at her words, murmuring a ‘yes’ as their lips moved. Luke picks her up from the floor to spin her around. Quinn squeals as her feet lifts off the ground, laughing and smiling like the idiot that she is. When he puts her down, she takes his ring and slips it on for him as he does for her.

“You’re crazy, future Mrs Hemmings.”

“Crazy for you, my love.”

#5sos #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fic #5 second of summer imagines #luke hemmings #luke hemmings fic #luke hemmings imagine #michael clifford #michael clifford fic #michael clifford imagines #calum hood #calum hood fics #calum hood imagines #ashton irwin #ashton irwin fic #ashton irwin imagine

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forkanna · 6 years

Link

[AO3 LINK] [EF LINK]

The small lump in the corner that was Dorothy only seemed briefly startled when Glinda came to get her the following morning. However, she was far more surprised when instead, she went to the Tin Man's cell.

"So we're going to do a thing," the blonde witch began uneasily. "You… have to have figured out by now that we can't just let you run around willy nilly. You attacked Nessa more than once, and the threats you made were pretty graphictitious! So while I-"

"HMMHHPHH!" he growled through the makeshift gag.

"Enough of that, now," she warned in a sing-song, as if scolding a small child. "Anyway, you're going to be moved upstairs into one of the other rooms, and I'm going to try to tinker with you for a while. Maybe it'll do some good, maybe not. But all the same, I think we should give it the old Shiz try, don't you?"

Clearing her throat, Dorothy approached the bars and whispered meekly, "You aren't going to hurt him, are you? I kn- I know he hasn't been kind to you, but he's been most kind to me!"

"Don't you worry your pretty little head," she replied in a soft, consoling tone. "I can't promise what I do won't hurt, but I'm not going to do anything purely to hurt him. My hope is that I can help him some way or other. And if I can't… well, I guess we could just pop him right back into this cell afterward. No harm done."

Then Glinda unlocked the cell and went inside, securing manacles around his wrists and arms and legs — ones not bolted to the wall. Once he was secure enough that he could not escape or attack, she released him from the wall and stood back, raising her wand.

"Alright, let's try this one again… bubblitio!" Nothing. She took a deep, calming breath and attempted, "Bulbulious bubblissimo! Bumbulous bumbletonia! Spheroidimax voluminia!"

"Uhmmm," the Scarecrow that was Fiyero said as Glinda waved her wand frantically. "None of those sound like very magical words."

Her lips pouted at him and her brow furrowed. "And just whom amongst us is a witch? You? I don't believe so!"

"You're not much of one, either," the Lion grumbled lazily from atop his paws.

"Hey! That isn't very kind!"

"I'm not much of a Lion myself; no offense was intended."

Shrugging that off, she narrowed her eyes and tried the first word again, focusing hard. "BUBBLITIO!"

This time, an almost invisible pink film began to wrap itself around Boq. His metallic eyes went as wide as could be to see the magic actually taking shape this time, and he looked at Glinda with a mixture of anger and betrayal. But she did not acknowledge his gaze, and merely sighed.

"You brought this on yourself." When he didn't react, she shook her head sadly and began to back out of the cell, wand raised to direct the bubble she had formed. "A pity, a real pity, Biq."

He only began to struggle and grunt once the bubble began to move him, muffled though his cries were. Casting a semi-apologetic look over her shoulder at the others, she continued to bounce him up the stairs.

"You and I need to have some serious discussion, little boy of tin. And why don't we try out some things from the Grimmerie, too? That sounds like so much fun!"

~ o ~

Elphaba only waited a few minutes after Glinda left to slip down into the dungeons. Both the Lion and Dorothy recoiled to see her, tall and imposing, green and black, framed by the stone doorway. Fiyero, of course, merely watched all parties with curiosity.

"H-Hello," Dorothy attempted in a nervous tone. "Is… is it alright if I ask-"

"Not yet," Elphaba said, dragging a simple wooden chair from the table by far wall over to the Lion's cell — a few inches out of reach of his claws should he suddenly decide to take an idle swipe at her. But she did not sit just yet. Instead, she opened Fiyero's cage, and simply stood back to let him exit.

"Much obliged," was all he said, cheerful as ever.

"What?!" Dorothy gasped in a hushed voice, watching him fetch two other chairs from the table. "Wh- but I… I thought you were going to let me out if I behaved, I didn't… you aren't even shackling him! I don't understand!"

"No, you don't," the witch said evenly, tossing the same old cuffs through for her to put onto herself. Her eyes were sad and wary, but she did as she was silently bade. As her captor unlocked the door, she went on, "But you will. If you listen, and try not to ask too many questions, I think you'll find you understand a great deal…"

~ o ~

Hours passed, and Glinda found herself flummoxed. She had paged through every single page of the Grimmerie, skimming the contents with her eyes, and she was no closer to finding anything that would make any difference as far as Boq was concerned. This was made all the more frustrating by the fact that she was not nearly so adept at Lurlinic as her chartreuse counterpart, and the meaning of certain phrases or passages eluded her. Still, she had been hoping that persistence would pay off where education failed.

"Fine," she finally sighed, drooping against the arm of the chair she had sank down into already, the book hanging limply from her hand. "I know a spell cannot be undone once it's cast, but there has to be a way to… to de-tinnify you! Something in here, not to undo the spell exactly, but that would still turn you into a normal Munchkin again!"

Of course, Tin Man had nothing to say. At no point had Glinda felt comfortable removing his restraints, so she hadn't. His large, sad eyes continued to follow her everywhere while she stood to replace the book on a table, as if pleading with her to see more than was visible.

"Enough, Biq. I don't care how long you give me the puppy dog eyes."

Still he stared. Bitter tears began to slide down his cheeks as he sat in the chair opposite her, unable to do anything else.

"You'll only rust if you keep that up." Throwing up her hands, she snapped, "What did you think would happen?! The moment Nessa lets you go, you start to run away? To what, find me?" She let out a blast of laughter. "Hate to break it to you, Munchkin Boy, but I've never even had the tiniest shred of interest in you! Just because you liked me doesn't mean I had to like you back!"

His face turned away. She wanted to feel less hatred, less annoyance at his attitude and more compassion toward his obvious grief, but it wasn't going to happen. Even though Nessa had done things to him that weren't fair, there were reasons for that. And she intended to set the record straight.

"I should have been this honest with you from the beginning," she confessed. "You… you really don't deserve it now, but you did then, and… and so did Nessa. That part is your fault; I know there had to have been a thousand times you could have told her you weren't interested, and all you did was go along for the ride. And then you complained too late, and… well…"

A muffled sob filled the room. To try and put some distance between herself and the source of her annoyance and grief, she crossed to the window, grasping the ledge and staring out over the jagged rocks of the Kells both near and distant, down at the village of Kiamo Ko.

"I know Nessa shouldn't have trapped you in Munchkinland or cast any spells on you that she didn't understand; nobody's saying any different. But does that really make it right for you to try to kill her? None of us is free from guilt for this, Tinny. I wasn't honest with you, and you weren't honest with Nessa. So easy to start out that way, huh? Best of intentions. And we really loused things up." Turning again, she fixed him with a curious gaze, wringing her wand in her nervous hands. "Isn't it funny how Nessa was the only one who was honest from the beginning? She may have failed in other areas, but by golly, she was always truthful about her feelings for you. Just… funny."

Then she strode closer and spat at him, "But all you know how to do is lie. You lied to Nessarose about your feelings for her, and you lied to Dorothy about Elphaba and I." When recognition sparked behind his eyes, she growled, "Yes, that's right! I know all about that! How could you tell her she and I are… that we would do things like that? To a girl barely old enough to start holding hands?! Shame on you! Makes me wonder if you ever did have a heart in the first place!"

Things were going nowhere fast. Grunting in sheer annoyance, she made a couple of quick swishes with her wand and wrapped his chair with more ropes.

"Obviously, I can't do much for you right now. But I'll… I'll try again tomorrow, I guess. Sorry." The last word might have sounded insincere, but Glinda meant it deep down. She didn't even wait for a response before grabbing up the Grimmerie and heading for the door; even if he did respond, it wouldn't be anything worth hearing.

Within minutes, she was descending back to the dungeons again, having stashed the book somewhere safe. Though she had high hopes everything would have gone well with their other prisoners, she could not risk the Lion pouncing on her and stealing their most powerful artefact.

The scene laid out before her was an interesting one, to be sure. Fiyero was sitting lazily in a chair near Elphaba's, and the Lion was lying in the cage with his great, shaggy head on his paws. The manacled Dorothy, however, was cross-legged in her seat, leaned forward with rapt attention. This was obviously the greatest number of direct answers she had ever received from anyone since being tossed into Oz, and she was drinking them in like a parched wanderer of the Shifting Sands.

"Well, I think you're very brave to try and rescue them," she was assuring Elphaba. "What I don't understand is, why does the Wizard want them to be silent in the first place? Surely he can be the President without doing that, he already is one and they haven't bothered him so far!"

"President?" Fiyero asked, the word sounding as unfamiliar coming from him as it did in Glinda's ears. But Elphaba answered her question instead of focusing on Fiyero's remark.

"He needed a scapegoat — no offense to Dr. Dillamond. As I said, we've had a few droughts, and the Wizard hasn't handled the economic recession very well. It was either start squandering his treasury to balance things out, or find something to distract the citizens of Oz, to keep them from blaming him and rioting. It's a calculated diversionary tactic."

Dorothy bobbed her shoes-that-wouldn't-come-off up and down and frowned down toward the stone floor. "My Uncle Henry says we're just coming out of another one of those 'recessions', too. I don't know much about it, except that we haven't had much to eat, or money for new clothes. That's why..." She bit her bottom lip.

"Go on," Glinda said gently a moment later, startling her and the Lion very slightly. "That's why…?"

"Oh… hullo, Miss Glinda. W-well, I know it's silly, what with everything you're troubled with. But I should like to have my gingham dress back, if we c-can manage it. Aunt Em had to henpeck Uncle Henry for weeks to buy that, because she said a girl ought to have a proper dress for Easter Sunday! A-and the thought of going home without it..."

Once she had shaken off wondering what "gingham" and "Easter Sunday" might mean, Glinda was a little shocked to see that Dorothy looked ashamed. It spoke volumes about her family; she was less afraid of her their reaction and more worried about disappointing them, inconveniencing those she loved.

"There, there," she shushed her as she walked over to pet along her shoulders. The girl sighed despondently, but did at least seem calmed. "If the rest of our plans work out, I promise we'll search the palace. And if we can't turn it up, we'll make you two new dresses! The best Oz has to offer!"

Though she rolled her eyes, Elphaba refrained from commenting on whether or not she considered this important enough to discuss. Instead, she told the young lady, "For now, I'd like an answer."

"Answer? Oh…" She gulped, glancing over at Fiyero and back. "I'm just a girl, I can't fight, or use magic, or do anything useful. What difference does it make if I join you?"

"I'm not saying you have to face the Wizard head-on," Elphaba assured her. "Just don't get in our way. Your moral support is better than opposition."

Glaring at Elphaba for the callous way she had phrased things, Glinda added, "And you'll be plenty useful! Besides, we don't only want you around because of that — we like you! Don't we, Elphie?" No response. Glinda kicked her. "Don't we?"

"I don't dislike her," she offered more truthfully. "Other than that nasty business of trying to kill me."

"You know we're pals, Dorothy," Fiyero put in, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. "I owe you for rescuing me from that cornfield, at the very least! But I can't ignore how badly the Wizard's treated my old classmates. Ooh, it chafes my straw! So I'm sorry to say it, but if you keep supporting him…"

At that, Dorothy quickly shook her head and said, "No, no, I'd never dream of saying it's alright! What all he's done, and then lied about it all to me! I don't understand how he came to be in charge of Oz in the first place, an old humbug like him!"

The two witches shared a weary look. Never had they expected to be history teachers when they enrolled at Shiz, but that seemed to be their fate for the afternoon.

"Let's go upstairs to get something to eat," Elphaba recommended gruffly, pushing to stand. "Nessa should have one of her infernal stews ready to force down."

"Can you bring me back some infernal stew?" Lion asked as they stood. "I'm so hungry; milk only goes so far for a full-grown Lion, and I don't much care for vegetables. Even an old bone would be something."

"Of course," Glinda told him. "We'll bring it with us when we return Dorothy."

As they ascended the steps, Elphaba began, "The Wizard came to us… oh, a couple of decades ago. We were all too young to remember what the time before he ruled was like, I'm afraid — but we know from our studies that our previous queen, Ozma the Billious, had left behind a newborn when she was poisoned; we don't know the gender, there was no formal announcement — already unusual in and of itself. But it's assumed it was a succeeding princess, because that child vanished when the Wizard flew into our world in a foreign contraption the likes of which we had never seen before."

"Poisoned?!" Dorothy gasped.

"Yes," Glinda supplied. "A pretty unregal way to die, isn't it? Her husband was supposed to look after the heir, but… well, he died, too. Boating accident. Worse yet, nobody knows how it was done, or who's responsible for either deaths or the baby disappearing. Still a mystery."

"But… but that's how my parents died," Dorothy was breathing. "On a boat. Imagine that."

Elphaba was shaking her head. "I wouldn't be surprised to learn it was all the Wizard and Morrible's doing. True, he had not arrived yet when the Ozma line ended, but who's to say he hadn't arranged for it beforehand? Or his 'secretary' could have been laying the groundwork."

"Conspiracy theories are fun, aren't they?" Fiyero observed with a light chuckle. "But it might be smarter to stick to what we know, and what we have to do."

"Right. Go on, then."

Somehow, his painted-on eyebrows arched high. "Me? You know what kind of student I was!" But he shrugged and went on, anyway. "Simple, really. Everyone thought the old Wizard was magical because he flew into our world from another, and that made it pretty easy for him to claim the empty throne. Right place, right time."

Head shaking much like Elphaba's, which amused Glinda to notice, Dorothy said, "If he really did kill either of them… oh, even the baby… that's one of the most awful things I've ever heard! And he's never been thrown in jail?"

"How can we? He's the jailor." Elphaba huffed in annoyance as they came to the kitchen and pushed inside. "And there's nothing we can do to prove what he's done, either way. At least Glinda and I are witnesses to the way he tricked us into transforming the Monkeys. If there are any witnesses to his alleged murders, I haven't found them, and I doubt they'll come forward now."

"Such light conversation," Nessa observed as she toiled over the stove. "I was just standing here, lamenting that you two have taken the more interesting jobs and left me to be scullery maid, but perhaps I haven't missed anything, after all."

"You haven't," Glinda sighed, breathing in deeply. "Mmm, that smells good… I'm starvatiously hungry!"

Dorothy glanced down at the plates and silverware laid out for the four of them who actually owned stomachs, then back up to Elphaba. "Can you at least move my handcuffs in front of me so I don't need help to eat?"

As no one much wanted to spoonfeed her again, they relented, and Dorothy did her best not to drip on her dress as they discussed all that had transpired. Nessa looked morose when Glinda reported her failing at improving Boq's outlook on life or his physical condition, but did not say a word; she seemed entirely defeated in that area. Privately, Glinda thought that was for the best - the faster she moved on, the better. Even if she was somewhat spoiled, she deserved better than a man who wanted to chop her head off.

"I'm not sure what I can do for you," Dorothy finally told them as Glinda and Elphaba were washing the dishes and Nessa was disposing of the scraps. "But if you'll just… help me with two things, I'll do whatever I can, anything at all!"

"The shoes and the dress?" Elphaba guessed.

"Oh… three things." When the green lips pursed, she rushed ahead, "I forgot about the dress already! The other thing was to help me get home, if you can. Of c-course, I'm only asking you to try your best, you know. If you can't, well… then I guess I'll live here forever with these heavy shoes weighing me down."

"That, we will promise," Glinda said for all of them. Elphaba shot her a look, but she ignored it. "We'll do what we can, and if we can't, then we'll figure out somewhere for you to stay in Oz. Deal?"

"Deal." She held out her manacles to be unlocked, and they blinked at her. Slowly, an inch at a time, she lowered them as she whispered, "Oh… am… I still… going back to the dungeons?"

Glancing at the other two briefly to gauge their responses, Glinda then walked over and freed her. Dorothy turned a smiling face up toward her that was so earnest she couldn't help but grin back. "Good. I'll just take you to get washed up again — even if you'll have to hang your feet out of the tub."

As they walked down the hallway, Dorothy slipped her hand into Glinda's, which surprised her very slightly. But she squeezed it in comfort; she could only assume the girl was still scared of the big, drafty castle, and the less alone she felt, the better.

"Miss Glinda… thank you so much. I know we've only just met, but I… feel like you're how I'd like my mother to have been, if I could remember her."

"M-mother?!" Glinda burst out in mild surprise.

"OH! Oh, is that not alright?" she breathed. "Of c-course, I didn't mean to say you're old enough to be my mother! Not a w-woman so young and lovely as you, not at all! But only… you're so kind, and thoughtful, and I'm sure it's because of you that I'm not a prisoner anymore. I can't believe I was ever afraid of you, or thought you were a deviant!"

Entirely mollified, the Witch of the North had to chuckle — mostly in chagrin at her own overreaction. "Fine, fine, I'm glad to have helped how I could. You are a sweet little thing, all in all, aren't you?" As they came again to the bath, she said, "Of course, I can't promise you anything… certainly not that we'll live to see the end of this fight with the Wizard, or that we'll find a way to send you back to Amerikansas, but…"

"You'll do your best," Dorothy finished for her, squeezing her hand again before she began to help heating the water. "That's all a girl can ask."

~ o ~

"...and that was the last spell I tried," Glinda was telling Elphaba as they fell to the task that they had both been putting off for far too long: unpacking. It had taken some careful plotting to retrieve their few effects from the cave behind Wicca Falls, and since then too much had been transpiring to worry about opening the pair of disparate trunks and making a good run at their contents. Presently, half of what they owned was strewn across the bed, the rest either hung up properly in one of the wardrobes or stacked on the vanity. Privately, Glinda lamented not being able to use said vanity for its intended purposes, but there was no place for that type of "vanity" in their current lives.

"I can't say I'm surprised, Glinda. You know that spells can't be undone, and it's slippery work even changing them somewhat the way we already have with Boq. Tampering further… if we do succeed, he'll either wind up dead, or completely unrecognisable."

A sigh welled up powerfully from the pit of her stomach, but ended up sounding pathetic and soft when it came forth. "You're probably right, but I'd still appreciate it if you could take a look for yourself. I mean, you're clearly the better witch between us, right?"

"Only through study," she hedged. Then she stood a little straighter, shooting over her shoulder, "At what point did we start embracing the word 'witch' instead of hating it? When did that happen?"

"Search me, Elphie; I just work here."

Tutting briefly, Elphaba laid out a few of her older school effects from within her travelling cloak. A sniffle threatened to break free from Glinda when she recognised the Shiz guidebook, small bound leather tome that it was, lying next to the green bottle and a few spare coins that weren't even accepted outside the Emerald City as valid currency. Much though she protested, her Elphie truly was a sentimental creature.

Something stirred in the back of her mind. It took her a long second or two for it to bob its meandering way along to the front, and until that point, she hadn't even been sure what the stirring was in relation to.

"Nessarose isn't much of a witch at all," her roommate was saying as she put away a few of her dresses, more neatly into one of their closets than previously. Plenty of room to work with in there, now that they had cleared away some of the decrepit old junk. "However, I think she might have an aptitude for magic if she works on it as hard as she's worked at making her awful stew into tolerable stew. Just needs a swift kick in the-"

"That bottle."

"Hm?" Glancing down, she picked the bottle back up, then stared over its mouth at Glinda. "What about this bottle?"

"Didn't you tell me once before that it was… important to you, for some reason?" Even now, Glinda was still barely aware of why this mattered, but the threads were beginning to weave themselves together now.

"I did. It was my mother's. Father would often tell me that it was a prized possession, and she never wanted to be apart from it. When he would ask, she would simply state that it reminded her of her firstborn, but…" One shoulder rose and fell. "I got the feeling that wasn't the full story. Or at least, old Frex didn't believe it was."

"Hm."

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing." Keeping her tone carefully distant, aloof, she went on, "Just that… it looks conveniently similarly to the bottle the Wizard was drinking from when we dropped in on him."

Elphaba started, glancing between her and the bottle. "Really? Well, it's just a green bottle… no label to say what's in it. Could have been just a similar shape."

"No, not similar. The same. I'm telling you, whatever's in his, or used to be in yours, it's the exact same type of bottle, shape and colour."

This silence was a bit longer and quieter than the previous one. Glinda wouldn't have guessed that silences could be quieter or louder; they were either silent or they weren't. Until now.

"No. Well, I mean… maybe she visited the Emerald City. Could have been anything."

"Could have."

"Then why are you bringing this up? We have a lot to do."

"Elphie…"

Exasperated, she threw up both hands. "What am I supposed to do? How do you want me to react to this news? So my mother and the Wizard both have identical vessels for holding liquor. Big twigging deal. Dorothy and Nessa both have shiny shoes; maybe they're related."

"They are. The shoes, not Dorothy and Nessa," she snapped when Elphaba raised her eyebrows at her. "Both are because of our spells! So they are connected! And it might be the same with the Wiz-"

"I don't believe you really believe this, this… what was it Fiyero said? 'Conspiracy theories'. That's what you're spinning. Wilder and more fanciful by the minute, if you think I'm going to follow your logic to where it's leading."

Glinda's hands went to her waist, impatient at the attitude she was receiving. "I'm not outright saying anything! Just bringing up possibilities! What you do with them is up to you!" When she got no answer right away, she approached Elphaba, grasping her forearms to stop her from continuing to dig in her closet. "Elphaba, please? Just… doesn't it sound like something we ought to try figuring out?"

"Maybe. Another time."

"But we don't have-"

"I need to finish this. Either with your help, or without. But for now, I can't…" A slight flicker of pain showed in her eyes before she mastered it, suppressed it and returned her features to their quickly-becoming-normal steely resolve. "We need to worry about how we're going to depose the Wizard and bring peace to the Animals. That's first. Secondarily, we have to keep an eye on Dorothy, and look through the Grimmerie for the sake of a stupid, ungrateful wretch of a tin can."

Feeling stupid for having brought the whole thing up, Glinda strode for the door. "Fine, Elphie. I can tell when I'm not wanted around. I'll see you at supper."

As she slipped out of the room, she just scarcely caught Elphaba's sigh. She probably felt bad for being unpleasant just then, but couldn't quite find the humility to chase after her. Maybe that was for the best; this way, they could both have a few minutes with their own thoughts to ponder the situation and to let their tempers settle.

But she certainly wasn't going to let the matter drop. Not if it meant what she thought it might.

To Be Continued…

#The Coven Of Oz #forkanna writes #wicked fanfiction #femmeslash #gelphie #forkanna the writer

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iwriteficsnottragediesladies · 6 years

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Search and Seizure Pt 8

Request: “S&S where Brendon is at an interview and they start talking shit about Y/N?”

A/N: this was kind of hard for me to write because these are all my true feelings based off of so many similar events I’ve experienced. I still don’t even know if I captured it the way I feel, but I tried.

Pre-read Epilepsy Disclaimer

Brendon had left with Zack to go to an interview at Rock 104 FM, a local radio station. You stayed behind to get some work done and watch the dogs. Brendon went on the air at 3 pm.

“I’m here with Brendon Urie of Panic At The Disco! Thank you so much for being on the show today, Brendon!” Tim said.

“Thank you for having me!” Brendon smiled widely.

“So you just released your new album a couple weeks ago,” Tim started and Brendon nodded along, “Do you wanna tell us a bit about that?”

“Yeah,” Brendon responded happily, “It’s very much inspired by some of the music I grew up listening to, which is a pretty broad selection. A lot of it was the kind of stuff I would sneak around my parents, ya know?” he giggled, “All the rock stuff.”

“And you’re on your own now?” Tim clarified, “You’re the only band member left?”

“Uh yeah, yeah,” Brendon responded and tried to reframe the question positively, “Having complete creative control has been really freeing. It’s a lot of fun.”

“But it’s really just the Brendon Urie show now though,” Tim said condescendingly, “You’re just using the Panic name, keeping it alive?”

Brendon picked up on his tone and started to feel uncomfortable.

“It’s still a team effort,” Brendon countered passively, “I work closely with my producers, who are incredible. They really help mentor me and shape the music into what you hear on the album.”

Tim nodded and moved on.

“The last time we heard from you, you hadn’t experienced your death as a bachelor yet!” Tim said enthusiastically, “You’re now a married man.”

Brendon’s eyes lit up at the thought of you. He couldn’t help it.

“Yes,” Brendon said proudly, “To my beautiful wife, Y/n.”

“I understand she’s had some pretty... public health issues,” Tim noted.

Brendon’s discomfort immediately returned. Again, he tried to reframe the off-color question to be more positive, hoping they could just move on from the topic.

“Unfortunately yes,” Brendon said, “But she is incredibly strong and doing very well.”

“That’s good to hear, good to hear,” Tim said absently. Brendon could tell that Tim had more to say and dreaded whatever his next comment would be. Sure enough, Tim continued to prod: “It sounds really scary, for you and for her.”

“It’s hard to see someone you love struggle with anything,” Brendon answered generically. His protective instinct was beginning to kick in and he really wanted to stop talking about it all together. It was none of this guy’s business and the way he was asking questions felt more disrespectful than concerned.

This interview was about to go downhill.

“There was a video of her circulating on the internet for a while of an incident in a grocery store,” Tim stated.

“That was a very traumatic time,” Brendon immediately shut him down, “It’s really not an appropriate thing to talk about.”

“But it sure did look traumatic,” Tim said, not laying off at all, continuing on with disgust in his voice, “It’s pretty gross, with the blood and all that.”

And with that, Brendon was done.

“Wow, that is an awful thing to say,” Brendon rejected, having to force a bitter chuckle of disbelief just to keep his composure. The anger within him was undeniable. “And there’s nothing ‘gross’ about it,” he said defensively.

How dare this interviewer to make fun of you, right in front of Brendon. Zack was watching through the window as the situation escalated and he was ready to step in. The last thing he needed was for Brendon to have a meltdown or get in a fistfight.

Tim didn’t really seem to care that he had offended Brendon. He may even be enjoying getting a rise out of him.

“I was just thinking it kind of has that demon vibe,” Tim continued humorously, “Very Emperor’s New Clothes-ish.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?!” Brendon exclaimed, quickly standing up from his chair, “You think this is funny?” He was not about to let anyone say something so horribly insensitive about you. He was clearly squaring up with Tim, ready to fight. Zack could tell and ran into the booth, rushing in to defuse Brendon’s anger.

“Brendon!” Zack’s voice boomed in warning as he swung the door open, commanding him to stand down.

Brendon stood with fists clenched, scanning Tim for another moment. He willed himself to let it go, but not before giving Tim some words of advice.

“If you ever talk about my wife again,” Brendon hissed, getting up in Tim’s face, “You’ll regret it. This interview is fucking over, you piece of shit.”

Zack arrived next to Brendon to escort him away and out of the studio.

You were still at home, typing away on your laptop when you suddenly get an influx of notifications. You succumb to the temptation of checking them.

This is the cringiest interview I’ve ever heard. Poor @y/handle. #rock104fm This guy is a douche bag. I feel so bad for @y/handle right now. #rock104fm Brendon is handling this like a champ. I would’ve snapped. #rock104fm 10 out of 10 would punch this guy in @y/handle’s honor. #rock104fm

What the fuck is going on?

You immediately go to the radio station’s account and play their stream. There’s just music playing now, so you go back a little bit and find Brendon’s voice, talking about the album. You listen as the conversation progresses and the topic shifts over to you.

Fuck.

“It’s pretty gross...” “Kind of has that demon vibe...” “Very Emperor’s New Clothes-ish...”

Tears stung your eyes and anger clutched your throat, squeezing it shut.

You don’t understand how people can be so heartless. Do people think it’s funny that you live in constant fear of dying? Tears roll down your face. Everyone thinks you’re disgusting. Brendon is too good for you. He deserves someone so much better.

Your phone starts to vibrate. It’s Brendon. You don’t want to pick up, but you know you should. Being upset will make Brendon upset too, and you don’t want to make him feel bad. It wasn’t his fault. You thought that maybe you could act like you hadn’t heard it and that everything was fine, but you can’t seem to stop crying. You give up and sniffle hard before swiping open the call.

Brendon doesn’t even wait for you to greet him.

“Y/n?” He asks quickly.

The sound of his voice instantly reduces you back to tears and you cry into the phone.

“Aw no, baby,” He sighed with disappointment. He was hoping you hadn’t heard. “Shhh, it’s okay.”

“Bren,” You choke, “I’m s-sorry.”

“Y/n, no!” Brendon replied, “You have nothing to be sorry for! He’s a fucking idiot. I’m on my way home right now, okay?”

“Okay,” you sniffled.

“I love you so much, Y/n,” He said, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Love you too,” you replied.

You sit on the couch with your knees pulled up to your chest and wait. It feels like no time had passed when you hear the door open.

“Y/n?” Brendon calls out. You don’t answer, but he easily spots you on the couch. You look at him, clearly ashamed. “Y/n,” he frowned as he walked over and carefully sits down next to you. “I’m so sorry baby,” he said quietly and put a hand on your shoulder.

As soon as he touches you, you completely fall apart. You practically crawl into his lap and begin to choke on your tears. He gathers you up and wraps his arms around your trembling body.

“Talk to me,” He directs you softly.

“I feel s-so scared,” you cried, “All the time. So alone.” You can’t control your sobs, letting it all out to Brendon. “I don’t think anyone understands how scared I am.”

Brendon can’t stand hearing you like this.

“I know Y/n, I know baby,” He soothed, “It’s okay to be scared. And you’re right--people have no idea how brave you have to be. Every day, you are the bravest person I know. I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s not fair,” you cry, “It’s not f-fair.”

“Shhh, I know it isn’t,” Brendon tried.

“No one else constantly thinks about what will trigger a seizure,” you continued to sob. “I just want to be like everyone e-else. I don’t know why you even love me.”

“Y/n stop!” Brendon cuts you off and holds you tighter, “There are so many reasons I love you. Just the way you are.”

“I shower with a baby monitor so you can hear me if I fall--a fucking baby monitor, Brendon. I’m an adult and I can’t even shower alone. It’s like... like epilepsy just takes everything away. It just takes up so much energy and I’m so tired.”

“I know it’s hard,” He said sweetly, “You’re such a fighter.”

“I just want it to be over but it never ends,” you hiccup. “People always talk about me and ask me so many questions. I just want to be like everyone else. I want to be able to think about other things, but it never ends. It never fucking e-ends.”

You become limp in Brendon’s arms, feeling beyond hopeless and exhausted.

“Take a breath,” Brendon spoke softly, “You’re okay.”

“Bren, please make it stop,” you begged him quietly, “Make it stop.”

Brendon felt his heart being torn from his chest, wanting to cry with you.

“I got you,” He whispered in your ear, “I’m right here. I’ll always be right here."

You grab fistfuls of his soft t-shirt and manage to bury yourself further into him.

“It’s going to be okay, Y/n,” He soothed, running his fingers through your hair. He didn’t know what else to do but hold you and gently rock you. It seemed to be working. You continued to cry for a few minutes, but you were slowly quieting down, clearly drained. “I’m right here,” he spoke gently, “It’s going to be okay. Okay?”

You nod against him.

“I love you, Brendon,” you murmur, adjusting yourself in his lap. He can tell you’re so worn out that you’re about to fall asleep and allows you to get comfortable.

“I love you too, Y/n,” he replies, giving you a kiss on the top of your head.

It’s not long until your breathing evens out and Brendon can tell you’re asleep. He then cries tears of his own. He wished he could fix it all, take away your fear and pain, and make it better. He wished that he could keep you safe. He wished that people weren’t so cruel.

And he definitely wished that he had punched Tim when he had the chance.

It takes a long time for the radio interview incident to die down. It was kind of interesting to see that almost all the comments completely trashed the radio station. You’re used to the internet having mixed reactions, but this was different. Nearly everyone was coming to your defense, praising Brendon for how he handled the situation and offering kind words of support to you. It was a much-needed reminder of the good in the world.

Emma came to visit, checking to see how you were doing and having a fun girl day. You were so happy to have an amazing best friend.

You were also happy to see Tim was fired from his job. The selfish part of you hopes he ends up making minimum wage at a job he hates. You knew that was a mean thing wish upon anyone, but your anger had to seep out somewhere. Fucking asshole.

A couple weeks later, you had come home from grocery shopping and Brendon was sitting on the couch.

“Hey babe?” he asked.

“What’s up?” You replied, setting the last of the groceries down on the counter and walking over to him.

He had a serious, unsure kind of look on his face and you were a little worried. You sat down next to him.

“I know it’s really hard for you sometimes,” He started carefully, “And I know you can feel really alone.”

You nod. It’s true--epilepsy was very isolating. It feels like no one really knows how it feels to live in constant fear of having seizures. You remember telling him about it when you had your meltdown. You wonder where he’s going with all this.

Brendon pulled his laptop out from next to him and opened the screen.

“So I looked around and found out that there’s actually an epilepsy support group in the area,” He looked at you cautiously, “I was thinking it might be nice to have people who can truly connect with and help you.”

He saw tears pooling in your eyes.

“It’s not because I think you’re crazy, or that you’re weak!” He jumped in quickly, panicking that he may have hurt your feelings. “You don’t have to, it was just an id--”

He is cut off as you throw yourself into him, arms wrapping around him.

“What did I do to deserve you?” You choke, “Like, I must have been a saint in a previous life or something.”

“Aw babe,” he chuckled.

You lean back a little and take his face in your hands and squish it.

“You are the sweetest human,” you said, “Of course I want to go, I think it’s exactly what I need. I love you so much.” You plant a quick kiss on his lips and release him.

“I love you too, Y/n,” He gazed at you with a smile.

You never knew you could love someone this much. You realize you’re straddling him.

Perfect.

You reattach your lips to his and lace your fingers through his hair, pushing your body against his. He is very pleased with this unexpected turn of events. You grind down on his lap and he sighs a bit, pulling away.

“I guess I should offer you psychiatric intervention more often?” he giggled.

You just smiled back at him and dove back in.

I hope you liked this chapter, it was a tough one. There is more to come, so stay tuned :)

Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tag list! Like and reblog if you’re feelin’ it :)

@ray----toro @charliecynthiaa @msbeliever-prettyweeper @darkmoon707 @marine482 @ladevoteeshirts @itsdangerousblues @kenziepayne33 @lizzrossstories @un-surpassable @lolisded @itsdangerousblues @kyky9103 @lizzrossstories @j2minion @graceaudreyjudy

#brendon urie #fanfiction #fanfic #brendon urie fanfiction #seizures #imagine #patd #panic at the disco #panic! at the disco #zack cloud hall #radio #search and seizure #searchandseizure

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austennerdita2533 · 6 years

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Summary: Bad blood and violence seem to pop up for the Mikaelsons everywhere, but this time it shows up in the form of unhinged!amnesiac Elijah. Caroline tries to hold him off while Hayley disbands of Greta, and Klaus ushers Hope to safety. Madness ensues in the fight to keep the Nazi vampires from procuring who, and what, they desire.

Can Caroline keep a morally-corrupted Original at bay? Will Klaus be able to protect everyone he cares about? What will they gain; what may they lose? (TO 5x06 AU + Amnesiac!Villain Elijah vs. Klaroline + Angst)

**WARNING: Hayley still dies. Threats. Mild Violence**

A/N: Tagging @arrenemris and @childoftimeandmagic, because you lovelies were interested in a part 2. Here is the whole 5.2k word (edited) enchilada if you want to read it. (No pressure!)

Honestly, idk what I’ve created here...

Enjoy!

(A03) (FFnet)

xx Ashlee Bree

Everybody Bursts Into Mad Flames Sometimes

Before her stands a stranger—a stranger she once knew.

Dark hair, shaved chin. Aviator sunglasses tucked into a scooped white collar. Rugged blue jeans. Terse lips curled in impatient distaste. Two whittled fence posts peeking out from underneath too-long sleeves. A leather jacket - simple, black, no designer or brand name anything. It hangs loose from his shoulders to offset two cold, umber eyes which used to pierce the world with such sagacity, with such innate sophistication and reasonability, but now appraise everything around him with something worse than hate, or scorn, or disapproval too marked to miss: apathy.

It’s the last thing Caroline expects to see right now; he, the last person. (Especially in freaking jeans, are you kidding?) And she barely chokes down her surprise fast enough to block his path to the house which perches on a small hill behind them.

“Can I help you?” she says in half-chirp. Tilting her head to the side, she side-steps in front of him, warning him back with a sharp smile. “You look a little lost and I’m a concerned citizen willing to turn you back around.”

“Move,” the man growls.

“Now, now,” she raises her hands half in defense, half in taunting, “I know your memory’s been swiped, Elijah, (along with your entire history of familial and platonic feeling), but I thought you of all people would still bother with civilities in any diseased incarnation of yourself? There aren’t any dangling on your lips now, though, huh? Shame. A true shame.”

“I said move!”

“Wow, really? No Miss Forbes? No ‘it’s nice to see you again,’ Caroline?” She wags her finger and tuts, still shuffling her feet; still refusing to let him pass. Determined to give them more time to escape to safety. “I know my face jars something in you, faint and faded though the recollection may be given the circumstances.”

“You talk too much.”

“Hey! That’s rude,” she says tartly and pouts. “I’ve always considered you to be the only Mikaelson with any manners, but man, oh man! What a disappointment you are today, I’ve got to say.”

“Stop. Tell me where he is, where he’s taken them,” Elijah says while his knuckles whiten and his jaw ticks. His fingers curl into fists around one of the stakes, itching to strike. Stab. Silence. And he’d do it, too - oh, he wants to do it - to know how her fire and sugared spice will bubble against his teeth after a fatal bite - but he resists because she holds the missing pieces. She’s the only one here who knows how to procure what he and Antoinette still need.

“Pfft, yeah, like I’d tell you anything in your state.” Caroline laughs like the idea is preposterous. Insane. Like it’s the funniest joke in the history of the world. “I mean, I deserve at least a please for that kind of information, don’t you think? For old time’s sake and everything.”

“I’ve had enough of these idle games, Little Miss Sunshine. Where is he?” Elijah snarls again. This time with patience fraying into vein-pulsed rage and fangs descending. “WHERE!?”

Caroline’s shoulders straighten here, and her eyes burn so hot they almost hiss at him when she digs her heels into the grass to offer him a pert quirk of her mouth in opposition; her voice swapping out joviality for severity in the smoothest of transitions.

“As I said already, Señor Impolite,” she says with a click of her tongue, “I won’t reveal a single damn thing to you about your brother’s next location. Not here, not when you’re like this. Nor will I won’t inconvenience the other people you still love somewhere in that thick, muddled skull of yours by making this mission easy for you. Whatever it is. So put that on a discarded daylight ring and smoke it!” she adds with a huff and a cock of the hip.

“Fine.” A stake loosens from his sleeve. He brandishes it in his hand; twirls it like a baton on his palm. The movement is slow and practiced because whether or not he’s aware of his Original history, he’s wielded weapons like this one for centuries. “If that’s how you wish to play it.”

“Likewise.”

Elijah pauses to scratch a thumb across his jaw. Then he sniffs before he raises harsh lashes to her face,

“Take it from a man who’s wasted centuries: you will not triumph,” he says. “That man - my so-called brother - will bleed you of any goodness you possess; he’ll stifle any happiness you find, so do yourself a favor and free yourself from his tyranny now. He is not worth an ounce of your time or protection. And he never will be.”

“You’re wrong. You don’t truly believe that,” she shakes her head and sighs. “You’re so wrong I just—I don’t know how you’ll recover from all the regret and guilt that’s bound to follow once you regain your old attachments again.”

He remains impassive. Unmoved.

“Let me by, Caroline. He must pay for his crimes.”

“I said -” her teeth clench; her features darken, “- no!” A blur against the sky, she vamps across the yard to block each and every one of his advances. She shoves against his chest, swipes at his athletic kicks with her boot heels, and snaps out with her fangs like a guard dog to keep him back. Away.

“His worth is mine, and mine alone, to decide. You got that, E?” she says in an obnoxious way that mocks his new nickname pointedly, unapologetically; her veins rippling across her cheekbones for extra measure. “It’d be best for you not to forget it. You know - like, ever.”

“Well, then—” He takes a step back, his forehead pinched in mounting irritation. “I guess we have nothing further to discuss, do we?”

“Nope.”

After a shrug and a look of pity, “I’m afraid this pretty little blonde of yours has left me no choice here, Hybrid,” he announces in a loud, reverberating voice.

Elijah speaks to the air, to the clouds forming shapes over their heads, but his eyes sweep across the property. His ears prick as if they wait for his brother’s howled outcry to sound on the wind in the seething, murderous way he’d once been so accustomed to hearing, and also to preventing. There is no movement anywhere except where the sun crests over the hill, however. All the purples and oranges dancing with shadows to tint the land like a bruise. There’s no sound besides the screeching tires of a Camaro on the highway ten miles distant. There’s nothing else around besides a dirt road, a decrepit house, and a stubborn, sassy girl poised between them.

Thirty more seconds pass before Elijah’s gaze settles back over on Caroline. It’s another thirty-five seconds after that before he’s rife enough with detached predation, hunger, and resolve to act.

He levels his chin once he decides. And as he charges forward with a stake positioned for the spot where two rings dangle against her chest, above her heart, the next words to leave his throat burst forth in grave monotone,

“Time to die,” he says.

Bad blood and violence follow Klaus everywhere.

It’s a foul shadow chomping at the base of his achilles heel hoping to munch its way through to destroy all he cherishes because he’s a man forged from sin, dark magic, and bones of adaptability. A combination which shouldn’t be allowed to exist in this world unless it’s broken - purged - from the outside in with all the dominion he possesses slit from his tendons by his foes in fury. Greed. Fear. Hate. Or envy. It’s a javelined spear which spills his loved ones’ blood onto cobblestone paths or fried country grasses in red river rain because he somehow arrives too late to keep the bolt from striking, the lightning.

His worst fears flood the land as a result. Thunder rumbles overhead to plunge everyone’s lives into peril at once, pellets of hail dropping like canons. Erupting the earth to widen the crossable distance between them. The sky is a jaw full of teeth which drools something about abominations, or about purity that must crunch all twisty tornados dead in their tracks.

A storm of hell descends while he’s distracted and struggling against his enemies’ vengeance, limbs extended in four different directions; his arms flying while eyes hybridize with focus, anger, so that someone who matters is always left exposed. Vulnerable. Like a flapping thread which spools from the corner of a whirlpool.

It’s simple math for him, truth be told. It’s even simpler science. There are too many holes, and Klaus cannot defend them all on his own. It doesn’t matter how hard he tries because somebody always slips over a ledge and falls flat into physics’ grasp. Gravity claiming what he’s dropped, who he’s lost. And it’s all his fault.

His fault, his fault, his fault.

The rising tide of everyone’s screams and taken or deflected blows creates a wave of horror Klaus cannot climb over with blood-drenched hands, with slippery soles, and it makes it impossible for him to catch every person he cares for before they sink, before they drown to the bottom of a gorge he’ll never be able to breach with one arm extended. He needs more time, more time, more time. He needs more bloody time! Please.

But what happens if there isn’t any? What comes after the world fissures open with the intent to swallow up the good in everything? What then, what does one do next?

Klaus clamors, he claws his way over to them.

He packs his unconscious daughter into a car seat next to Roman and Marcel then watches the SUV disappear down the lane, its wheels screeching as it ushers two people he loves toward home and security. He turns back to the house afterwards to collect the two women he’s left idling on the estate five miles away, who each scan for more threats in his absence as they wait, only for the back door to splinter wider the closer he roams. It chips next. Before, finally, it busts open with a loud crack to shoot wood and body parts loose.

Debris launches forward with such force that his arms shield his head in reflex while he rolls to the left to avoid a collision with an airborne Hayley. A fate Klaus escapes, but barely.

He pushes up onto his elbows. When he does, the heat from her near-miss manages to singe some hairs on the back of his neck, chafing them down to stubs of red. A hammer thuds loud in his ears as he blinks in the nightmare which unfolds before him: the mother of his child sailing through the backyard tangled in rods of fire. And Greta. And a self-sacrifice too awful to believe.

It’s bloody horrifying to behold, truly.

The sunlight pours over Hayley’s skin like gasoline, and she’s suddenly a molting phoenix: red fades to orange, and orange dwindles to gray which then darkens to black. All of her life’s color draining in seconds until she’s gone. Dust. Dead.

And there Klaus is left to witness it all.

There, on a frayed patch of yard, beneath the stark midday sun, Klaus lies agape in the filth of his own making yet again. A Father of Cinders. An Usher of Ruin. The smell of Hayley's charred flesh quickly becoming another orange stink he must learn how to breathe in and out of his nostrils like flame, like ash—the crispest of all things he’s failed to save for his family’s sake.

Sure, why not add another disaster to the ever-multiplying list, he thinks? Why not shoulder all the responsibility for a tragedy from which Hope will never recover? Elijah, either, if he returns to himself someday. How can he not assume the blame for this?

His fault, his fault, his fault.

The temptation to remain crumpled on his knees right now is as potent as the bourbon Klaus needs to slick his throat, to numb the ache in his head, but a faint voice gusts into the clearing at that moment which is equal parts sonorous and soft when it chokes out defiance, strength, and fortitude into the air; and the sound causes him to scrabble to his feet with the speed of a cheetah to pursue the last hope here he knows he can’t bear to lose. Let alone whom.

Fifty paces hence takes mere seconds, but they feel like decades.

Her still-ticking pulse becomes the drumbeat each of his strides produces as he dashes to the front of the house in a blur of alarm. It’s what keeps him breathing. She’s what keeps him moving when his panic thumps so strong he grinds the enamel on his molars off clean.

The world collapses and narrows until her loudening voice is all Klaus hears, until her golden head snaps in his direction again because she’s the only thing he wants to see. She’s the balm to all his monstrosity, to his debilities, and he needs her. He needs her alive more than anything.

Still, a roar from the wolf deep in his chest is not enough to convey all the emotion he feels. There’s no lid to quiet the pain. There’s no coffin to smother it…all of that rage.

Caroline will not be torn from him, too. No, no, no. Never. Not today she won’t, not in a hundred million more lifetimes if he can prevent it. And he bloody will—

Even if it’s the last thing in this life he’s meant to do.

Dust and blood coat her slacks after some minutes of vampire vs. vampire tousling. Prone on her back with gravel stuck in her hair, Caroline fends off her attacker with another boot kick to the groin followed by a swift clonk to the jaw.

“You know, I should be pissed about how many of you asshole Mikaelsons have tried to kill me over the years, but do you know what? I’m no damsel,” she says, tumbling into a squat. “I’m not too dainty to fight back. So go on—” Her words are clipped, her breath heavy with exertion. “Go on and hit me with your best shot, you Wrangler-wearing amnesiac!”

“Interesting choice of last words.”

A stake gripped firmly in each of his fists, Elijah swings down with the right one. It rips off a small patch of her skin with her black sleeve. Since she evaded the more direct hit by wheeling to the right, however, the wound heals quickly.

Caroline laughs. It’s a taunting, corrosive sound.

“You wish those were my last words, buddy.”

“Chatter all you want, girl. But know this,” he says in a tone as equally dispassionate as it is menacing,“I’ll still kill you to help my family dispose of the Mikaelsons’ mixed blood. We will rid the world of their plague one way or another.”

“God, will you listen to yourself right now!?”

Using her shoulders as leverage, Caroline pushes up to slug him across the face for a second time. Elijah spits blood from the corner of his mouth after the blow knocks him backwards. Still standing, however, his jaw taut, he looms forward again in seconds.

“Those people are not your family,” she says. “You’re freaking brainwashed!”

“No. What I am is free.”

“Great. So you’re deluded, too, apparently. That’s freaking fantastic,” Caroline grumbles. Scooting upwards onto her elbows, she strikes out at his ankle with her heel but misses it by inches.

“Luckily for me, your family’s long range psychosis (your real family, I mean) is well-worn and likely to flare every now and again, so I’m used to this kind of thing. I’m stronger because of it. Smarter, too,” she adds as her fingers coil beneath her. Looking up, her lips twitch before she hurls a handful of gravel into Elijah’s face without warning.

Even though he blocks most of it with his forearms, some of the rubble stings his eyes long enough for her to lurch for one of his weapons, which she promptly deposits into his gut. The action drops him to his knees in momentary agony, cursing.

“That may be so,” he grunts, his tongue licking over his mouth roughly, “but I’m afraid even with all that expertise, and despite all of your self-proclaimed Mikaelson experience—”

Elijah’s quicker to recover than Caroline anticipates. He grabs her by the hair before she can flash away, throwing her against the porch railing with a loud smash.

“You’ll never be able to beat me.” It’s whispered almost like a caress. “You can’t win this fight,” he says.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to die trying, won’t I?” Caroline fires back.

“Die?” Elijah snickers. Blood - his blood - drips from the spike he’s dislodged from his ribs. He angles it at her chest again. “Oh, die you will.”

With him towering above her once more, his fangs out, sharpened with fatal purpose, he sneers as Caroline crab walks backward to the first step, which she then uses as a ledge to erect herself back onto her feet with fluid grace.

“Pardon the intrusion,” a voice cuts in at that moment with a low growl, not sorry at all, “but I wouldn’t underestimate that one if I were you. She’s made of the sweetest flames."

“And I’ll roast you for one false move, pal,” Caroline pipes in with a huff.

Squinting, Elijah regards her like she’s a cockroach.

“Death would suit you rather nicely, I think. Yes,” he hisses, “imagine the silence I’ll achieve with it soon.”

She raises her chin to fix him with a look of incredulity at this. It’s a look that, for all its azure ferocity and resistance, would impale his eyeballs to the nearest fence post if it could; but also would like to bludgeon open his head with the plume of a feather to reinstate all his emotional memories first.

“Enough!” the intruder exclaims. He grabs the Original by the shoulder at the same time Caroline rips a spoke free of the railing. “Threatening her life would be ill-advised for anyone under normal circumstances, but this…why - this is—are you bloody insane?"

“Come, come, why not watch while I suck the last visage of light from her veins? A few slurps is all it’d take to silence her forever,” Elijah says in the voice of a stranger, in the voice of an adversary. His lips curl in sinister delight. “What a lovely thought that is.”

“I said enough!” the trespasser growls again. Louder this time. Zooming closer, he’s a ball of temper and anxiety as he clutches the other man by the leather lapels.

“There are limits to the wrath I am able to contain even for you…” he draws out the last bit for emphasis, the vein in his forehead throbbing as Caroline tucks the weapon into her jacket, “brother.”

“Does this girl mean so much to you, Hybrid?” Elijah says.

In answer, Klaus hurls him like a dart at the barn doors across the yard, “Do. Not. Test. Me,” he howls.

Dropping over top of him in a flurry of color, and darkness, and fury that’s hardened his eyes into an inferno of hybrid gold, he kicks through the wreckage until he reaches Elijah’s prone form beneath a heap of crumpled lumber. He lifts him up by the throat. Then he slams his head hard against a lone standing beam, thrusting a finger into his face.

“There has been enough blood spilt here today, Elijah. Too much.”

“Tell me,” he answers with a strangled cough and a blink, “am I supposed to care?”

“Klaus, stop, you can’t talk to him. He’s wily and unhinged like this. A morally skewed prick. Just look at his dragging hems, for crying out loud!” Caroline says as she approaches from behind. “That’s proof enough he’s been mentally and magically corrupted by them.”

“Our family has been fractured beyond repair,” Klaus continues without hearing her. He looks a little crazed as he shakes his brother in place like it’ll somehow refasten those loose screws in his brain. “Hayley’s gone - the mother of my child, the woman you loved…is dead. Dead! You let her fall straight into our enemy’s lap!”

“But so help me, I will wring your wretched neck—“ His voice grows thick; heavy, and it hurts to swallow, “I will chain you inside a box (which is something I swore I’d never do to someone in this family again) before I allow you to take Caroline away, too.”

It’s in that moment, just as the sun eclipses behind a cloud to dim the atmosphere like an omen, the wind punting flower petals through the air like knives which sting when they kiss a piece of exposed skin, that Elijah’s features contort into something worse than inscrutable. They refashion, instead, into something aggressive and deranged.

“Her shrieks will sound so much more delicious to me when you fail to save her now, Hybrid,” he says. “I admit I can hardly wait for the symphony.”

“Screw you!” Caroline shouts back.

That’s when he lurches forward to grab Klaus by the elbow. With unimaginable force, he yanks. Fracturing it with a violent twist.

The action frees his two legs, which had been dangling in the air where he was tacked only seconds ago, so that he’s able to kick out at his foe’s knees. Unbalancing him enough to bite his shoulder and push backwards against his chest. Elijah nearly shirks the arm which is swinging back at him in retaliation, but not quite.

Hybrid claws catch his face even though he ducks. Like hooks, they dig and pry into his skin because he’s still within range and Klaus is livid, monstrous beyond legend; leaving cursive track marks from Elijah’s eyebrow all the way down through the white of his collarbone.

Still, the other man’s wide-arced punches leave Elijah with an advantage in the end. One carries too far to the left and exposes his side. Before Klaus can stop him, therefore, and before he can recover in time to parry the attack, he upends him with a knee that breaks his nose and reduces his vision to black dots and sprouting stars. It gives him ample time and opportunity to pin him to the ground with the loose barn beam at his feet. Piercing it through his kidney.

That’s how Elijah leaves him, too: sprawled, writhing, raging, helpless.

It’s why he turns his attentions back to Caroline with keener insight. There’s a patient but exacting grin on his lips as he lays chase again because it’s her vs. him for a moment, and there’s a fierceness blooming across her face that says ‘you’ll pay for that dearly, jerk face.’ It feeds his muscles with adrenaline; it plies his mind with rigor. He craves the rush like heroin.

For it’s here, after everything, that he truly understands Caroline won’t leave Klaus under any circumstances. For, no matter how damning the danger grows, and no matter how stacked-against the odds are in her favor, he sees she’ll leap straight into hell itself if it’ll offer her the slightest chance to reach him again.

How could he have missed this? How could he not have noticed the jewel she’s concealed behind her incessant prattle?

His worth is mine to decide, she’d said to him earlier. Mine.

Her words reverberate with too strong a connotation to demarcate their connection into anything less significant than lovers. Lovers. It makes Elijah feel like an imperceptive fool.

That’s why it doesn’t matter how her death happens now, he’s decided.

He’s realized it’s not important whether he skewers her pink flesh into shoelace peels with his teeth, or detaches her bouncing blonde head from her shoulders with the branch of a tree. It matters not if he cuts through her innards, roasts her in the sun, sucks out her sweet flames through her carotid artery, or wraps her wagging tongue around a heart that no longer beats. All that’s necessary is for her life to end here. Today. All that’s required is for Klaus to be parked in a front row seat, powerless and wretched because he’s piked through the torso, watching—

Watching as Elijah wrenches this girl away from him irrevocably.

The thought makes the elder Original smile.

What is better retribution, after all? What could be better justice for the man who’s already tried to snuff out the love which exists between he and Antoinette? The selfish, sabotaging man. How much easier will it be to extract what they need from him afterwards? Once she’s dead.

Ah, the glory of it! The honor! Punishment for both the Hybrid’s meddling and his impurity will be much more satisfactory to achieve now that he knows the best way to inflict it—personally.

“Listen for the crescendo, will you? I believe it’s my favorite cadence of killing,” he says, glancing at Klaus over his shoulder to add drolly, “brother.”

“No more of this! No more of this, damn you!” he replies as his fingernails bruise the land where he’s still impaled.

“Klaus! Listen to me, please!”

Like a whip, Caroline’s voice cracks at the same moment gray rain begins to spit on top of them from stratus mouths. The wind gusts so hard it vibrates with staffs of yellow and blue and shatters all the remaining windows in the house. The space around them transforms into a whistling hellmouth of tension and grief, of anger and estrangement, and of terror too palpable to bear, in seconds.

And what’s worse, is that the worst of it all feels tragically possible now because Elijah’s all coup de force with shards of wood flying everywhere as his skewed morality and loyalty to the wrong family helps to move his feet like a rabid beast’s. Meanwhile, Caroline’s zooming forward through a fang-bared maze and cycloning storm with eyes that scream out, then pour into the beam stuck in Klaus’ back almost in elegy.

The inflamed blue of her eyes drenches his soul in any number of ways, because what if he can’t shatter this obstacle soon? What if he doesn’t…what if she…how can he not save her? How?

Leaping over Klaus’ arms at that moment, she flashes away with Elijah on her haunches. Then, without breaking stride, she reaches into her jacket pocket before she glances back at the prone Original long enough to demand for him to understand. Pleading for him to place faith and trust in what her words mean, “The jeans, Klaus! The freaking jeans!” she yells as she jets in front of him one last time.

“So wasteful,” Elijah says as he nearly hooks an arm around her neck in victory, “since those truly will be your last words this—”

Trip

Stab

Snap

He’s unconscious and face-first on the ground in seconds. A railing spoke from the porch jabbed between his two shoulder blades.

“I think not as much as you’ll regret being brought down by your own poor fashion choices. Compel yourself a tailor next time. I mean, really,” Caroline says over his body with a triumphant hum, cuffing up his baggy pant legs. She pops up from a crouch to take Klaus’ offered hand with a weak smile afterwards.

“That was inspired thinking on your part,” he says.

“Nah, not really. Legally Blonde obsession simply served me well today is all.”

“Elle Woods has nothing on you, love. Believe me.”

“Yeah, well, no way was your brother getting away with saying I talk too much. No man would. Besides,” she continues with a snort, “you did warn him not to underestimate me.”

“That I did.”

After they tie Elijah to a tree out of sight with the vervain chains in her trunk, intent on keeping him subdued until their non-Hollow’d reinforcements arrived to take him away, they amble back toward the house.

“Thanks for the tripping assist, by the way,” Caroline says.

Shrugging, Klaus slinks an arm around her waist like it belongs there, “It was the least I could do.”

“Come on, teamwork suits us. Don’t deny it,” she says with a bump of her hip.

“I’m not.”

“What’s wrong?” she asks suspiciously, her heightened senses on red alert again because of his abstract demeanor. “Is there another—”

“No,” he cuts in, his thumb hooking more firmly into her belt loop, “it’s nothing.”

Caroline rolls her eyes at his flat, disgruntled tone, at the way he sighs before disappearing into the enigmatic labyrinth of his mind where she can’t follow, so she stops them on a seared patch of sidewalk. Then crosses her arms.

“Look, I know me being the one to stab him wasn’t ideal,” she says, feeling his growing intensity, “but with the beam already starting to splinter in your back like that, I knew if I ran him close enough you’d be able to topple him so I could—”

Klaus shuts her up with a kiss.

The timing of it is bad. (Couldn’t be worse, really.) It’s totally inappropriate considering how fraught the past twenty minutes have been with the threat of magic and wolf-binding, with a rescue of innocents that’s succeeded but still reeks of flesh and bloodshed, of muck, and of family wreckage that will never be able to be repaired because it’s been ripped off the hinges. It’s burnt to shreds with a house and a barn that’s no longer standing upright.

There’s so much to discuss, too. There are so many decisions to be made about what to do next…

Hayley? Hope? Elijah? New Orleans?

Do they collect the girl’s ashes before they leave; and if so, in what? How will Hope react once she awakes? What all did Roman know about this? Can they find a witch/Marcel team to fix Elijah’s mind, or is it hopeless to try now that so much of him has been magically reconditioned? Should she call Bonnie, or would that cross some kind of line? And, like, could the sky stop weeping blood already because - Mikaelson curse or not - who the hell needs all this staining and stickiness on their designer clothes?

…And on and on and on the questions flow!

The biggest problem now, though, is that Klaus’ kiss is so hot and crushing with feeling that it’s halted the million-and-a-half thoughts buzzing through Caroline’s head which still need solving. She’s too distracted, too lost to the sweet but scraping taste of his tongue in her mouth.

He makes love to her lips in a way no one but an artist knows how. There’s an array of color, meticulousness, delicacy, and swooping claim to be laid down on her wherever she allows him to paint with his kisses. And before she knows it, before she can locate her sense of rationality long enough to steady her pulse again and stop this, her fingers are burying themselves into the curls at the nape of his neck to draw him closer, and closer; the giant butterfly flip in her stomach telling her only one thing:

Screw it. Let the questions wait for awhile.

So she does.

They do.

#klaroline #klaroline drabbles #klaroline fanfiction #half agony half hope #hopefully elijah doesn't feel too OOC #but my aim was to show he's morally skewed rn #and to allude to how/why #re: i tried #i got in some omniscient POV too #woot!#ashlee bree's writing endeavors

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commander-yinello · 6 years

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Trying to be better, part 2

If you haven’t read part 1, this story won’t make any sense! Below and under the cut, part of me sailing the crackship Echosung into slightly more serious waters. I hope you enjoy! <3

4:45 PM. She sighed as she held her phone in the air, time telling her how little she had done today. A soft whine and the scratching of nails came from beside her bed, Lady insisting that she needed to go out for a walk.

“Yes, yes. Gimme a minute to get ready,” she responded, pushing herself off her bed, blowing wavy hair out of her face. Lady didn’t seem to care for her owner’s prep time, running in circles in the hope time would go faster. Long used to her poodle’s antics, Kyungju dropped her phone on the desk next to her wardrobe.

It was right then a new notice popped up on her screen. She expected another meme from the chatroom with her overseas friends, but it was an e-mail. An e-mail with a particularly unexpected sender that made her swipe it away.

“Mom!” she yelled towards her open door while she attempted to brush out the creases in her dress so it didn’t look like she used them as pajamas. “Did you give the agent from Heart & Seoul Models my private email address?”

The gentle tapping of heels on marble followed, her mother’s shadow cast on the cream-colored wall. “Of course, I did dear! Why wouldn’t I?”

She groaned. “What the fuck, mom?!”

“Kyungju Choi, I told you to stop swearing!”

“And I told you, I don’t want these agents to be able to contact me!” Irritated, she brushed her hair down with her hands. Lady followed her every move, doing her best for constant attention.

“I don’t know why you’re so against becoming an idol again. You were so successful last time.”

She nearly lost balance, putting on her blazer and trying to win the argument. “I don’t want that anymore! It ended in a bunch of really bad bullshit, or did you somehow forget that we moved to Europe?”

“You made a mistake that you’re not going to make again. Your father and I agree that you need to be doing something other than loafing about and taking the odd modelling job. Or did you plan on finding a rich man and marrying him?”

“No!” Kyungju yelled. “God mom, I can’t believe you’re still suggesting that!”

Now properly dressed, she slipped her phone in her pants pocket and eyed the unpacked moving boxes in the corner as she left her room, making her way to the stairs in the hallway. Her mother stood on the ground floor, wearing a frilly apron, the only sign she was a housewife - unlike her hair in a tight bun and a face full of bold make-up. Kyungju glared as she ran down, but her mother had always been better in the glaring game. Lady hopped down the stairs, tail wagging from the noise they produced, noise she saw as fun and exciting like all noise really.

“God blessed you with a beautiful body and you’re wasting it,” her mom continued to nag as Kyungju tugged on her boots and jacket. “You may not have been able to charm that albino boy, but he’s young and poor - there’s plenty of older, richer, more interested men you should be aiming for.”

She couldn’t stand hearing more. “I can make it on my own, just give me time to figure out how. Come Lady,” she beckoned, and her poodle obeyed, trotting along while Kyungju grabbed the leash off the coat hook. “I’ll see you tonight mom,” she said, leaving her home for the city streets.

Her mother was merciful and closed the door behind her without another word. Kyungju sighed while Lady sniffed every possible corner and tree she could find, running back when she was called, allowing herself to be leashed. The fluffy ball of energy proceeded to pull Kyungju along the pavement while she pondered.

Her mother was making too big a deal out of this. They just moved here, surely she was going to find something, a job she could be proud of and that had nothing to do with Echo Girl. She nodded while pouting, ignoring the confused face the woman passing her made.

Rush hour had ended, and the once crowded streets slowly found silence as employees and students ran into their homes for dinner and relaxation. Kyungju turned the corner and ended up in a small shopping centre where everyone was closing up. At the end of the plaza Kyungju spotted the small building with illustrated cats and dogs on the windows, a sight that brightened her mood instantly.

Yoosung’s clinic. It wasn’t actually Yoosung’s clinic, he was just one of the vets working there, but in her mind it was. Conveniently close to her house, she had rushed Lady there - best idea she ever had. For once she was glad Lady was such a glutton.

Through the glass, she saw the blond behind the counter, busy with a customer, his red glasses nearly on the top of his nose while looking down. He’s cute, she thought. Against all of her expectations, Yoosung was understanding and warm. She smiled and began to walk over eagerly, feeling like Lady about to get a treat.

Guilt struck her, making her halt. Lady tried to run ahead and strained against the leash a few times before giving up and sitting down, scratching herself.

Kyungju bit her lip, continuing to stare at Yoosung who had no idea she was out here. Tempted as she was to enter the clinic and come up with some excuse to ask Yoosung out for an official coffee date, she couldn’t justify it. Yoosung was around her age and had his shit together better than her. No doubt her mom would be very pleased to know her daughter planned to hit it off with a doctor. An animal doctor, not that that would stop mother from counting in paychecks.

What was she even thinking? With a history like hers, it wasn’t right for her to ask him out. His friends, her parents, possibly even him, they’d all get the wrong idea. She had gotten a crush on another RFA member. What if she was responsible for causing a rift between Yoosung and the RFA?

And surely a guy like Yoosung must have a girlfriend as sweet as him already.

She spun around, fully intent on marching back to her house, only to be met with a man who obstructed her entire view. Startled, she took a few steps back. The man wore a typical gray office suit and his balding head was shiny from all the gel. His eyes widened as his amazement grew upon staring at her, dropping his suitcase next to his feet.

“Erm… Can I help you?” Kyungju asked.

“Echo Girl!” the man exclaimed in joy, clapping his hands together. “I can’t believe it’s really you! It’s me, Ben! I was- no, am!- your biggest fan, I used to send you a letter every month. Do you remember?”

Shit. “Ah… Not really. My agent let interns open the fanmail, I... didn’t.” Unpaid interns, she remembered. She didn’t want to bother with anything that wasn’t Zen back then.

Ben blinked at her. “What do you mean, you sent me replies back! They even had cute signatures! I really felt like we connected!”

“Automated reply letters,” Kyungju answered sheepishly.

“And the personalized autographed photo?”

“A copy. And the signature was never mine.”

Kyungju felt Lady paw at her ankles. Ben seemed lost, brows furrowing as he processed this new information. “I don’t… I don’t understand! We didn’t have something special back then? Why?”

“Because I didn’t care about anyone except me back then. Surely you must have read the scandal about me.”

The middle-aged man shook his head. “The magazines reported something, but it seemed more like a typical idol scandal. But then you disappeared. The fan club assumed you abandoned us.”

“It’s true, I did.” Better he knew now she was garbage. “It’s okay if you’re mad.”

His face completely fell. “I can’t believe this. I thought you had maybe some kind of family crisis and would come back in the future. I was hoping for your come-back! And then I could genuinely claim I am the number one fan!”

Lady reacted to his anger, growling as loud as a tiny poodle could. “God, I shouldn’t have wasted so much time on someone like you! Do you know how many you fooled with the fake crap you sold them? Was your singing even genuine or autotuned?”

“It was real,” she said, cruel words crash making her heart hurt. Lady was barking now, causing other shopkeepers to peer through their windows. Damn it, she swore quietly.

He jabbed a finger, nearly poking her chest. “Real my ass! You are supposed be pure, kind-”

“Hey!” came a sudden new voice, and they both turned towards the man with glaring purple eyes standing next to her. When had Yoosung snuck up on them?

Turned out Yoosung can be very intimidating, Kyungju discovered. His hands were clenched and his posture, wider from the white coat he wore, made him look ready to attack. The sweet, soft boy image of him she harbored since last time was nowhere to be found and she didn’t know whether to be fascinated or terrified. “What are you doing?!”

Ben bristled. “What am I doing? I’m giving this fake piece of shit what she deserves, that’s what!”

“How dare you talk to her like that - she’s still a human being!” Yoosung yelled back at him.

“It’s alright,” Kyungju said to Yoosung, who had moved in front of her, partially blocking her view of the angry fan. “I don’t mind, he has the right to.”

“Don’t say that!” Yoosung whirled around, expression equal parts anger and shock. “Kyungju, you can’t let him treat you like this!”

“Why not?” She bit back. “It’s true what he’s saying, isn’t it?”

“Why does that matter?!” He said, before pinching the bridge of his nose, calming down considerably. “I mean, yes, you did some bad things in the past. I don’t think anyone would dispute that.” He sighed, shoulders drooping. “But it’s obvious you’re genuinely sorry for what you’ve done. Letting yourself get verbally abused like this isn’t helping anyone. Why didn’t you tell him what you told me?” He gestured towards Ben, who stared at them considerably confused.

“This is different. He doesn’t know me.”

Yoosung gently took hold of her shoulders, and she recognized the same comforting gesture she gave him in the café. “Neither did I really, before we met. And even then, I was impressed by you. Everyone else would be too, if they knew. I’m sure of it.”

The dam she didn’t know she had inside her burst. Her eyes started to well up. Embarrassed, she rubbed them vigorously with the palm of her hand, feeling the heat of her cheeks. “Why are you so sweet?” she asked with a small pout. “I don’t deserve that kindness.”

“Of course you do. One day I’ll make you believe it.” Suddenly shy, he let go and blushed a little, aware of what he had said. Kyungju couldn’t help but giggle.

The sound of shoes scuffing the pavement brought about the startling reminder that they were never alone. Ben was still next to them, lost and hands raised awkwardly.

“Err…” he started.

“Look,” Kyungju intercepted, turning to him and clapping her hands together. “I can’t change the past and give you back your lost time. But I am genuinely sorry, and I have changed. I won’t be performing anymore.”

Ben returned to rage mode. “What does sorry do for me?! Do you think just cuz you’ve got a cute face that I’m going to forgive you?”

Kyungju grimaced. How long was this guy going to go on before she would have to threaten him? “I’m not asking for your forgiveness.”

“You should, because I’m done with you! It’s over!!” he yelled, grabbing his suitcase, walking off with his nose in the air. “Goodbye forever!”

Ben marched off, leaving the two blinking at the sudden turn. He had left the street before Kyungju and Yoosung grasped what had just happened, picking up the jaws that had dropped off. Then, she heard Yoosung attempt to muffle his snickers and before she knew it, they both laughed in unison.

“Wow, did you have to deal with his type all the time? I would go crazy,” Yoosung replied after he calmed down.

“Not all the time, thankfully.” Kyungju let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks Yoosung, I appreciate it.”

“No worries, when I saw you and that asshole outside, I couldn’t hold myself back.” Bashful, Yoosung scratched the back of his head.

How does he switch from scary to adorable so fast? Kyungju wondered. “I’m sorry for distracting you from your work.”

“We were closing up, so it’s fine. But what brings you back here again?”

“I live close by. And I, eh, I decided to pass by while walking Lady,” Kyungju admitted, blushing more.

“It’s good to see you still healthy! Haven’t been eating anything weird, have you?” Yoosung said as he bent down to pat Lady, who jumped to try to put her paws up as high as she could on Yoosung’s clean pants.

With things having calmed down, Kyungju followed Yoosung to his clinic, waiting inside while he locked up, his co-workers waving at them just like last time. She waved back as Lady chewed on her leash in boredom.

“Oh, Jaehee asked me to tell you that her café has new latté flavors. Maybe you’d like to try them?” Yoosung asked while he changed from his doctor’s coat to his leather jacket.

“Jaehee?”

“Ah, she’s my friend and the café owner. The café we went to last time.”

Is he asking me out? Kyungju thought, feeling the temperature rise. “Ah, sure, I’d love to try them. But won’t your girlfriend get annoyed with you hanging out with me?” she asked, instantly regretting how obvious she was.

Yoosung grabbed his keys on top of the front desk. “Girlfriend? I don’t think so, seeing as I don’t have one.” He shrugged, leading Kyungju to the front door.

It was hard for Kyungju not to let out any of the high-pitched squealing in her head. “Then, of course!”

“Great! I’m sure Jaehee would love your opinion on them,” Yoosung said enthusiastically, locking up the clinic behind them.

Kyungju wondered on whether this was a date or not. “Okay, but only if you choose a latte for me.”

“But… What if I choose something you don’t like?”

“I’m sure I will like anything you pick.” Kyungju smiled, Lady trotting by her side as they began to walk.

“You have varied taste, that’s good! I can be a bit picky sometimes,” Yoosung replied, placing his hands in his jacket pockets, practically beaming happiness.

Kyungju had a feeling Yoosung wasn’t getting it. But, either way, she was content being with him, at his side, feeling more comfortable than ever.

#echosung #fanfiction #mystic messenger #kyungju choi #yoosung kim #yoosung x kyungju #mysme #confession: I regret using the weird fan as a plot point #because I had no idea what to do with him after a while #but I had used him too much to remove him #sometimes fics have their own will haha #next one is gonna be much fluffier though #also probably the last one #I want this to be a short series #<3

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saphylee · 6 years

Text

Here is the angst ficlet that I promised @leothelionsaysgrrrr staring our ME:A characters, Puck and Thelrand.

Word count: 1632 with most under the cut :’)

Puck shoved through the door into Kralla’s Song. No one barely gave her a glance as she stomped around. “That bastard better be here, or I swear to God, I’ll fuckin’-“ She cut herself short with a growl as she spotted Reyes nursing a drink in the corner of the room.

“Where the fuck is he, Reyes?”

The man glanced up, his eyes vacant. As if to dismiss her, he closed them, and raised his glass to drink. “I have many men who work for me; you’ll have to be more specific.”

Puck snatched the glass from his hand and slammed it down on the table, whiskey splashing out onto the table. “You know damn well who I’m talking about!” She pulled out a chair and sat down across from him, glaring at him through the helmet. “Now answer me!”

Reyes hardly reacted to the outburst, looking to the glass with a forlorn expression, as if more bothered that it was empty over than what Puck was upset about. He flagged the bartender for another, sighing deeply. “He’s gone,” he finally whispered. He took a long sip when his drink arrived. “Gone back to Sloan.”

For a moment, Puck saw red and clenched both of her fists in her lap. “You’re telling me that he willingly went back to her? That after everything he’s been through with the Outcasts, Thelrand would just go back to her? Jesus Christ, Reyes, she’ll kill him.” She flung her hands up. “Or worse, make him spill the beans about who you are and who works for you, then kill him. You’ve painted a target on our backs, Reyes!”

“He won’t say anything.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?”

“Because,” Reyes started, polishing the rest of his drink and again waived for another one. “He didn’t go back willingly. You know he would rather die than work for Sloan. He doesn’t want to spill more blood under her name.”

“That doesn’t make any fucking sense.” Puck grabbed the drink out of his hand, keeping it out of reach. “Why send him back if you knew all that?”

Reyes finally looked to her with some form of expression other than pathetic. There was sadness, regret, a flash of anger and… love. “He’s a dead man, either way. At least I could spare his life for a while longer.”

Stunned into silence, she handed him back his drink. “Someone was watching him.”

He slowly nodded. “And she loved him, too. Didn’t want to kill him, but would as one of Sloan’s bitches.” He chuckled bitterly. “At any rate, Thel and I both knew that our dalliance wouldn’t last. It’s better for both of us this way.”

Puck scoffed to hide the utter disappointment she felt towards Reyes. She saw how Thelrand looked at him, like Reyes was the best damned thing in Andromeda when he was far from it. “You really believe that? That’s all he meant to you?”

Reyes chuckled, a rather detached and off-putting sound. “Does it matter what he means to me now?” He downs his glass and transferred the due credits with a swipe of his hand. “Just know our secrets are safe with him and be done with this whole affair.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you would be more relieved to be rid of him. Didn’t you always complain about him?”

“Fuck you, Reyes,” she hissed without hesitation and stood up to leave before she blurted out more about how she really felt. It was odd to know that goofy dumbass wouldn’t be trailing behind her, filling her precious silence with mindless chatter, trying to get in her brain and worm his way into her heart. And she hated that it took Thelrand to be gone for good to realize how normal and wanted the daily frustrations with him turned out to be, how much she was going to miss him.

He should have stayed in the Milky Way. He didn’t belong in Andromeda. He was too good for Andromeda. Just promise me that you’ll stay alive and not die on me.

Puck never saw Thelrand Keller again after that day. Most days he never crossed her mind save for those moments where the smallest and most insignificant things would remind her of him. She would reach for the last clean cup to find it was his cup: a bright blue tumbler that he brought from the Milky Way because the color reminded him of his days in C-Sec. This happened many occasions and each time she would grumble to Reyes to throw it away, but would never actually do it herself.

Or she would come across his well-read copy of A Christmas Carol, the spine broken, and pages creased and stained. The one Christmas they spent together, Thelrand had spent days trying to find a gift for her, but came up with nothing. Kadara had little to offer for such an occasion, but he had that silly Christmas tale that was older than dirt. He made her sit down with him and listen to him read the first chapter. When he unknowingly read beyond it, she didn’t stop him, and just listened to him read (though made many lewd gestures the entire time).

And don’t get her started on the Christmas songs he would sing. Constantly. For the entire month.

Sometimes, looking at Reyes would bring up memories. Most of the time, he and Thelrand were so sickeningly sweet together, she actively avoided them to have some peace. As of late, however, it bothered her more than she’d like that Reyes was so willingly to not only throw away what they had, but the man himself. If he truly regretted it, he didn’t show it after that one day.

She couldn’t believe that she actually missed the dumbass.

The bodies strewn about the badlands wasn’t a new sight. If anything, it was utterly predictable. Might as well have been driving by rocks. Reyes wanted Puck to check out a location where a supposed fight between the Collectors and the remaining Outcasts had taken place. The outcasts intercepted a weapons shipment and hijacked the modded weapons. The results weren’t pretty.

“Sucks to be them,” she muttered to herself, surveying the area for the missing cargo. Corpses clutching weapons to their chest showed the weapons were used. She noted that most of the containers were missing or destroyed. She sighed. Reyes wasn’t going to like this. She collected whatever weapons she could salvage.

When she thought she collected everything, she spotted a body laying facedown some distance away from what seemed to be the heart of the fight. Upon further inspection, her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach before hammering violently in her chest. The back of their head was shattered, exposed and bloody, but that wasn’t what terrified her the most: it was the silvery white hair that was stained a deep crimson.

For the first time, she prayed despite already knowing how useless it was, that it wouldn’t change the outcome, that it wouldn’t fill the sudden hole in her chest… but it gave her the courage she needed to flip the man onto his back, and the harsh truth slapped her as Thelrand’s vacant eyes stared back at her.

“Damn you!” she screamed, prying the rifle out of his hands and chucked it away. “Why’d you have to go and get yourself killed, you fucking useless dumbasss—motherfucker—dipshit – aauuughhh!” Her suit felt suffocating, gasping for breath even though her suit’s oxygen levels were normal. Fumbling fingers unclasped the helmet and dropped it beside her. The first time she ever took her helmet off her helmet in front of him and the bastard was dead.

Looking at him without the helmet was jarring, perhaps because now he was lifeless, the color drained from his face. She couldn’t look at the desperation in his eyes which used to sparkle with mischief, like lightning in a storm cloud. It didn’t match the slight curl of his lips like he knew he was going to die and accepted it, welcomed it even.

Reyes’ words echoed in her mind: You know he would rather die than work for Sloan. She found him lying on his stomach with a hole in the back of his head, and she bet if she looked at his weapon, she would see that very few shots were fired from it, if at all. It seemed he tried to take advantage of the chaos and run while he still could. Whether friend or foe shot him, she couldn’t tell. Just knowing that he wanted to be free and that Reyes forced him back, goddamnit, it wasn’t fair. That it took his life ending to be free wasn’t fair.

She sniffed and wiped her tears with haste. She couldn’t mourn like this in the open especially when trouble could be lurking around the corner. A thought occurred that someone could be watching the scene. She wished perhaps that bitch who claimed to love him was watching the tragedy she and Reyes had wrought.

She shook the thought with a quick shake of her head, clasping her helmet back on. She needed to finish up and leave though she wished she could give him a proper burial. He deserved that much, but perhaps a memento would do. After loosening the armor around his neck, she grabbed the thin chain of his dog tags and yanked it off his neck. It would be enough to show Reyes without having to explain what happened.

Before she left, she closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. Thelrand looked more at peace that way, as if he was simply asleep. “You really were too good for this godforsaken galaxy.”

#mass effect #mass effect andromeda #puck #thelrand keller #saphy writes #leothelionsaysgrrrr #this makes me so sad to think about #i am so sorry #(not really)#but I really enjoy writing puck #she's a softie that tries to act all tough

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mishamoonberry · 7 years

Text

It’s Not So Useless After All

A continuation of It’s Useless if Not With you and It’s Useless if You Don’t Realize

Also available on AO3

in which kakashi decides to confess... badly, that is.

Largely inspired by AKMU’S I Love You

It is caused by both encouragement and exasperation, that Hatake Kakashi, a healthy young man by the age of seventeen, finally decides to confess.

Mind you, it's only the decision to do it, not that he has done it... yet.

It's almost been three years since he fell in love with his former deskmate Haruno Sakura, a pink haired young woman who reeks of obliviousness and naivete. And it's almost been three years since his unsuccessful and helpless pining, to the point that even people who aren't involved in his love live--or the lack thereof--becomes so worked up that they demand him to just confess already.

The poor, poor spectators are including but not limited to Uchiha Obito, his childhood friend and best friend (despite what the both of them may say to each other's faces) who is so Done with every stupid shenanigans that erupts whenever Kakashi becomes too besotted near Sakura (which is blasphemy, in Kakashi's opinion, because surely he doesn't look that stupid when he gazes at her. This opinion, however, is quickly shut down by a deadpan stare from the Uchiha) and Nohara Rin, Obito's girlfriend and his bestfriend, who probably just tags along for her own amusement.

There are the little brats, the Uzumaki and his bestfriend tomato lover boy--whose name, for the love of God, Kakashi cannot remember--who is Obito's cousin, who also put their own yen in it, exclaiming that Kakashi-nii needs to stop being a coward, which probably fuels his determination to do it. Because as suave as he can be, he will not back down from a challenge, thank you very much. His healthy seventeen year old soul just won't permit it. He has to!

And, well, that, and the fact that he's getting tired of chasing her around as well.

(Like a puppy, Rin quips happily, her smile too innocent to be truly innocent, and Kakashi gives her the long suffering look she totally deserves).

He likes her, he really do.

He likes how she smiles, how she plays with her hair, how she laughs loudly without much care of the world, how she curses and flusters, how she's always ready to smack him whenever he says something way too stupid, how she's so smart and emotional and how she has some freckles on her cheeks, some blackheads on her nose that she doesn't care much to clean, the color of her eyes, the shape of her lips, and many, many things that he can list down.

He talks about it enough with Obito. The poor guy already says he knows too much about Sakura that it's becoming uncomfortable, and he totally doesn't want to know Kakashi's silly romantic fantasies, thank you very much.

Sometimes Obito wonders why must he has a sap for a best friend.

A hopeless romantic. Obito wants to barf.

It's not like you're any different, you know, Rin will always say that to him, her eyes twinkling in amusement, and Obito stubbornly refuses the implication that both of them are similar in terms of dorkiness, raising his nose and harrumphing to make his point.

Anyway, the point is that, Kakashi is finally ready to confess.

He's ready. He's finally ready.

He's....

"..." His body does a full tremble and he attempts to walk back to his home, "...maybe tomorrow would be better."

"Oh, hell no!" Obito shouts, pushing the flailing teen forcefully out of the gates of his house. "You promised to do this and you're going to do this now! Besides, you already invited her!"

"I can just say I got a stomachache!" Kakashi shouts back, his hand going toward his jeans pocket where his phone is, only to be seized by Obito's bigger hand. "Obito!"

"No!" The Uchiha growls, "you don't get to back down now that you already made up your mind, Bakakashi!"

The Hatake's face is red, whether from mortification, anger or embarrassment Obito doesn't really know. Although his face has been red ever since he managed to invite Sakura on a date. Not that he said it like that, or that Sakura would realize, being the oblivious girl that she is.

"My zodiac fortune today is very unlucky!" He says as an excuse.

Obito is quick to reply, "you never believed that shit anyway, Bakakashi!"

"Rin!" Obito shouts, and the brown haired woman moves, using her quick fingers to swipe Kakashi's cellphone from his pocket. The silver haired teen lets out a strangled whining sound behind his typical surgical mask, while Obito methodically practically dragging him toward a specific place.

[Are you on your way?] Rin types, sending the message to Sakura's chatroom. It's a good thing that Kakashi messages like an old man, all with correct grammar and everything else, so there will be no suspicion over suddenly changing messaging style whatsoever.

[Yeah!] Comes Sakura's reply. [I'm otw! Be there in 15m!]

[Okay. I'm on my way too.]

"She's on her way," Rin informs her boys, slipping the phone back to Kakashi's pocket. "No running away now, Kakashi-kun."

Kakashi groans, his cheeks still pink.

"It won't be that bad," she tries to placate him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder as they get nearer to the restaurant he asked Sakura to meet him at. "At least after this, you would have already told her how you really feel."

Kakashi sighs.

Then, a few moments later, "...my stomach really hurts this time."

"Suck it up, Bakashi," Obito growls, crossing his arms. "Just go reserve a seat and wait for her. And do it properly."

"...I'm never helping you to plan for your dates ever again," Kakashi mumbles, ignoring how Obito's face explodes in red and Rin glances inquiringly at the flustered Uchiha. He rubs his stomach, mostlikely aching thanks to his nervousness, and takes a deep breath. "Okay. Okay. I'm doing this."

"Goodluck!" Rin gives him a thumbs up, and drags Obito away from the restaurant. It won't do if Sakura sees them, after all.

Kakashi lets out a shaky breath, and makes his way into the restaurant. The place isn't that fancy either. It's a family restaurant that serves tasty pasta, and both he and Sakura likes the place because it serves good food and that it's comfortable. He can't think of any other better place to confess to her. Surely, this place must be enough right? He doesn't really like the overly fancy stuff anyway.

I'm fretting again, he sighs to himself. Checking his watch, he thinks it's probably not much longer before Sakura arrives.

Well. Time to prepare.

Somewhat.

XXX

The remaining five minutes wait is nerve wracking for Kakashi. He tries to find a smooth sentence or any kind of way to smoothly tell Sakura on how much he likes her, but ends up being too corny for comfort or too rude. Perhaps this is why he always almost ends up kind of insulting to Sakura, thanks to his brutal honesty and bluntness.

And, well, perhaps, he should be exactly that? Blunt. Honest.

That's a great idea, he thinks then, I can just blurt it out and be done with it.

Steeling his resolve, Kakashi nods.

Okay.

He can do this.

XXX

When Sakura comes into view, he momentarily forgets his own apprehension and nervousness as he catches sight of her. She's wearing a yellow blouse and cream skirt, a yellow headband with white polkadots, and as she smiles genuinely wide at him, he feels that his heart skipping a beat is totally justified.

"Kakashi! Did you wait long?" She asks, taking a seat in front of him, setting down her peach colored bag.

Kakashi clears his throat. "No. Not really."

The first few minutes flow smoothly. They talk about their day, Kakashi expertly avoiding to mention about Obito and Rin putting up a fuss on his confession plan and bodily dragging him to their meeting place. It all goes smoothly until after they order their respective foods and drinks, when Sakura glances at him with a smile and those bright green eyes and--

Gosh. He's really too deep in this.

Clearing his throat, Kakashi tries to find something to say. He opens his mouth, and yet it seems his voice refuses to come out for some reason. His hands are clammy with sweat, and he curls them into fists, positioned perfectly on top of his lap. He clears his throat again.

"Kakashi?" Sakura's eyebrow furrows. "Are you catching a cold?"

"What? No!" He says, "N-No. I, ah," he raises his hand to flap them back and forth, "I was thinking."

"You never stop thinking, don't you," she mutters, tapping her finger on the table.

"Yeah, well," I never stop thinking about you, "I kinda want to tell you something, actually."

Sakura nods, "I figured. You don't usually invite me like this."

Kakashi raises his eyebrow, "I don't?" He certainly remembers other days he tried to ask her on a date and her thinking it as a simple outing between friends.

"Not on holidays," she clarifies, "you usually prefer to nap with your dogs."

"A very wonderful activity, I assure you," he nods seriously, elated when he successfully makes her giggle. "I think my dogs miss me already."

He glances at the two figures behind Sakura, hidden behind a cream colored wall. Kakashi wants to click on his tongue. Of course Obito and Rin would stick around. Of course. In fact, Obito is glaring at him, probably thinking he's going to use his dogs as an excuse to run off.

Rin just looks interested.

"Anyway," he continues, trying to gather his resolve. Just be blunt, he tells himself. Just tell them outright. "I called you here because, um."

"Because...?" She inquires, tilting her head.

"I want to, ah," he clears his throat, scratching his covered cheek with a finger. He's so very glad he's still wearing the surgical mask, it will be more nerve wrecking if it's the opposite. She will get a clear view of his expression after all. "I want to tell you that--"

Out with it! Obito's eyes seem to say to him through his glare.

"I like you," he whispers, clearing his throat once again and blurts it out, this time a little bit easier and louder than the first, "I like you."

Sakura blinks.

Her expression shows wonder, and there's color creeping on her cheeks before she seems to forcefully blinks them away, smiling easily as she says, "Oh? Sure. I like you too."

Kakashi's brain chooses that moment to short circuit.

"I mean, you're a great friend," Sakura continues, oblivious to his sudden internal screaming, "even though you're a jerk sometimes, you know? I think we even can be considered as best friends alread--"

He slams his forehead on the table.

Sakura yelps.

"That's not what I meant," he mumbles, his voice muffled thanks to the mask and the table.

Sakura seems to be fumbling, "K-Ka-Kakashi? What? Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"That's not what I meant," he says, stronger this time. His embarrassment has been washed away by some anger, and more mortification as well as exasperation. "I didn't mean as friends, pinky."

Sakura reflexively bristles at the nickname, "don't call me pin--! Wait. What?"

He glances up to stare at her, his dark eyes looking more tired than ever. "I don't like you as a friend. I like you as more than friends."

Sakura blinks.

She blinks again.

And then, realization seeps in.

The changes are instantaneous. Sakura's face turns red, her jaw drops as she lets out a loud "EEEH?". Kakashi chooses that moment to slam his head on the table again thanks to how ridiculous all of these are.

"W-Wait, you never told me!" Sakura says, her cheeks aflame.

"I just told you that!" Kakashi says, exasperated. "I like you, more than just friends!"

Another screech leaves Sakura's lips, her hands reaching up to cover her mouth as she lets out a stammer. "S-Si-Since when?! How? Why?!"

"Since three years ago," he deadpans at Sakura who chokes at his answer. "And I like you because you're... well, you."

"T-T-Three--" She stutters, before she seems to gather herself together and proceeds to berate him, out of all things. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?!"

"You think I didn't try to?" He says, straightening himself on his seat. "Those outings, the things I said to you, the fucking kiss-- What did you think of it as?!"

"I thought that was just you being a tease!" She defends herself, slamming her fist on the table. "I didn't think you'd like me too!"

"Well, I don't tease everyone!"

"You teased Obito!"

"That was different!"

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

"Was not!"

"Too!"

"Not!"

"Too!"

"Not!" He shakes his head. Why is he doing this? "Anyway, I've said it! I'm not gonna say it again." He crosses his arms, looking off to the side as his eyebrows furrowed. He hasn't heard Sakura's answer to his confession. Has he missed it? Perhaps. Probably not. The point stands that he hasn't heard her answer just yet, and he despairs that it might be a rejection of some sort.

"What?" Sakura breathes out, sounding annoyed. "Why not? You said you like me!"

While it's hidden by the white mask, Kakashi is pretty sure Sakura knows that he's pouting, considering how close they actually are. "...You haven't answered it yet."

Sakura blinks. She looks surprised.

"I totally did!" She says, leaning forward. "I said, I didn't expect you to like me too."

It's Kakashi's turn to blink. He moves his gaze to Sakura, who smiles at her. Her gaze is warm, although there is still the lingering pink on her cheeks and the wonder in her eyes, as if she cannot believe what is happening with her at this moment. Kakashi can sympathize, really. He cannot believe this is happening either.

"Then," he breathes out, "that means--"

"I like you too, Kashi," she says, "and I apologize for not noticing it much sooner." Laughing nervously, she rubs the back of her head. "I always thought I'm out of your league or something... Or that you won't like me that way or something..."

"That's not true," he mumbles, "you're really wonderful. Though you were oblivious."

Sakura blushes, nodding, suddenly shy. "So... Does this make this... a date?"

Kakashi hums. He has thought of every outing with her as something similar as a date. But this is the first time the both of them has a similar line of thought.

It's... nice, he supposes.

He glances at his two companion. Obito looks exasperated, while Rin looks satisfied.

Focusing his gaze back to the pink haired teen, he smiles, eyes crinkling. "It's a date."

And there will be many more dates to come.

XXX

Bonus:

"Are they honestly screaming to each other?" Obito grouches out, his eyes staring at the childish pair throwing was too and was not at each other like the children they are.

"Oh my," Rin simply says, sounding both amused and worried at the same time. Obito doesn't know how she manages that.

"This is stupid," he sighs, "can we just leave?"

"Ah, but I haven't heard Sakura-chan's answer, yet!" Rin pouts, "at least not properly."

"I'm not sticking by until they're done with their... date."

"Of course not," Rin soothes him, "just until this part is over. After that we can go to the movies."

He perks up. "Can we watch Spiderman?"

Rin smiles. "Sure, big boy."

#hatake kakashi #haruno sakura #naruto #kakasaku #kakasaku au #misha writes

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bussanbaby · 7 years

Text

Fire & gasoline

Influenced by @abloodneed ‘s gay thirst for Magnus Bane. Don’t ever change, Izsak.

When the lights go red and the alarm rings out in the Institute, Magnus is with Alec. They’re in his room, now barely ever used and dusted over, but still necessary for those rare occasions they stay overnight, too tired or maybe just too lazy to portal to Magnus’ loft – their home, away from the world. Aside from just wanting to spend more time with Magnus, this is one of the reasons Alec moved out as soon as the decision was just formality hanging in the air, a question to be asked and answered with a sweet smile – not having to be woken up with something akin to horror movie shelter sirens in the middle of the night.

It’s a hollow kind of sound, urgent and calling for attention – Alec breaks their kiss to roll his eyes and sigh out a resigned curse, because getting interrupted seems to be their thing, but Magnus just laughs before briefly pressing his kiss-wet mouth over Alec’s deflect rune, the soft prickle of the goatee making Alec give a breathy chuckle.

They’re tangled in each other up against the door, long legs wrapped around a muscular waist, Magnus’ weight pressed against Alec, chest to chest, Magnus’ hands travelling over Alec’s thighs and ass, Alec’s hands tugging at hair, bodies alive with slow dripping pleasure that’s now been ripped from them in the most unfair of ways. The air between them is humid with possibility, with the unspoken ideas, some of them including Alec dropping to his knees and some with them sans clothes, just coal-hot skin, moans reverberating through the room like a choir echo and Alexander whispered like a praise.

Magnus swallows before speaking, his voice gravel-hoarse from equal parts desire and disuse. “Plenty of time to continue this later, pretty boy.”

Alec gives that crooked smile as his eyelashes flutter with the sound of the nickname. It’s obvious how much he enjoys the way it rolls off of Magnus’ tongue, a specialty, something reserved only for him, the sweetest kind of drug. They both move with the utmost reluctance – Magnus slides his hands up torturously slow until they reach a waist he knows by heart like a well-used map and allows Alec to get used to standing again; with satisfaction, he watches Alec’s thighs tremble. It takes the highest levels of self-control Magnus possesses to keep his hands steady as he straightens out the wrinkles in Alec’s t-shirt, who looks awfully enticing, all red mouth and quick heartbeat, lower lip trapped between teeth like an invitation and eager body unable to stop reaching out for Magnus – fingers playing with the shimmery necklaces, like he wants to do nothing more than to pull him back in.

It’s one more kiss, chaste in comparison to the predecessors, a promise of more later, coats picked up from the floor, then the door clicks shut behind their backs, loud in relative silence like the thud of a judge’s gavel. They leave the room with fingers linked; Magnus lets himself be pulled along the breezy hallways, even though he knows the way like the inside of his pocket. Alec is walking in long strides, the Pavlovian instinct to fight and defend ingrained into him like a rune, but Magnus is right by his side, matching his pace easy like breathing; he would say they spend too much time together to be this attuned, but no amount of time is ever close to enough.

The OPS center is crowded with Nephilim dressed in black, the hustle and bustle of getting battle-ready loud in their ears like a buzzing of a beehive. They’re akin to them, Magnus thinks, relentless in their duties, moving like dark shadows against the glow from the blue-tinted screens. Whispers hang between mouths, did you hear, did you know, most seem to put on their gear like it’s nothing more than motions, habitual thing like dressing themselves in the mornings. The late hour doesn’t help their enthusiasm, as some of them were already getting ready to tuck in for the night.

When they step down the small set of stairs into the main area, some heads turn behind them. There’s voices saying Good evening, Mr. Lightwood and Welcome, Mr. Bane, there’s respectful head nods and lingering glances as they pass through the mass of bodies, the Red Sea parting willingly. Magnus can feel the somewhat fresh shift in attitude, partially due to Alec taking over as the Head of the Institute and installing his own rules while the iron’s still hot and partially from the New York Shadowhunter community seeing more of Magnus in battle, seeing his true power aside from the fearful rumors, seeing how easily he mows through enemies with magic as red as their blood as it spills over his hands. How quickly once-tedious battles end in a snap of fingers as soon as Magnus Bane shows up. He’s the golden-plated feather tipping the scales of justice in favor of his allies.

It spreads like wildfire in spoken word and takes over like a plague. The tongues speak of dog-like things with multiple gnashing jaws full of jagged teeth, summoning circles as nothing more difficult than hopscotch; they tell the story of scorched marks where he stands and of thunderclaps when his anger boils to a point of burning; they whisper he glows with energy like a supernova, creating and destroying in equal measures; they wonder if he is the son of a god fallen from grace just to find different reign. It’s the kind of well-deserved recognition that makes them step out of Magnus’ way and it feels so good to be royalty.

Quickly, they find Isabelle who fills them in on what’s happening , but not without sparing them each an appraising look and a smile with an obvious meaning. As Alec straps on his thigh holster and the brace for his bow, she explains: an attack from the Circle members that they haven’t caught yet, a sort of retaliation for capturing Valentine and ruining their plan of mass murder; it’s the whole package – rogue Shadowhunters, a bunch of Forsaken and demons summoned in exchange for sacrifice of the innocent. Izzy twirls her staff and calls it a good workout, then they pour outside.

The show starts.

While the sun has set long ago, an acne-scarred full moon hangs high up in the sky, bathing the park before them in pale light, shifting through the bundles of white fog that curl along the uneven ground. Stars blink slowly, dying and rebirthing themselves above their heads, accompanied by the warm, dim glow of yellow-tinted lanterns dusted all around the alleys until the dense line of trees. Lazy New York hums around them, anonymous laughter and cars driving from somewhere else to somewhere else.

Even though the Nephilim ranks are more sparse than ever (some lost to previous skirmishes, some still out on patrol duty), there’s something hanging in the air that feels charged with adrenaline and determination and a will to win. A dark, navy sky hangs heavy and the moonlight blinks across Magnus’ earcuff when he turns to look at Alec. His jaw is tight and the focus in his eyes sets something alight inside Magnus’ chest, the raw strength in his stance, the tall way he stands. The shadows in the dips of his cheeks and in the hollow space beneath his brow bones make him look like a marble-carved demigod frozen in time. Magnus’ heart thrums with anticipation. They were made to be fighters, they were made to run like wolves side by side, to draw blood and bare their knife-sharp teeth.

Across from the Institute cathedral, down the hill: their enemies, surrounded by cotton candy waves of fog. A match-n-mix of familiar and new faces, disfigured and angry, seeking revenge for things done right. Magnus smiles as the tips of his fingers flicker to life with yellows and oranges and reds, a violent sunrise of power. Alec barks out orders - fan out, don’t get surrounded, aim for leaders first, keep the Institute safe; he draws his bow, nocks an arrow and glances sideways with a quirk of his mouth. Magnus replies with a smirk of his own.

“You ready?” He asks, hands poised in the air like a conductor’s with a song about to begin in a chorus of screaming voices.

“I’m always ready.”

Alec releases the chord on his bow and the arrow flies with a high arch, not aimed at anyone in particular. Magnus speaks a spell under his breath and a ball of blue light soars just as high and meets Alec’s arrow just as it starts to fall. The runes on it flare up as it disappears just to turn into its own multiples – a carpet attack to start things off with a bang.

The Circle members start rushing forward in a loose charge and some fall, struck by the sharp rain. After that, it’s all organized chaos – the two sides mix in a clash of Seraph blades, but Magnus and Alec never stray far from each other, working like a one minded creature.

Magnus’ movements are graceful and dance-like when he dodges a blade coming at him from the side – a quarter twist, a quick swipe of feet and a heart burned out of a traitor, a perfect imprint of his palm left behind. After Magnus pushes his magic into the Circle member’s chest, the smell of burnt flesh lingers like a warning. The next two are grabbed by the necks, and when Magnus claps his hands together, the skulls smash against each other, there’s a wet crack followed by eyes rolling back and bodies falling limp. Magnus feels his magic sing wild like a flame doused with gasoline – it crawls up his forearms, licking at the golden buttons on the sleeves of his favorite maroon coat, stark against his red-splattered, once white shirt underneath.

The fabric twists and fights against the sweeping movements as Magnus sends a force wave to knock down a demon, a lumbering amalgamate of what probably used to be different entities fused together. Before he even opens his mouth with an offer, an arrow whizzes past and lodges itself in where the demon’s energy source should be. Billows of ash dance around the edges of Magnus’ boots as he swivels around.

A couple steps behind his shoulder, Alec with eyes glimmering all mirth, dangerous and an enticing kind of flirty. Magnus can feel a wandering gaze, hazel eyes working their way from Magnus’ mouth to his chest, all the way down then all the way back up. It’s the kind of look that’s hungry for more, for something sweet and something with a little bit of spice. Alec raises his bow, quick and sharp with a well-aimed shot at someone to Magnus’ side, a 1-2-3 movement before his attention is back where it was.

Alec looks up from beneath the fringe of dark eyelashes, a small flush over his cheeks and nose from the cold, a sly tilt to his mouth. Magnus can’t help the fond smile working its way onto his own lips.

“You seem distracted, Alexander.” He teases, turning away brown-eyed to survey the fog-muddled park, but when their gazes meet again, it’s amber and green and yellow against shimmering gold.

The shadowhunter in question swallows around the words stuck in his throat at the sight of Magnus’ cat eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing enticingly with the motion, making Magnus want to surround it in pretty purple marks. The battle is still going around them, ruthless and ugly, and they’re both well aware of the fact, but there’s a tide pulling them close, half a mind focused on surviving and half only on the one before them.

“Cause you’re distracting me, Magnus.” Alec finally speaks in a tone that sends a pleasant wave of warmth through Magnus’ chest and they both step closer to each other, intent on not losing their impromptu staring contest.

There’s someone sneaking up behind Alec, but Magnus doesn’t bother – with a flick of a wrist, he forms a ball of energy and sends it curved towards the black-clad enemy, knocking them a couple of feet back with the impact; powerful enough to kill in seconds. Yet, Alec’s eyes never stray from his, unbelievable trust put in Magnus’ strong hands, shoulders squared, but his deer-eyed gaze soft and full of veneration. This is what love is.

Magnus puts his hands on Alec’s waist beneath the worn leather jacket and tugs him closer by the beltloops, close enough to feel Alec’s chest move against his own and feel his need like a physical thing, how much he wants to touch Magnus and it’s almost overwhelming still, to be wanted this much.

“Come on, we have a battle to win.” The words are left without heat, gruff chastisement just for the sake of it being said and on the record; as much as Alec is a responsible person, he is not a saint.

Their lips brush against each other as Magnus speaks.

”Try to keep up with me, Shadowhunter.”

Alec all but purrs, but what actually escapes him is a low chuckle, teasing and amused in equal parts.

“Is that a challenge?”

“It just might be.”

“Okay. You’re on.”

The playful tension between them is palpable like a touch of fingers down a spine, a push and pull, a competition, where the prize doesn’t change - it’s always kisses, no matter whether you’ve won or lost, just that the latter comes with a bit of ribbing.

They’re nose to nose and Magnus can feel the tickle of Alec’s mussed up hair on his forehead when he reaches for his thigh. Deft fingers tug at the straps of the holster and slide underneath them, the warmth of Alec’s body radiating through his pants, infinitely hotter where Magnus’ digits press in before he undoes the little latch and pulls the Seraph blade free between them. It splutters to life, at first flickering white only to fill with a crimson red, like ink spilling in water and Alec draws in a sharp breath through his nose, both of their faces lit up in the glow.

“We should get a drink after we’re done here. Also, I’m borrowing this for a minute. ” Magnus says, all casual, and turns away, new weapon bared and ready to kill.

As Alec nocks another arrow, his eyes are glued to Magnus’ back as he stalks off after a scared-shitless Circle member; he swallows around the dryness in his throat and continues to take down enemies, one by one, falling like marionettes with the strings cut before they get too close for comfort. Alec never fails to find a delighted sort of thrill running through his body at the instances of Magnus’ power – usually, it’s only an everyday part of casual spells, but when they train with each other or go out into battle, it’s something entirely else. It’s a carnivore waiting to sink their teeth into soft flesh, it’s the knife-sharp focus, the stone-steady calculation, the easy-coming elegance of his hands moving in the air; all of it always manages to draw Alec’s gaze, make his heartbeat skip and stutter.

Bit by bit, they move down in an uneven wave, Magnus and Alec pushing forward and leading at the front – a famed battle couple; Lightwood and Bane, the Warlock and the Nephilim, the yin and the yang. Where at first their sole existence together raised eyebrows and elicited mocking laughter (it’s impossible, it won’t last, they’re too different), now hushed silences blanket the crowds when their names are said, because they are not a force to be reckoned with. They are frostbite coated anger and the harshest of judgment.

Do not cross them.

While Magnus opens a ribcage with a twist of the blade, the enemy’s fingers scrabbling at the hilt stuck deep in his solar plexus, a wordless plead for mercy that Magnus does not offer, sternum cracking and ribs giving way to rough strength until the last breath is gone, there’s Alec aiming a shot straight through the middle of the Circle rune, the arrow breaking through muscle and bone and veins like through butter. The round rune lights up bright red as the body drops with a cut-off noise of surprise.

Pleased with himself, Alec turns to Magnus, who’s watching him, a corpse at his feet and blood dripping down the blade, hair tousled artfully and teeth glinting in a wolf’s smile.

“It was a solid eight out of ten.” He says just to provoke while he wipes the sword on his pants leg, cat eyes glowing in the night’s dark.

Alec makes a noise of offended incredulity, throwing his hands out to his sides. “Oh, come on, it was at least a nine. It was a bullseye!”

Magnus shrugs with only one shoulder, busy with forming a ball of magic he hurdles at a group of Shax demons. The magic envelops the beings, sucking them into its center like a black hole. They both watch as the already strange bodies twist and contort before bursting into ashy confetti, just without the satisfying pop, instead with a cacophony of screaming that makes Magnus wrinkle his nose in a displeased manner.

“Okay, an eight and a half, but no more.” He answers, raising his free hand to point at Alec’s chest.

Alec just snorts, eyes rolling as he pulls another arrow from the quiver over his shoulder. "Okay."

It’s a long battle - longer than anticipated, since reinforcements seem to appear out of thin air and when Alec reaches back to grab another arrow, he finds his fingers grasping at nothing – he’s clear out of ammo and there’s two people with Seraph blades coming at him. He’s got maybe ten seconds flat and just thinks fuck it, before aiming a kick straight to someone’s guts and swinging his bow around like a staff; perhaps the methods are crude, but this is Alec Lightwood at his truest – a dirty fighter, all raw strength and the sound of knuckles against bone. The pain is ever-present, but it just adds more flavor – the sting of splitting skin, blood running down his hand, the purple and blue bruises.

That’s when he stops thinking and lets his body go – throws a handful of earth and tackles his blinded enemy to the ground, a gloved fist driving down over and over again, his own teeth gritted as the man beneath him heaves a breath, the last of his consciousness gone. Alec Lightwood may be a leader, a diplomat, but he’s still a skilled hunter, blood-thirsty and merciless because if you are not with me, you are against me.

The one he stunned with the hit from his bow, a woman with what seems to be blonde hair, puts him in a chokehold, but before she can tighten her grip, Alec stands up with a noise deep in his throat, unsteady with the added weight on his back as she clings to him, relentless. He grabs at her arm, fingers digging into flesh and hurls her over his shoulder, enjoying the heavy, breath-taking thump she lands with.

Then there’s Magnus saying his name and Alec just stretches his arm out to the side as he goes into a crouch, intuition and well-trained strategies paying off – the tips of his fingers graze the hilt of his blade and he tightens his grip around it; a perfect throw executed without a single spared glance. Alec allows himself a moment of smugness about it before driving the sharp tip through the attacker’s skull.

Magnus reaches to set his hand on Alec’s arm – they’re both breathing kind of heavy, because this is not a three-person brawl, but a fully-fledged clash of two worlds that they’ve been fighting with all they have.

“This has gone on for too long.” Magnus says and after Alec agrees with a hum while he reaches to retrieve his bow from the ground and set it on his shoulder. Magnus moves away a couple of steps and goes down on one knee, his hands pushed against the dirt, fingers digging into the soft, cold soil while he speaks words that do not belong to any mundane language. The earth beneath their feet shifts and shakes and roars to life; Alec watches people stumble to keep themselves upright as their enemies are swallowed by chasms appearing and disappearing at a certain warlock’s will, his eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration.

Some trees fall in the process, the yellow lamplights flicker and fade. It only lasts for a moment and is over quickly like a beautiful firework show, but instead of vivid colors, it’s death in a spectacular manner. Magnus gets up and dusts off his pants, looking over his shoulder with a pleased smile as Alec gives him a slow clap, before dipping into a courteous and exaggerated bow accompanied by a flourish of hands.

“That was… incredible.” Alec says, voice soaked with a flirtatious kind of fascination.

“Want to get out of here?”

Alec nods and they start walking slowly away from the crowd – there will be reports to write, papers to sign and work to be done around the cathedral, but for now they’ve done their part, bloody hands tangled between them. It’s so quiet now, in comparison – no clang of metal against metal, no noises of fatigue, just people looking around for their companions, gathering weaponry and treating the wounded ones.

When Magnus opens a portal, Alec bumps their elbows together. “I want a milkshake.”

Magnus hums, looks down first at himself and then at Alec – both of them dirty, splattered with different shades of crimson. “Do you think we’ll get a discount if we walk in looking like this?”

They both laugh at that mental image and start to step through the swirling gateway.

“What, the ‘oh god, you’re covered in blood, everything is 20% off' deal? I don’t think so.”

“You never know, Alexander.”

#malec #shadowhunters #Magnus Bane #Alec Lightwood #my fics #amorverus #darquebane #abloodneed #tw violence #i'm kind of happy with this

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