#to just have them simply exist without needing to farther make it into a character development for the sake of being a protagonist | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

non-licet-bovi · 2 years

Text

I love The Batman for showing us an on-screen Alfred that hasn't confronted his role in Bruce's life and how detrimental it was to Bruce both as a boy and as a fully grown adult. It's easy, especially in fanon, to lionize Alfred as a perfect father figure and I think that makes it especially delectable when a canon unapologetically shows how that isn't the case, even if Alfred grows from it.

Alfred failing to be a good father to young Bruce is the chief reason why Batman came to be. Bruce being forced to essentially raise himself accounts for a lot of the moral failings he expresses both as Bruce Wayne and Batman. It isn't until Bruce experiences more direct personal connection with people - in the movie's case, it's Selina and Nashton, though obviously in very different ways (good in Selina's case, terrible in Nashton's) - that he realizes why his Gotham Project isn't succeeding like he hoped.

I've been pouring through the movie's artbook and the way Reeves and Serkis discuss Alfred's character really resonates with me and how I choose to write his relationship with Bruce, as well as Bruce's character in general. A wonderful comment on my fanfic in response to a scene I wrote between the two prompted this word-vomit, so I figured I'd post it and expand a little.

Bloated and disorganized character analysis of Batman and why Alfred is largely responsible for allowing the circumstances that created him incoming.

Going from an employee of the prestigious, accomplished Thomas & Martha Wayne to the only guardian of a traumatized, scared little boy in the span of a night isn't easy and this Alfred clearly failed to actuate that transition (I'd argue this is at least mostly true for EVERY version of Alfred, thus why Batman exists at all, but I digress). Alfred is former MI6 and a peak professional. To him, working for the Waynes was an honor that required certain decorum and deference. He cared about them and keeping them safe, of course. As their bodyguard he had to be close to them and their household. Close, but never family. When he became all that Bruce really had, he didn't know how to reconcile the professional responsibility he is dedicated to with the emotional care Bruce clearly needed. So Bruce went without.

Bruce is very much still child-like due to having not processed his trauma healthily and Alfred, I think, didn't know how to treat a child, let alone a deeply upset and compromised child. Like Bruce becomes as an adult, Alfred is emotionally distant and loathes to be vulnerable. They're both extremely pig-headed people who do not know how to compromise with each other, which ends up making them distant. It's not a close personal bond yet, it's based in mutual guilt and shared affiliation (an affiliation that Alfred sees as an empire he has a duty to maintain and Bruce sees as a painfully dead family he doesn't quite know).

Alfred expressed his love - which I do believe he definitely feels for Bruce both as an adult and when he was a child - without the physical affection and verbal affirmations scared children require, but still expected Bruce to be a proper Wayne. He just treated baby Bruce like the man of the house, like a mini-Thomas who needed to be butled and managed, not raised. Since he very much wasn't a mini-Thomas, Bruce isolated himself when he didn't get the support he desperately needed. It creates a dearth of ways to grow from anger and fear in Bruce which is integral to why he becomes Vengeance. Alfred had no idea how to deal with that anger and I'm sure that resulted in some unhelpful overcorrection that just pushed Bruce farther away from him.

(Side bar: It's really no wonder that Bruce - a dude used to someone expressing care for him by simply placing food in front of him, forcing him to attend meetings in spite of his professional disinterest and begrudgingly helping him with evidence after a verbal fight - is so enamored with and disarmed by Selina's gentle touches, emotional honesty and frequent pet-names.)

In lieu of Alfred stepping up appropriately, his role-models were fictional characters. The Gray Ghost, Zorro - all assumptions, as they're not confirmed in the movie canon, I believe, just in comics - and the fictional version of his father that Alfred is partially responsible for constructing (I think he clung to Thomas's image as opposed to Martha's because Martha was likely closer to him and thus harder to think of with the kind of detached hero worship he needed to turn Thomas into an absolute ideal). These father-figures weren't living, breathing influences that could check him & challenge his thought process, so he essentially developed in a vacuum of his own power fantasy and raised himself. It isn't happenstance that those role-models were MEN of social & cultural power, either.

It is because he idealizes fictional heroes, not necessarily any input by Alfred, that he happens to fixate on doing good for Gotham rather than becoming a villain (this is why I love Black Mask and Hush as foils to him, but that's neither here nor there since Riddler is his comparison in the movie and that works well). Bruce is a good person who could have turned very bad, but luckily managed to teach himself to prioritize heroism even if he doesn't have enough experience to differentiate between the juvenile idea of theoretical, simple goodness and the more nuanced idea of compromising, empathetic goodness. His concept of the Batman's heroism is like a checklist of features he copies off of a screen. He's arrogant and sanctimonious enough to think he's doing it right without the need of anyone else to keep him honest.

By pushing the exceptionalism of the Wayne Legacy on Bruce, Alfred unintentionally fed that self-importance and entitlement that bolsters Bruce's view of the Bat.

Bruce, even in this much more vulnerable and less idealized depiction of him in The Batman, is an inherently arrogant person obsessed with his own ability and proving it exists by expressing it in the only way he thinks he can. Being unable to save his parents was a loss of power he finds unacceptable. Power is expected for people of his pedigree and status, but it hadn't prevented his trauma. That kind of thing isn't supposed to happen to people like the Waynes, but it did. He didn't have a choice and that powerlessness is heinous to him (which is why Selina is able to throw it back at him during their confrontation. As inexperienced as he is with other people, he didn't pause to realize they don't always have choices either and it is likely the first instance he feels the empathy that is foundational to how he can denounce Vengeance by the film's end).

I think Batman is all about recovering choice and it is relatively easy for him - as a strong-bodied, white, cis (I headcanon a genderqueer Bruce, personally, but that's not important to canon characterization haha), presumably hetero man with social prestige and endless financial resources - to reconstruct that agency in the way he thinks is most impactful. (Especially in contrast to Selina, a character who is trying to find her agency as well, but doesn't have any of his structural advantages. God, her inclusion in this movie is so PERFECT.)

What feels impactful to him? Well, when he was feeling powerless as a child, Alfred taught him how to fight. He likely found some solace in that simulated violence, so of course he takes real violence to an extreme as an adult.

With his self-centered perspective and emotional immaturity, Bruce inevitably fell into the traps we see in the movie in spite of his considerable skill: singular focus that caused him to miss "el rata elada"'s real meaning, the misogynistic way he demeaned both Annika and Selina (like much of Batman's canon history, I don't think he has a problem with sex work as a whole, so much as what he perceived to be Annika & Selina's "moral failing" in associating with mob bosses, and it mixed with his juvenile jealousy/possessiveness into a gnarly verbal attack that is so irremovable from the targets' femininity), the apathy that made him disinterested in maintaining the legitimacy of the Renewal Project/Wayne Enterprises as a whole, and the idolatry/megalomania of the Bat that made him otherize himself so much he ignored the empathy necessary to help the people of Gotham appropriately. He's arrogant and elitist enough to believe he was ABOVE all of these things, that he "mastered" the flaws he actually was never forced to fully recognize in the first place, because Alfred never challenged him in that way. Even Gordon, though a good man, was kept at the same professional arm's length and deferred to Bruce pretty much universally. It wasn't until he learned how to sympathize with the harsh realities of other people through Selina and saw undeniable evidence of how his impact inspired Riddler's terrorism that he was able to step back and see more than just his own trauma.

Alfred, in being so personally/emotionally distant from Bruce his whole life, let him develop a black-and-white worldview that hampered him. Batman was childlike in his simplicity, stuck in an 8-year-old's perception of the world. So long as he was beating up the bad guys he didn't have to think about how he contributed to Gotham's overall poor state. It's why the Riddler's false, constructed familiarity and Selina's real, empathetic familiarity were way more impactful in changing Bruce's rigid ideology & methods for the better in just one week than Alfred was in 20+ years. In a lot of ways, both those characters were a lot more open to personally connect with Bruce (even as the Batman) than Alfred had been.

In contrast to his guardian, they WANTED to know him and be known by him, even if they had wildly contrasting motivations. They pursued him and shared their perspectives & experiences willingly rather than leaving him to his own. They forced him to see aspects of himself in them and in so doing he learned what he loathed about himself and what he wanted to foster. Bruce grows because of what he detests in the Riddler and admires in Selina. It's probably the first time in decades that Bruce internalizes other people's thoughts that conflict with his own pre-established ideas. (If this Bruce went through training with the League before Batman, I doubt it was difficult for him to internalize the parts of Ra's ideology that agreed with him and didn't have to try to hard to sever himself once he discovered aspects of the man he didn't accept. He can't run from what Selina & Edward taught him as easily, especially since they're realities about HIMSELF.)

I really believe Alfred is just as responsible for the Batman as Bruce is, and that agency is not lost on him in the film. In a way he is more Batman's father than Bruce's before the end of the movie. Finally being able to be emotional with Bruce after the bombing is definitely a pivotal point and post-film they both will likely be much more open to caring for each other. I can't wait to see how Reeves moves forward with them.

#meta #the batman #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #batman #the riddler #selina kyle #character analysis #a ridiculous rant about my interpretation of the film's characterization and how much i think it makes sense #this is a mess but i just like talking about how much i adore this movie's versions of these characters #and how they come together to make a Batman that I think is the most well-rounded version of the character in live action #dont mind me #my diatribes

127 notes · View notes

gukyi · 4 years

Text

that’s the spirit! | myg

summary: min yoongi hates halloween. as his best friend and resident halloween-lover, that is simply unacceptable. but when halloween night rolls around and you and min yoongi feel farther apart than ever before, you discover that what’s come between you is more than just a bad trick, and that no matter what day it is, loving him is the sweetest treat of all.

{college!au, friends to lovers!au, halloween!au}

pairing: min yoongi x female reader genre: fluff, comedy, a little angst? (a little i promise) word count: 8k (woohoo! i did it!) warnings: alcohol consumption, underage drunkenness in flashbacks, misunderstandings, helpless but mutual pining, halloween parties, this is halloween during college, what else do you expect a/n: some scenes inspired by love, rosie, my absolute favorite rom-com! happy halloween, and i hope this brings some joy to your life before armageddon i mean election day rolls around! much love 🎃💜

Min Yoongi hates Halloween.

Which is ridiculous, because you assume that there must have been at least one time in his life where he liked it. Halloween is a universally-liked holiday. It was the one day of the year where he, an unbridled child rebelling against authority, got to dress up as his favorite book character, superhero, or movie star, hang out with his friends past sunset, and solicit strangers for free candy. Free candy! How could anyone hate that?

But the thing is, it doesn’t matter what Min Yoongi was like in his youth. Ever since you met him, he has hated Halloween. For reasons completely unbeknownst to you.

Unfortunately for Min Yoongi, just because he hates Halloween doesn’t mean that he gets to spend his October pretending that it doesn’t exist. Because, unlike him, you do not hate Halloween. In fact, you rather like it. So much so that Min Yoongi has to deal with the holiday no matter what. For better…

“Ah! What the fuck!”

Or for worse.

You pop your head out of your bedroom to find Yoongi about to throw down with the fake skeleton you’ve propped up by the door, one of those cheesy ones from Spirit Halloween that make a zombie sound whenever its artificial brain can sense someone near it. He’s got this wide-eyed look on his face, fists up in front of him like he’s going to beat the damn thing senseless, even though Min Yoongi is barely five-feet-ten and has a body that functions exclusively on iced coffee and could probably get taken down by the average third-grader.

Min Yoongi does not have a flight instinct. He only knows how to fight.

He’s muttering to himself by the time you emerge completely from your bedroom, grumbling about how he nearly wet himself at the sight of the thing, fingers glossing over the plastic bones as he inspects them. There he stands in the doorway of your apartment, curled-up fists tucked inside the too-long sleeves of his too-big hoodie, pink lips parted in innocent confusion as he blinks at your apartment’s new resident.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” You chide from where you stand in your room, watching as Yoongi jerks his head up. The sound of your voice seems to catch him off guard for a minute, eyes wide in shock before he realizes that it’s you and his whole body relaxes. “Was that you I just heard screaming outside my apartment, Min Yoongi?”

“No,” Yoongi deadpans, fully aware that the both of you know that it was him. “Must have been someone else.”

“Yes, of course, my mistake,” you tease, coming up behind him to rub his upper arm, the palm of your hand pressing against the worn fabric of his hoodie sleeve as he sighs. “You don’t have a problem with my festive decorations at all, do you?”

“Not those,” Yoongi frowns, pointing to the orange and black streamers hanging above your apartment window, to the mini pumpkins sitting in the center of your dinky kitchen table, to the construction paper cutouts of black cats decorating your walls. He rounds on the skeleton, propped up right next to the door with the sole purpose of scaring whatever visitors you have. “This, I have a problem with. What is this thing?”

You smile proudly. “Reginald.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Yoongi looks at you, positively flabbergasted. “You named it?”

You scoff. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I? I bought him, he’s mine now, and he needed a name. So I named him Reginald. What’s the issue here?” You weren’t about to buy a twenty-five dollar plastic skeleton, set him up to be your personal doorman, and not give him a name.

“The issue is that this—” he motions to Reginald’s face, “—is the first thing I see when I walk into your apartment, instead of—oh, I don’t know—you,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Aw, I’m touched,” you say, pressing a hand to your heart. “Didn’t know you always wanted to see my face first thing when you come over.”

Yoongi’s gaze drifts down towards the floor, thumbs twiddling. “Well, yeah,” he mumbles, words barely audible. “Why else would I come over?”

“I don’t know, for the ambience, maybe?” You say with a shrug, watching him slide his backpack off of his shoulder and onto the floor by the couch. “Anyway, maybe if you had come with me to Spirit Halloween when I went shopping for decorations, you wouldn’t be so surprised.”

“I had two midterms that week! Two!” Yoongi reminds you.”

“I’m just saying,” you tell him, hands up defensively as you make your way to the kitchen, fishing out two teabags from the cabinet as you set the kettle to boil. You never used to like tea, but a year ago Yoongi convinced you to try this jasmine flower one from the Asian supermarket downtown and you haven’t looked back. Now there’s always at least three spare boxes in your kitchen cupboards, for you and for him. “No time is a bad time to get into the Halloween spirit.”

Yoongi sighs, loud and obvious, because this is the third year in a row you’ve brought up this conversation and it’s not any more convincing than it was the last two times. “Do we have to do this?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t we just pretend it’s November Eve?”

“Come on, Yoongi,” you plead, because he’s never given you a good explanation as to why he refuses to spend Halloween with you, and you just want to know why. “Won’t you just celebrate this one stupid holiday with me?”

“So you admit it’s stupid?”

“That’s not what I meant.” You frown at him, crossing your arms as the kettle starts whistling.

Yoongi exhales, reaching over you to pour the boiling water into your teacups, matching His and Hers ones you bought from the sale section of Target last year for Valentine’s Day. “It’s just not my thing. You know that.”

“But we’re college students,” you exclaim. “Halloween is the best when you’re a college student! You get to dress up as whatever you want and go to five different parties and spend the night with your friends without your parents chaperoning you.”

Yoongi purses his lips, unconvinced. “So… basically an opportunity to get piss drunk in a frat house? No thanks, I’ll pass.”

“You know that I wouldn’t care what we did if you celebrated Halloween with me,” you say, leaning against the counter as you hold your mug in your hands, the heat warming your palms and steam brushing against the skin of your cheeks. “Even if we just stayed in and watched a movie. Or played one of those horror video games Jungkook’s always talking about.”

“That sounds worse,” Yoongi admits with a helpless laugh. It really does. Neither you nor Yoongi have ever been huge fans of the horror genre Jungkook loves so much.

You chuckle. “Honestly, yeah, forget I said anything about that.”

“You know I just don’t care for Halloween that much,” Yoongi says, gazing down into the swirling brown of his mug, the steam from the water making his glasses fog up. “It’s nothing personal.”

You sigh. That’s about as good of an answer you’re going to be getting out of him. No matter what you suggest, whether it be a house party, a night in, or even just a candy feast, he has always declined, citing his unexplainable dislike for the festivities. The only reason he deals with the holiday in the first place is because you love it so much.

“Will you at least help me carve some pumpkins please?” You ask, a last ditch effort to get him to participate. “The supermarket on Fifteenth Street is having a sale on them, and I wanted to decorate the windowsill. It’s easier with two people, you know.”

Yoongi narrows his eyes, looking hesitant.

“Oh, please, Yoongi? Just this once? It’s not even, like, a strictly Halloween thing. It’s just a fall thing! Plus, we can roast the pumpkin seeds after for a snack,” you plead, placing your cup down on the counter so you can tug on his arms, hands wrapped around his wrists as you stare into his eyes, positively desperate.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Yoongi says with a huff, that resigned tone to his voice that signifies that he’s caving in. “Yes, we can carve pumpkins together. That I will do.”

“Oh my God, really? Yes! Yay, thank you so much!” In a fit of excitement, surprise, and joy, you pull Yoongi in for a hug, wrapping your arms around his neck as he tilts back in shock, tea spilling out over the edge of his mug and onto the linoleum floor beneath your feet, drops of it splashing against your skin.

“Whoa, whoa, okay,” Yoongi says, taken aback. Still nestled tightly within your arms, he carefully sets his mug down onto the counter so as to avoid more spilling, his other hand pressing against the small of your back. “I didn’t know pumpkin carving was so important to you.”

You laugh, pulling away as you look into his eyes, crinkled up into fond little crescents. “It’s not. But you are.”

“So cheesy,” Yoongi chides.

“You love it,” you remind him, pressing the side of your body against his as you lean against the counter together. Instinctively, you let your head flop onto his shoulder, fitting perfectly in the crook of his neck. “Thanks for doing this for me,” you say softly.

“Of course,” Yoongi says. “Anything for you.”

“Look how festive campus is!”

Yoongi chuckles as he watches you skip down the main walkway, the one that winds right from the west to the east side of campus, relishing in the feeling of autumn. Yoongi always forgets that it’s fall until it hits him like a brick to the head, and suddenly it’s getting dark at five-thirty and he can’t go outside without a proper jacket anymore. It’s a week until November, and Yoongi still refuses to wear anything heavier than a denim jacket, no matter how cold it gets. It can’t be winter yet, right?

“Wow, all the tones really fit the spooky mood,” you tell him, leaves crinkling as your feet step on the fallen foliage, brown and orange and yellow and red.

“How convenient it is that orange happens to be one of Halloween’s signature colors,” Yoongi chides with a roll of his eyes. “Is the Castle still hosting that party next week?”

“The costume one? Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” you tell him with a nod. “We’re still going, right?”

“Only because it’s our first year,” Yoongi reminds you pointedly. “And since you wanna celebrate together so badly.”

You scoff. “Don’t act like it’s such a drag. I know you want to spend time with me.”

Yoongi chuckles to himself, casual and cool. He knows you’re just teasing him but quite frankly, if Yoongi could spend every day of the rest of his life with you, then he would. If he could turn himself into a witch and cast a spell to keep you by his side for the rest of time, then he would. From the moment the two of you met in your dingy dorm, you clicked. And Yoongi knew, in that moment. He just knew.

“Oh my God, look at the pumpkins!”

Your voice breaks him from his thoughts, your finger pointing excitedly at the carved pumpkins outside of the dormitories that line the walkway, lit candles nestled safely inside. They’ve got everything from the college logo to video game characters to the face of your lovable-but-memeable university president carved into them, decorating the street with a little more personality than normal.

“They’re so cute, holy shit,” you tell Yoongi fondly, all endeared and heart-eyed, the same way you get when someone walks their dog through campus or a professor sends out an update email with a picture of their newborn grandchild. Yoongi’s only known you a couple of months, but already he’s starting to figure out what makes you tick. “I love them. Don’t you love them, Yoongi?”

You turn around to meet Yoongi’s eyes, and when he looks back at you it feels like his whole heart is lighter. He sees your smile and it makes his body fill with warmth, like someone’s wrapping a blanket around him, like a warm cup of hot cocoa on a cool autumn afternoon. He looks back at you, and it feels like everything is right.

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, grinning. “I do.”

The lopsided legs of your creaky kitchen table tremble as the pumpkin hits it.

“Damn, is this thing heavy or am I just getting weaker?” You ask, smoothing out the newspaper spread out on the flat surface of the table, two college students’ best attempt to avoid a mess. They’re old student copies with headlines like Brand New Cafeteria, but is the Food Even Any Good? and New Semester, New Me! sprawled across the front. You care about your school news, you really do, but the members of the newspaper team that hand out the papers practically stuff them down your throat whenever there’s a new issue, which is three times a week and at every street intersection on campus. So you’ve had extras lying around.

“Nope, they’re definitely heavy,” Yoongi agrees as he plops his pumpkin onto the table next to yours with a thud. “Though it’s not like I go to the gym much anyway.”

“Didn’t we say we were gonna try and be healthier this year, since we’re graduating?” You ask.

“That was before that new doughnut place opened up next to the ramen restaurant three streets up,” Yoongi reminds you.

“Maybe grad school?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, reaching over the table to grab the pumpkin carving kits the two of you bought from the drugstore down the road. “Caution. Keep out of reach of children ages three and under,” he reads. “Welp, guess I can’t do this then…”

“Ha ha, very funny,” you say with a deadpan frown, grabbing onto his wrist. “Hold on a minute, Mr. I Promised I Would Do This For My Best Friend.” Yoongi exhales dramatically as you pull him back towards the table, though it’s not as if there was much resistance from him in the first place.

You pry open the plastic wrapping that surrounds the kit, the orange tools eventually popping out of their casing and onto your newspaper-ed table. Sure, you could have probably pulled out two knives from your kitchen drawer and it wouldn’t make a difference, but spending ten dollars each on these two little pumpkin carving kits didn’t seem like a waste of money. For the sake of Halloween spirit, right?

“What do you want to carve?” You ask, handing Yoongi your open kit as you gaze at the instruction manual. Pumpkin carving shouldn’t be too difficult, should it? You cut open the top, pull out all the gunk from the inside, and then carve a face, or something.

“I’m not a very good artist,” Yoongi admits, looking hesitant.

“Well, the good thing about pumpkin carving is that no one expects them to look nice,” you point out. “I think I want to do that anime eyes face emoji. You know the one. Let’s see…”

You grab a hold of the plastic knife that came with the kit, hover the tip over the top of the pumpkin, and stab. It sinks into the squash up to the hilt. That’s the good part.

The bad part is that, because you’re holding onto a knife made out of non-recyclable plastic, moving it once it’s inside the pumpkin is exceedingly difficult. You pull it right and left fruitlessly, watching as the knife sits firmly in place, the handle bending with the curve of your fingers if you tug on it too hard.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Yoongi says with another sigh, abandoning his own pumpkin, which he has already de-stalked in the minutes you weren’t looking his way. “Let me help you.”

Suddenly, you feel a warmth wrap around you. A figure presses against your back, this musky, coffee-laden scent surrounding you, and you watch as Yoongi’s calloused hands slowly envelop yours, fingertips pressing firmly against your skin. It makes you freeze up instinctively, jumping at the sensation of his body around yours, of his torso pressed against your back, of his breath tickling your ear.

“Relax, alright?” He says, voice calm and gentle. He brings your hands to the knife, lets his palms rest against them as your fingers slowly wrap around the handle. You can feel him breathing, feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against you, the heat of his mouth just inches away from your cheek. “It’s just me.”

You force a chuckle. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”

You feel Yoongi pause behind you.

“Seriously, I’m fine. Help me,” you insist.

Steadily, albeit a little bit tentatively, Yoongi does. His hand wrapped around yours, together the two of you carve out the top of the pumpkin, his chest pressed firmly against your back, body engulfing you. He feels so close, so goddamn close, like there is barely an inch of space in between the two of you, like if he were to bend down right there and if you were shift yourself around you would see nothing but his face right in front of yours, his hazy brown eyes looking back at you, twinkling in the white light of your kitchen.

It almost makes you want to turn around and look.

“There we go,” Yoongi says, voice suddenly soft, quiet like there’s something else weighing on his tongue. “What are you thinking of carving?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur, lips upturned. “Maybe you?”

“I don’t make for a very attractive pumpkin picture,” Yoongi says with a shake of his head, even though that’s total bullshit for a number of reasons.

First of all, a pumpkin portrait is by no means meant to be an attractive portrayal of you, unless you’re Keanu Reeves and you look photogenic no matter what. Second of all, there has never been a time where Yoongi has not looked good. He always does. He did during finals week when his body was made of nothing but iced coffee, he did in freshman year when the two of you would stay awake until the early morning getting vodka spilled all over you in frat houses, and he does now, tired eyes and soft skin, dark hair and pink lips, standing in your apartment like he belongs here, like this is where he was meant to be.

“I think you would,” you tell him honestly. “You’d look good no matter what.”

Yoongi’s silent at that, but you can tell from the way his cheeks are turning red he’s taken the compliment to heart. It makes you want to shower him in them. It makes you want to freeze this moment in time, suspended in reality, and stay like that forever.

“Then I’ll do you,” he says with a grin, because what else would he say? Who else would he choose? You are going to put two matching pumpkins on your windowsill, and they will be of you and him. Messy, Picasso-style portraits carved into the orange skin. Two best friends, together even as fucking pumpkins.

You will carve out a picture of him, and he will carve out a picture of you, and isn’t that what this is really all about?

“Do you think people are gonna get the wrong idea about us?”

“What do you mean?”

Yoongi turns around to face you where you stand in front of your dorm mirror, this giant plastic one hanging on two hooks that you’ve latched onto the door of your room. He knows that you can see him in the mirror, staring back at you with a black mask over his face and a cape draped over his shoulders, the giant yellow emblem printed out on a piece of paper and taped onto his chest. It’s a last minute costume, for sure, but it gets the job done nicely.

“I mean,” you say, fixing the cat ears that sit atop your head. “Do you think people are gonna think we’re a couple, or something?”

Yoongi grins nervously and hopes that you don’t notice. “I mean, we’re just going to a frat party. I doubt it’s going to be light enough to see anything at all. Why?”

“Well, I don’t want people to get the wrong idea about us,” you say, adjusting the mask over your eyes. Yoongi, unabashedly, rakes his eyes up and down your figure. Your black turtleneck and skintight leather leggings don’t leave very much to the imagination. You’re definitely much more in costume than he is, to say the least.

“We’re freshmen, people already have the wrong idea about us,” Yoongi scoffs.

You turn around just so you can shoot a frown his way. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Why are you so worried about people getting the wrong idea about us?” Yoongi asks you, an eyebrow raised. This does not exactly bode well for him. “We can be Batman and Catwoman together no matter what people think.”

“I don’t know, I guess I just—” You stop in your tracks, letting the words fall off your lips and crash to the floor. “Never mind, it’s stupid.”

“What? You can tell me,” Yoongi says, concern lacing his voice. He rushes over to you, the two of you staring at your reflections in the mirror. Two friends, clad in black, wearing matching costumes. If Yoongi wasn’t sober right now, maybe he would actually do it.

Maybe.

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” you shrug it off with a shake of your head. “I’m happy to be doing this with you. Even if your costume totally sucks.”

“Hey!” Yoongi exclaims defensively. “It is not my fault you came up with this idea last minute even though you already owned everything. I had to pay twenty-five cents to print this in color, you know.”

“A Twenty-five cent costume and you still look good.”

You and Yoongi smile at each other in the mirror, lips turned up as you stare at yourselves, wondering if this is all you will ever be, or if there is something more.

Yoongi sure hopes it’s the latter.

And he’s determined to find out, once and for all, tonight.

You’ve just lit the candles that sit inside yours and Yoongi’s pumpkins when you hear the knock at your door.

You’re sure that Yoongi can hear you from a mile away as you scurry towards the door, white platform heels clapping against the floorboards with every step you take. You’re going to have to practice walking in these a bit more. Maybe you shouldn’t have bought them only a week before Halloween, and maybe you should have at least tried to break them in a little bit.

“Hello?” You swing open the door.

“He—whoa,” Yoongi begins before his eyes widen to the size of the moon as he fully takes in the sight in front of him. “What’s with the—uh, the… dress?” He’s scratching at the nape of his neck, eyes sweeping up and down your body.

You hold out the skirt of your sequined, bedazzled dress as best you can, and grin. “I’m a gogo dancer! What do you think?”

“Wow, I—” Yoongi starts, a little speechless. “I don’t know. Wow. You look… you look nice, Y/N.”

You smile, thankful for the compliment. Yoongi seems weirdly breathless, blinking more often than usual, like he’s trying to convince himself that what he’s seeing is real. Although, you will admit that this dress is much more sparkly than anything else you have in your closet. You reckon a few disco balls were sacrificed to make this costume.

“Why—uh, why did you call me over? Did you need something from me?”

“Actually, yes,” you say, ushering Yoongi into your apartment.

As he’s walking inside, Yoongi notices the pumpkins sitting on your windowsill. “Hey, those look cute together.”

“Don’t they?” You say proudly. Nobody else has commented on them, but then again, you live on the fifth floor of your apartment, so you don’t imagine many people can even see them from ground level. But it’s nice to know that they’re there, and that they mean something. Not to a whole lot of people, but to you. And to him. “But that’s not why I asked you to come over.”

“Why, what’s up?”

You freeze when he looks up at you, like you can hardly will the next few words to come out of your mouth. They’re stuck at the dam of your lips, refusing to budge, because there is this tiny, this little part of you that doesn’t even have the courage to ask. To say it. Because you know already.

“Hoseok’s throwing a party tonight—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“But I know what you’re going to say,” Yoongi says like it’s obvious, because it is. “You’re going to ask me to come with you. And I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, Y/N, but I am not going to go. I’m just not.”

“But it’s not a shitty frat party or anything!” You exclaim, desperately trying to dig yourself out of a hole you’re already six-feet in. “It’s at his place, an apartment across campus, with just some friends of his. There won’t be crazy music and sleazy guys and jungle juice. It’s just going to be a house party.”

“I don’t care, I don’t want to go,” Yoongi tells you. “There’s nothing you can do to change my mind.”

“Why? Why won’t you go?” You demand, because the least your best friend of nearly four years could do is give you a real reason. A real reason as to why he hates Halloween, why he never wants to celebrate it with you, why he never wants to go out with you on your favorite night of the year.

“Because I just don’t want to! Why can’t you just accept that? I don’t want to go!”

Silence. It’s almost as if Yoongi’s shocked he was even speaking so loudly in the first place.

Next to you, the candles flicker.

“I don’t get it,” you say, resigned. “I don’t understand. This is our very last year to celebrate Halloween as college students, as best friends, and you can’t even give me a real excuse as to why you won’t come with me.”

Yoongi frowns. “What do you mean, ‘a real excuse’?”

“Exactly that,” you say sharply. “A real excuse. Even when I offer for us to just stay in and eat KitKats and watch a shiity movie you refuse. All because it’s Halloween. I don’t get it. It’s not the crowds, and it’s not the drinks, and it’s not even the other stuff, like the pumpkins and the decorations. Is it me? Am I the reason you don’t want to celebrate Halloween?”

“No, what the fuck, it’s not you!”

“Then what is it, Yoongi?” You plead, not even making an attempt to lower your voice. Can’t he hear the sheer desperation in your voice? The hopelessness? “Why won’t you just tell me why you don’t ever want to celebrate this goddamn holiday with me? Is it my fault?”

“I just don’t!”

The sound of Yoongi’s shouts echoes throughout your living space, bouncing off of the walls. You look back at him, feeling helpless, but he doesn’t look angry, or enraged. He looks exhausted. Like this conversation has knocked the wind right out of him, stolen the breath from his lungs. Like suddenly the pot has boiled over, only it’s extinguished the flames that kept it burning.

“I just don’t,” Yoongi repeats, fists clenched tightly by his side. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

He gives you one last tired look, matching your own defeated expression, before turning around and walking out of your apartment. The door shuts firmly behind him, neither a slam nor a gentle stop, leaving you stranded in the middle of your living space, watching his silhouette disappear.

You sigh. You don’t think Yoongi will ever tell you why he hates Halloween. And while that may be no fault of your own, you can’t help but feel like it has something to do with you.

Yoongi could probably count the amount of times he’s gone to a frat party on one hand, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t already know everything there is to know about them. In his eyes, once you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all.

Still, he supposes that it being Halloween makes this one a little different. Everyone’s in some sort of costume, whether it be good or bad or just plain old lazy, and there are at least a few orange and black decorations lining the walls of the Castle, and they’ve curated a playlist with Halloween songs as well as rap songs Yoongi has heard plenty of times before, so for once, Yoongi will give the fraternity a bit of credit when it comes to their Halloween party-planning.

Beside him, you take another giant chug of your drink from the orange solo cup in your hand, wincing as the alcohol burns your throat on the way down.

“Hey, take it easy, okay?” He says, though he doubts you can even hear him over the music, loud in the kind of way that his ears are going to be ringing far into tomorrow morning.

“I’m fine!” You shout back, even though you are definitely not. The entire room reeks of a mixture of vodka and sickly sweet soda.

“I just want to make sure you’re not overdoing it!” He tells you as the two of you get shoved together from some massive guy pushing past Yoongi and sending him crashing towards you. He catches a glimpse of the contents of your cup, eyebrows raising when he sees that it’s almost empty. You just got that drink five minutes ago.

You smile. “I’m not!”

The song changes, and Yoongi swears that he can feel the entire house shake as everyone screams, cheering as they bounce up and down, dancing to the beat. Next to him, you are finishing the last few drops of whatever’s in your cup, finding an empty ledge to place it down on when you’re done, and pulling him in close to you.

“Let’s dance!” You shriek excitedly.

And who is Yoongi to resist?

He lets you take your hand in his own and parade him around the tiny little space the two of you share, a couple square feet of freedom in this crowded room, chock full of sweaty bodies just like his. Yoongi may not have had as much to drink as you, but the little bit of alcohol in his system is already shutting down normal mental processes like not-staring-at-you-constantly and pretending-that-he-likes-you-just-as-a-friend, sending him into a tizzy whenever he meets your starstruck eyes.

Even in this dingy, sweaty, unventilated fraternity living room, you are beautiful. You are beautiful here, and you are beautiful at three in the morning after twelve straight hours of studying, and you are beautiful after spilling the dining hall’s chicken noodle soup all over yourself.

God, you’re the only person Yoongi is looking at in this room. You’re the only person he sees.

Shaking his head, Yoongi abandons those thoughts as the song comes to an end, a hand wrapped around your wrist as he leans into your ear. “Do you wanna go outside? It’s hot in here!”

“Okay, whatever!” You agree easily, too easygoing after you’ve got a few drinks in you.

Yoongi grabs a hold of your sweaty hand and tugs you towards the back door, one that he thinks leads to a fenced in backyard. You squeeze through the crowd, getting a couple of drinks spilled on your shoes on the way until you reach the back door and Yoongi fumbles with the knob, shaking it a couple of times before it gets loose. Eventually, the two of you stumble outside into the backyard, where a couple of people are playing beer pong and a couple of others look like they’re making out.

It’s a frat party. What else did Yoongi expect?

It’s the end of October, and Yoongi doesn’t even have on a jacket, but the chill of the night has little effect on him after being in a room that’s felt like one hundred degrees for an hour. Out here, Yoongi feels like he can finally breathe.

“It’s kinda cold out here, don’t you think?”

Yoongi doesn’t even have time to respond before you’re wrapping yourself up in him, curling into his body and placing his arm around your figure, letting the heat from his frame radiate onto your skin.

“Better than being in there,” Yoongi reasons.

“But aren’t you having fun?”

He looks down to see you looking up with him with big, wide eyes, like you’re afraid that he isn’t having fun, or afraid that you’re enjoying this night more than he is. It makes him smile. “With you, I am.”

You grin at that, turning back to face forward, head pressing into the crook of his neck. “That’s good to hear,” you tell him. “It seemed like you were kinda nervous.”

“Nervous?” His voice cracks as he says it. Fuck.

“Yeah, is there something you wanna tell me? It looks like you’ve been dying to say something all night,” you comment mindlessly, clearly much more observant now than you are when you’re sober. Or perhaps, Yoongi’s just more obvious.

He takes a deep breath, pressing his eyes shut tightly. This is his chance. He knows it.

“Actually, yes, there is,” he says, and it feels like he has to force the words out of his mouth because they’re refusing to come out on their own, pausing at the edge of his lips. It feels like he has to overcome his own mind in order to tell you, feels like every word is a sucker punch to his lungs.

You pull away from him, looking up at Yoongi with big, blinking eyes. It’s a clear night, and Yoongi knows because he can see the fucking stars reflected in your pupils, see them twinkling as your glossy eyes gaze back up at him. You look up at Yoongi and God, you are just so beautiful. You are beautiful, and Yoongi wonders, then, if you know. If you know how Yoongi looks at you. If you know how he feels about you. He is so in love. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. You are beautiful and he is so in love, and he’s been dying to tell you that and this might be his only opportunity to do so, because tomorrow will be a new day and Yoongi won’t have the guts tomorrow. This is his only chance.

You deserve to know.

“Well?” You ask him. “What is it?”

Yoongi wraps his arm around the small of your back, pulls you into him, and presses his lips to yours.

Hoseok’s party is fun. It’s definitely one of the better ones you’ve been to in your four years of university so far. There aren’t too many people, and the drinks are actually good instead of just burning your throat, and his music taste is impeccable.��

And yet, you don’t think you’ve ever been so unenthused at a party in your whole life. Thriller by Michael Jackson blares from Hoseok’s television speakers, chatter fills the room, and Hoseok’s girlfriend, Haebin, is constantly checking up on you, but never has one place felt so empty.

It’s not really very difficult for you to wonder why.

“Hey, Y/N!”

You whip your head around to find Haein standing by the kitchen table, gesturing towards Hoseok as he’s looking up the recipe for a drink he wants to try.

“You want one? Hoseok’s trying to make Long Island Iced Tea,” Haebin asks. Next to her, Hoseok is struggling to get the measurements right. At least he’s making an attempt.

You stare down at your nearly-full cup of strawberry daiquiri. You took one sip when Haebin first handed it to you thirty minutes ago, and haven’t touched it since. “No, I’m alright, thank you.”

Haebin sighs, patting Hoseok on the back encouragingly before she makes her way over to where you’re sitting on their couch, pressed up against the arm of the sofa as you mindlessly swirl the drink around in your cup, eyes zoning into the whirlpool you’re creating. She sits down next to you with a smile, with the kind of look on her face that makes you simultaneously thankful for and dread the conversation you’re about to have.

“Hey, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.” You don’t even believe yourself when you say it.

“Listen, you don’t have to tell me. I just know that Halloween is your favorite holiday and I was wondering if there was something getting you down tonight,” Haebin says in that comforting, gentle sort of way, like an old friend who knows all your tells.

“It’s not a big deal, really. I think I’m just out of it tonight,” you say, not drunk enough to divulge more information but also not sober enough to keep your mouth completely shut.

Haebin smiles at you, lips pursed. “Alright then. If everything’s alright.” She pushes her hands onto her thighs as she gets off of the couch, heading back towards the kitchen to help Hoseok figure out how to mix drinks. But before she leaves you alone, she turns around and says one more thing. “You know, I don’t know why Yoongi’s not here or anything, but I wish that he was. You always look so much happier whenever he’s around.”

And that just sends your mind into meltdown.

Defeated, alone, and best friend-less, you place your cup down on the end table to your left and get up off of the couch, beginning to gather your belongings, your coat and your shoes and your bag, tugging your arms through the sleeves as you storm towards the door, eyebrows knitted together, lips pursed.

“Hey, where are you going—?”

“I gotta go, Haebin. I just—” You pull on a shoe, tugging at the boot as it slips over your heel, “—I gotta go. Thank Hoseok for me, okay? I have to go.”

You only have time to catch Haebin nod, wordless, before you tug open the door to Hoseok’s apartment and stomp outside.

This is the worst Halloween of your life, bar none. The time when you were four and you tripped over a curb on the sidewalk, spraining your ankle doesn’t even come close. It’s your very last year to celebrate Halloween as a college student, to celebrate it by getting dressed up in a low-effort costume and spending time with your friends, and your best friend isn’t even here. He refused.

He refused and you still don’t know why, but worst of all he refused and you still wish he was here. You wish you could have spent time with him tonight. More than anything else. You wish you could have spent the night wrapped up together on your couch, or on your bed, watching your favorite television shows and enjoying each other’s company. You wish you could have curled into his body as the television blared, pressed your head against his shoulder and felt the warmth of his skin on yours. God, you wish you could have.

You wish you could have told him.

You wish you had the guts to.

Twenty minutes later finds you outside one of the dozens of frat parties likely occurring on campus right now, the bass from the music so loud that you can feel it in your eardrums even outside of the building. No part of you wants to go inside something like that, but at this point you start to wonder if maybe hopping different frats is actually your best idea. Get a drink, get drunk, and then move onto the next one. Rinse and repeat until you don’t remember a thing about this terrible, awful night.

As you walk along the sidewalk, you spot another student sitting on the curb underneath a leaf-less tree, a cheap black drugstore masquerade mask covering the top half of his face. He doesn’t seem to be having a particularly enjoyable night either.

Normally, the last thing you’d want to do is sit down next to a stranger whose face is disguised, because who knows what could happen to you if you do, but there are at least twenty people surrounding the two of you, loitering outside the frat house in the hopes that they can eventually get inside. And honestly, you could use a fucking break.

As casually as you can possibly manage, you take a seat next to the boy, a few inches apart from him as he looks up at you. You can’t make out too much in the dim light of the frat house, but he’s illuminated just enough for you to see his eyes widen at the sight of you.

“You don’t mind, do you?” You ask.

He shakes his head.

You smile in thanks, shifting around where you’re seated on the cold cement, eyes drifting all over the place, from the houses across the street to the road to the people standing around, anything to avoid turning back towards the boy and initiating an even more awkward conversation. Sitting down, the world stops spinning, just a little bit. You didn’t have too much to drink at Hoseok’s, but it was enough to loosen your mind.

“Can I say something?” You say loudly, turning towards the boy.

It was enough to loosen your lips too, apparently.

The boy stares back at you, silent.

“I’m sorry, I just need to get this off my chest.” You close your eyes, breathing in and breathing out, feeling your chest rise and fall. “I am not having a great night. And I wish I was out here with another friend of mine, instead. He’s my best friend, actually. He just… didn’t want to come out tonight with me. But I wish he was here, because I love spending time with him, and I miss him.”

The words spill off of your tongue like lava from a volcano, bursting from your lips completely unfiltered. It surprises you, a little, how much you actually have to say. How much has been weighing on your chest.

You don’t expect him to respond. Truthfully, you can’t even believe you’re unloading all of your baggage onto him in the first place. Since when are you the type of person to tell other people about the tragedies of your life?

But then, he says, “You do?”

And it makes you wonder what else you’ve been keeping hidden.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” you realize. “I love spending time with him. He makes every day brighter, turns everything he touches into laughter. And I wanted to spend time with him tonight because I actually thought he would want to. You know, we carved pumpkins together a few days ago. Of each other’s faces.” You force out a laugh. “We carved each other’s faces into pumpkins and he still isn’t here tonight. I wanted him to be here because he’s my best friend, and because he makes me so happy, and even other people are noticing what effect he has on me. Noticing how fucking happy he makes me. Because he does. I feel like I’m a better person with him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him and he’s not here and instead of going to look for him I’m sitting here telling you the sob story that is my life and I just wish—”

“Does that mean you love him?” The boy asks softly.

“What?”

“Does that mean you love him?”

You turn to look at the boy, eyebrows raised, almost ready to deny such a thing, but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.

How could you say you don’t love Yoongi? Of course you do. He is your best friend. You never want to live a day when he’s not by your side. You want to spend the rest of your life with him. He makes you smile and laugh like it’s nobody’s business, brightens your day without even trying. Just seeing him is enough to lift your spirits. Seeing his face on the other side of your apartment door, all ripped jeans and Converse sneakers, hands wrapped in the sleeves of his hoodie, dark brown eyes blinking back at you, pink lips parted in a grin. That image you have of him in your head—it’s one you don’t ever want to forget. He is standing in your apartment, lips upturned, eyes crushed into crescents, smiling at you. He is mid-laugh, grinning from ear to ear at something you said. He is right there.

“Well, yeah,” you say, because what else are you supposed to do? “I guess I do.”

Suddenly, your chest feels a whole lot lighter.

The boy next to you smiles, the dim light barely illuminating his features, but when you look at him there is something so strangely familiar about him, about the way he blinks at you, about the peak of his Cupid’s bow, about how his lips are stretched into a grin. It couldn’t be him… could it?

But before you have time to ask, he is leaning towards you and pressing his lips atop yours, crashing your mouths together in a desperate, messy kiss. His palm presses against your cheek and you can’t help but sink into it, sink into the way his other hand curls around to rest on the small of your back, let yourself be engulfed by him.

You’ve never kissed Yoongi before, but you know that this is what it must be like.

You know, from the way your blood starts to sizzle, sparks rushing through your veins. From the way your heart is pumping, loud and clear in your ears, like it’s been jolted to life. Like a shock is running through your body. Like a warmth is filling you up, from the inside out.

When you part, as Yoongi takes off his mask, he can’t keep the smile off of his face. “I knew it. I knew you loved me.”

“What are you doing out here?” You ask, positively shocked. “I thought you hated Halloween.”

“I do,” Yoongi confirms. “Or, well, I did, I guess.”

“Then what changed?”

“You. Us. We changed,” Yoongi says, motioning between your bodies. “I hated Halloween because it had bad memories for me. Nothing crazy, but, yeah. You don’t remember?”

“What?” Your mouth drops open. “What should I remember?”

“We kissed that night.” Yoongi begins, eyes shifting down towards the ground. Clearly recalling this is awkward for him. “Halloween, freshman year. Outside of the Castle.”

You don’t remember this at all.

“Well, I kissed you and you kissed me, and I thought that we had established then and there that we liked each other. You know, like, really liked each other. But you were so drunk that night. I don’t know what you had, but you could hardly walk by the time I got you back to your dorm. Your roommate was furious with me.” He shakes his head at the memory, replaying in his mind like a movie. “And I thought, okay, we’ll just talk about this tomorrow. But you must have had a wicked headache or something, because I saw you the next day and you said—”

“God, whatever happened last night, I don’t want to know.”

It’s the middle of the day, the sun high in the crisp November sky, but you have been cradling your forehead ever since Yoongi last dropped you off, back at your dorm, when you were slowly starting to crash.

“What?” His voice is hollow, empty.

“Last night fucked me up real good,” you say with a huff, shaking your head. “I’m glad I don’t remember what happened last night.”

As Yoongi traipses back to square one, his heart shakes in its cage.

“I guess you just didn’t remember,” Yoongi tries to explain, much to your horror as you realize that you and Yoongi have been crushing on each other hopelessly for three years extra without you even realizing it. “So, uh, yeah. That’s why I didn’t like Halloween.”

“You kissed me that night?”

“What?”

“You kissed me that night? Outside of the Castle?”

A tingling on your lips. A faint feeling of warmth. You remember bits of that night. It was cold, and you were freezing in your costume. And you and Yoongi had gone outside to escape the crowd, and he said something, and then you said something, and then he—!

“Yeah.” Yoongi nods. “I did.”

“And I didn’t remember?”

“I mean, you were really drunk.”

Your shoulders sink, the thought of Yoongi, helplessly pining after you for three more years because he thought you didn’t like him like that, because he thought that the love you shared was one-sided, still sticking by your side as your best friend. At the thought of him deciding it was better to be best friends and keep that love hidden than tell you and risk it all over again. At the thought of him accepting what he thought was his fate.

“I’m sorry,” you say. What else is there to tell him? If you had remembered, if you just didn’t say those words, if you had just told him how you felt, this would have all been so much easier.

“It’s okay now,” Yoongi says, expression growing fond as he pulls you in for a hug, sad to see you so gloomy. “You love me and I love you. What more could I want?”

A realization dawns on you.

Pulling apart from him ever so slightly, you quirk an eyebrow. “You know, you could have just kissed me again the next day, and then we wouldn’t have had to deal with all of this. Plus, you would have still liked Halloween.”

Yoongi scoffs, pressing a kiss to your icy cheek. “So what? I like it now, how about that? I fucking love Halloween now. It turned my best friend into my girlfriend. She’s the love of my life. We can celebrate every Halloween together from now on until the end of time.”

You grin, pressing a kiss back on his little button nose, pink from the cold. Finally. “That’s the spirit.”

↳ don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

876 notes · View notes

astronomoney · 3 years

Note

IDK if you're still taking requests or not, but the latest fix on D. Wayne was 😍🥰. For part 2 can you add the prompts 11 from fluff, 6 from angst and 20 from neutral pretty please?🥺🥺

Pairing: Damian Wayne x fem!reader (age 16ish)

Prompts: Prompt list ☁︎11- “Hey hey hey, it’s ok i’m here. It’s just me ok, you’re safe.” ᜊ6- “I don’t care about you anymore.” “i’m starting to think you never did.” ⚛︎20-“Please be quite, i can’t even hear myself losing my will to live.”

Summary: After the fight you had with Damian things have been tense but sometimes bottling up your emotions only make things worse (i can’t do summary’s to save my life) enemies-to-lovers because i’m a sucker for that shit

Warnings: Blood, swearing, kinda character death i guess, Damian being a dick as always, angsty teens being angsty teens

A/n: this is a part 2 but you can find part 1 here once again this took waaaay to long to write literally i could not figure out what to do but whatever because i did it and i’m proud of myself for it (Masterlist)

Word count: 3k jeez these are getting longer

Tag list: @battlenix @pleasestophoney wow look at that multiple tags

Part 1

Love and War pt2

Spending spring break in Wayne manor had its ups and downs. Ups included a huge library in the south wing, delicious homemade meals every day, and the best water pressure you’d ever experienced. The downs included 8 hours of training daily, getting lost while trying to find a bathroom, and having to spend way too much time with your arch enemy.

Technically he's not your enemy. At least he’s not supposed to be. After the fight you had last week you couldn’t be sure. You’d had fights with Damian before but this felt different. Usually after a fight he'd sulk for a few hours but then it would go back to normal, but this time it didn’t go back to normal. Damian had been avoiding you for almost 8 days.

You knew the fight ended too soon and you both had more to say but if he was going to act like a child and ignore you then you weren't going to stop him. You still had to patrol with him but it was considerably quieter. The manor was big enough for the both of you and after a few days you'd figured out his schedule and how to get around him. Tim let you train with him, so as long as you stayed on your side of the gym and Damian stayed on his you didn't have to interact with him at all.

It wasn't until the 4th day of break that you had to talk to him. Bruce had to go meet with the league for the day so training ended early. You had a couple hours before dinner and decided reading would be the best use of that time. You walked down one of the many hallways lazily dragging your hand along the wall until you reached a door. You couldn't remember exactly where you were but you were about 75% sure there was a couch in this room, so you pushed the door open.

Inside you found tall ceilings paired with dark wallpaper, a tall window with the thin white curtains pushed out of the way, and a couch. Actually it was three couches but after 4 days staying here you'd gotten used to the large number of furniture that was there for no reason.

The couches formed a square with the open side facing the window lined wall. The first two couches were empty but when you stepped farther inside the room you saw someone sitting on the third one. Of course the one room you picked to go into also happened to be the one room Damian was sitting in. He looked up from his sketchbook and immediately frowned.

There were two options in front of you. You could back out of the room and leave him be but then you'd be backing down from something that might not even turn into a fight which made you seem weak so really you were left with only one choice. You straighten your back and closed the door behind you, officially leaving you in a room alone with Damian for the first time since the fight. You walked over to the couch facing the windows head on and sat down on the side farthest from him. He watched you the whole time but you paid him no attention, instead you simply opened your book and began reading.

You felt his eyes leave your form and you let out a quiet breath. You heard a page turn and a pencil being dragged lightly across paper. It had been over a week but nothing seemed to be getting better between you and him. Patrols were a nightmare beforehand but now that he'd switched from constant criticism to almost no comments you found that you preferred the former.

Damian's pencil against the paper was the only sound in the room and yet the silence seemed so loud. You hated it. You hated having to avoid him all the time. You hated not being able to talk to him anymore. You hated how far away he felt even when he was right next to you. Above all you hated that you didn't hate him as much as you used to.

You never realized how much you talked to him until you didn't. It was a weird feeling to miss someone when you hadn't even known you cared about them. You honestly just wanted to apologize and let things get back to normal but as you sat there staring at your book you couldn't bring yourself to say anything.

After three to many nightmares where Damian got hurt, you finally realized how badly you needed him back. So you took a deep breath, swallowed your pride, opened your mouth, and prayed to god that something would come out.

"Look-"

"Damian-" you both spoke at the same time. "Sorry, you go first." You apologized.

"No you can go first." He replied almost nervously. That couldn't be right, he never got nervous.

"Uh I was just going to say, well i've been thinking lately,"

"You?" He asked sarcastically.

"Oh haha really funny. Will you just listen for a goddamn second." He was not making this easy. "I know we haven't been talking much ever since, well you know and uhh." You couldn't find the right way to word it. You were still too stubborn to outright apologize but you knew he would never say sorry unprompted. "You've just seemed... off, lately and if it has something to do with me-"

"It doesn't." He cut you off. "I'm not 'off' and even if I was you definitely wouldn't be the cause." His expression was blank but calculated.

"Well jeez you don't have to be so rude about it." You sneered back at him. "What were you trying to say anyway." So much for your apology.

"I've convinced father to change our partners." His voice was flat and he seemed bored with the conversation.

"You what?" You stood up. You couldn't believe he actually did that without talking to you first.

He stood up as well and was a few inches higher than you. "We don't work well together, you can't tell me you don't agree."

"I don't! We've been a great team! Remember the Penguin pen raid or Mr Freeze's death ray thingy." you exaggerated your point by waving our hands through the air. "We stopped those. Together. You can't just go around changing things without asking me first!" You were fuming.

"Sure I can! We only stopped those villains because of what I did, you just got in the way." he pointed at you.

Here we go again, the blame game. The endless cycle of 'he did this she did that'. You were so sick of it. "That's bullshit and you know it. I can hold my own on the field just as well as you can. And you know what! I don't even want to be your partner anymore."

"Neither do I! You can go play hero with someone else while I do all the real work. I never wanted you on the team in the first place!" He stared you down and if you weren't so fired up you'd probably be intimidated.

"God you're so annoying!” You threw your hands up in frustration. “You think you're so great and no one can even come close to you but in reality you're exactly like the rest of us!"

What were you doing? This wasn't what you wanted. You wanted to apologize and make things right but now here you were screaming at him again. You almost couldn't help it. Fighting him gave you a sort of rush that you craved. It was like a drug and you were addicted to the pain. You didn't want to fight him but it was the closest thing to a conversation you'd had in over a week and at this point it was enough to satisfy your need.

"I'm going to prove that i'm better than you. I'll do it on my own too!" You told him.

"Go ahead and try! You can do whatever you want because I don't care about you anymore."

You stepped back, stood as tall as you could without going on your tiptoes and took a breath. "I'm starting to think you never did." You said calmly, it seemed to catch him off guard and he didn't retaliate. You grabbed your book and turned towards the door. Dick was standing there, completely still and staring at you and Damian.

"Woah." He said awkwardly. He clearly didn't know how to handle the situation he'd just stumbled on.

You pushed past him and into the hallway. Tears were building up in the corners of your eyes so you had to move fast, the last thing you needed right now was for them to see you cry.

Damian watched you walk out before turning around and groaning. "I can't believe her," he muttered to himself. "I'm starting to think you never did. That doesn't even make sense."

"Because... you do care about her?" Dick asked. It probably wasn't the best choice of words.

Damian looked back at him with an almost offended expression. "That's ridiculous! I don't care about her, that was basically the whole point of our conversation."

"Was that a conversation? The part of that 'conversation' I saw seemed more like her yelling at you and then you... yelling back." He stated the obvious.

"That was completely her fault," Damian defended. He seemed angry but it wasn't his usual kind. Usually it was directed at someone or something and usually that thing would get acquainted with his katana but this time he was mad at himself and he couldn't understand why. "I don't care about her." He repeated quietly almost trying to remind himself more than anything.

You spent the rest of the day hiding in the guest room. You planned on staying there forever and letting yourself fade out of existence but the universe had other plans. 3 hours, 5 episodes of your favorite show, and a nest made of blankets later you got a call from Tim asking you to come to the cave.

He didn't tell you why he needed you, he just said to meet him in the lower level of the cave so when you got there you were very surprised to find him and Damian standing in the hallway. You groaned internally and considered turning around and just walking away but Tim spotted you before you could. Damian's back was to you so he didn't know who it was until he turned around and you saw his face fall.

'Nice to see you too asshole' You thought to yourself, walking over to stand near him but still keeping your distance. "What did you need?" You asked, wanting to get out of there as soon as humanly possible. You kept your eyes ahead trying not to look at Damian and you had the feeling he was doing the same.

The entire mood of the dimly lit hallway had shifted from the moment you locked eyes with him and the tension was noticeable. Tim looked between the two of you before clearing his throat and bringing the attention back to him. "I actually don't need anything."

"So then why did you call telling me to come down here?" Damian asked, clearly annoyed that Tim was wasting his time.

Tim smirked in response and opened the door before Jason, who was behind you apparently, pushed you both into the room before either of you could react. You landed on top of Damian with a grunt. Once you realized you were on top of him you felt your cheeks turn red and you stood up quickly. You could have sworn you saw the slightest bit of a blush on him but you were too preoccupied with the now locked door to think about too much.

"Ok love birds here's the deal, you're petty hormone fueled fighting is driving us crazy and now we're doing something about it." Jason told you from the other side of the small glass window. "We said you were gonna lock you in a room until you figured out how to get along and now we're following through." he smirked.

"I swear to god if you lock me in this room with him," you motioned towards Damian, "I will drop kick you into the sun."

"If you let us out now maybe I won't kill you," Damian threatened alongside you.

"Maybe if you’d learned to talk to each other like normal people you wouldn’t be here in the first place," Tim said. "We'll be back after patrol so you've got about," he looked at his watchless wrist "4ish hours. Have fun." And with that they both walked away.

"DON'T YOU DARE WALK AWA- and they're gone. Dammit." You cursed and hit the steel door which hurt a lot more than you thought it would. "Shit," You shook your hand.

"Well that was just stupid," Damian scoffed at you, taking your hand to examine it. He always did that sort of thing on patrol so you didn't pull away or even really register what he was doing.

"Oh i'm sorry, is my frustration not smart enough for you?" you sneered back. "What even is this place anyway," You looked around the small dark room, determined to not look him in the eyes.

"A containment cell for metas, we haven't used it for a while so the power blockers are probably turned off." he told you before releasing your hand. "You definitely bruised it but you'll be fine."

You reluctantly thanked him and turned back to the door to see if you could get it open somehow. "Ok so how do we get out?"

"We don't."

You flipped around, surprised to hear him give up without even trying. "You're kidding right? There's gotta be some way out of here. We're superheros, a few walls can't hold us,” you exclaimed. “Can't you use those ninja skills you're so proud of and like... kick it down, or something?" You watched him walk to the back of the small cell and sit down on the floor.

"No," he replied simply. "This room was built to hold the most dangerous people in Gotham and I don't know if you've noticed but we don't have any of our gear." He glared at you and you rolled your eyes.

"So we're just supposed to wait here until they get back? We can't just sit here all night," You tried to convince him to do... anything really.

"Well if you're so keen on getting out then let's hear your genius plan," He leaned forward with all the smugness of billionaires son, daring you to say something. "That's what I thought. Now will you please be quiet, I can't even hear myself losing my will to live."

"Fine whatever we'll just stay here in complete silence," You muttered sarcastically under your breath. Damian remained quiet as you started pacing back and forth but you could tell he was watching you.

After pacing for about 30 minutes you realized how tired you were from training so hard the past couple of days and sat down in the corner. You spent so much time over the last week worrying about Damian that you hadn't let yourself relax long enough to get any real rest. The little sleep you did manage to get mostly turned to nightmares.

At first you didn't even realize you were asleep. It all looked real enough except for the fact that you'd somehow been transported to a rooftop. You scanned your surroundings but everything was just slightly out of focus so you couldn't tell exactly where you were. When you turned around you saw him. Damian was there, and behind him was a shadowy sort of silhouette.

The shadow raised a knife and you realized what was happening. You tried to warn him, you tried to scream or yell or move but it was no use. The knife plunged into Damians back and you were helpless to stop it. You felt the pain he felt, you felt the blade slice through you. Finally you could move again but it was too late. The shadow disappeared but you didn't care about it, all you wanted to do was get to Damian. You ran forward but it was like running through water, your body moved in slow motion and you watched the blood start to pool underneath him.

Suddenly you were falling. Damian was gone, the roof was gone, everything was gone, it was just you and a black abyss trying to swallow you up. You screamed again but no noise came out, it was like all the air was being sucked from your lungs. It was silent and dark and empty nothingness until you saw a faint light. Then you heard something, your name being repeated, someone calling you and then you were pulled out of the void.

You shot up and gasped for air and frantically looked around but your eyes hadn't adjusted to the light yet. You heard a familiar soothing voice pulled you farther out of your trance.

"Hey hey hey, it's ok i'm here." The voice was calm and concerned at the same time. "It's just me ok, you're safe," Rough hands gently turned your head and the first thing you saw clearly was a pair of worried green eyes. You're breathing slowed and you're heart nearly skipped a beat.

Wrapping your arms around his chest you pulled him closer. He hesitated for a moment before folding you into his embrace. It was soft and delicate and it seemed like he was scared of holding you too tightly. Neither of you said anything else, you just sat there on the floor of a meta containment cell in each other's arms.

Time stood still and you finally admitted the truth to yourself. The real reason you hated Damian was because you loved him.

A/n: might fuck around and make a part 3 with the classic “because i love you!” confession scene

#love and war #batboys x reader #dc x reader #robin x reader #writing fanfic #damian wayne x reader #dick grayson x y/n #writing fanfiction #damian wayne #dc characters #dc writers #enemies to lovers #enemies-to-lovers #damian my poor trauma boi #damian wayne supremacy #part 2 #love and war pt2 #pt2

200 notes · View notes

teddy06writes · 3 years

Text

Greek Myth AU: Eros and Psyche Part Two

Eret x afab!reader

trigger warnings: general death/death mentions, Aphrodite being a bit of a bitch, reader is pregnant for the sake of the original myth, but its not mentioned that much

premise: again, this explains the original myth, this part is the second half/the challenge thingys.

Part one

list of Greek Gods/characters for this work

Eros- Eret

Aphrodite- Puffy

Zephyrus- Philza

Zeus- Dream

Pan- Tubbo

Demeter- Ranboo

Hera- George

Hades- Wilbur (only mentioned)

Persephone- Niki

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

"No love can exist without trust."

The words echoed through (y/n)s head as they wandered through the still dark field. It seemed no use to them to even try to go back to the villa.

Slowly, they came to a stop next to the brook, laying down amongst the bank, one hand on their stomach as they watched the water pass, wondering what they would do.

How could they go on if Eret had left?

"Are you alright?"

(y/n) jumped at the sudden noise, sitting up and turning to see a saytr- no not just any Satyr, they found themself face to face with Tubbo, god of the wild.

"Uhhh...."

He let his head half fall sideways to look at them closer, "You don't look alright. Have you been crying?"

They sniffed, nodding, "I suppose so, yes. I've just had... a rough day."

He nodded, "Does this have anything to do with what I heard Eret shouting earlier, cause that sounded pretty bad."

"It- was actually."

Tubbo winced, "Yikes. You know, though from what I heard, from what I can see now, you really do look like someone who is very much in love. Don't leave yourself to rot here, you must continue on, and win his affections back."

"But how can I? I've lost all of his trust." They sighed.

"You must try, you must." Tubbo insisted, he offered them a hand and helped them to stand, "There is a way, and you will be able to find it. That I am sure of."

So, (y/n) traveled on, through the lands until they at last reached their home nation. Soon, they sought out their sisters, telling them that their deception had caused them to be cast out, not by a beast, but by the god Eret, himself.

When their sisters claimed excuses, and hurried off (perhaps to try and be taken by the god), (y/n) could only sigh and move on.

As they continued the travel, searching for any signs of their husband, he was stuck in Puffy's castle, the splash of oil having done much more damage than she'd originally thought.

All too soon, Puffy had found out where Eret was, and what had happened. Furiously, she rushed into their chambers, utterly pissed that she had gone so far against her instructions as to fall in love with (y/n).

The goddess was in such a rage, that she hardly noticed the state he was in, instead yelling on about how 'that wretched mortal would need to be punished'.

"No!" Eret cried through gritted teeth, "They may have betrayed me, but this is not their fault!"

"She shall be punished!"

It was only the announcement that Ranboo and George had arrived that pulled Puffy out of her yelling.

"Puffy, what's happened?" George asked once she had returned to the main room.

"Do remember that mortal? The one everyone was infatuated with?" Puffy asked, annoyed.

Ranboo nodded, "I thought you had sent Eret to get rid of them."

"The foolish boy went against me, brought her to some place, kept her safe, and now he's been burned because of it." She sighed, "The mortal will have to be dealt with. No simply plots of a forced love. I shall send them straight down to Wilbur's domain."

George bit his lip, "Well, are you sure that he didn't hide them away for good reason?"

"He fell in love with them." Puffy scoffed.

"Oh come on Puffy, don't punish them just because she fell in love. Doesn't he deserve ore than that? They must have fallen in love for a reason? You are the goddess of love, surely you should understand." Ranboo attempted to defend Eret, only to be cut off.

"I do not care what I should or should not understand! I want this mortal punished, and punished they shall be!" Puffy roared.

Meanwhile, (y/n) still wandered the land, looking for their lover, even as their health seemed to decline.

It had been a rather nice day when they stumbled upon the abandoned temple, covered in debris, and tools left behind. Some how, despite everything, it only made sense to clean the temple. To restore, to the best of their ability, to its former glory, or at least till it didn't look a mess.

It was slow work, but soon they had cleared the weeds, moved the old offerings back to their place, and found a place for the abandoned tools.

"You, poor (y/n)!"

They looked up to find Ranboo, towering over them, "M'lord?"

"I have come with a warning. Since your betrayal of Eret, Puffy has been after you, and you have been in great danger. Still despite this, you've come to clear the temple that my followers have abandoned. Why is this?"

"No place should be abandoned as I have been." (y/n) answered softly.

He frowned, sighing, "Well, I value my alliances with Puffy to much to harbor you. But, I will not turn you in, nor alert her in anyway you were every here. Consider yourself blessed."

As he disappeared, (y/n) couldn't help but breath a sigh of relief. They hadn't been met with Puffy's wrath yet. But that did not stop their sorrow.

Wandering farther and farther away from both the valley, and their home, (y/n) came across another temple, taking a rest from the road to step inside.

At the alter, they prayed, "George, queen of Olympus, I beg of you to help me. I am but a mortal, plagued by sorrow, driven out of every place Aphrodite seeks me. I do not wish for my child to be born to this life. Oh, dear George I beg for your help!"

George, hearing these prayers, quietly appeared to them, "Poor dear. I cannot help you, no matter how much I wish too. Puffy's anger stretches far, and even I cannot shield you from it."

When he had disappeared, (y/n) was forced back out the wandering, wondering, if maybe they revealed themself to the goddess, they might receive some mercy.

After a long pondering they set out, and after journey, the found themself at the palace of Puffy. Upon turning themself into the servants, (y/n) found themself dragged before Puffy, who demanded to know what they were doing.

"So you have finally decided to pay me a visit? Or is this just a trick to see your husband, who sufferers from a wound given by your hand!"

It had been a long afternoon for (y/n), until at last the servants, and even Puffy herself, let off, and gave time for the bruises to fully form, as Puffy taunted them, "Such a plain and boring mortal, how could he have fallen for you? And even given you a child? What a pathetic thing it will be."

It didn't take much longer after that for Puffy to decide, "A challenge then, you look to be a maid, lets see how well of one you are. Then you might gain enough favor to see your husband." She called for bags of wheat, barley, beans, lentils and chickpeas to be spread and mixed on the floor, "Have all of this sorted, before the night, and you may win some favor."

And as she disappeared, (y/n) wept, it would be impossible for them to sort the pile, let alone by the time she returned. It had seemed so hopeless, until, droves of Ants, driven by pity made there way into the room.

"Fear not, we shall help you with this task."

Soon the grain was sorted, and the ants disappeared as Puffy returned, looking around incredulously, "This work mustn't be yours! Surely it isn't! You foul thing! This work is far from over!"

The next day, a new challenge was assigned.

"There is a field, a few miles from here, where golden sheep graze all day. Travel there and bring me back a tuft of wool from one by the time the sun sets, or give up on all hope of seeing your husband again." Puffy commanded.

Obediently, (y/n) set out, and as they crossed the river, a soft nymph whispered the secrets to gathering the wool from the dangeours animals.

Carefully, (y/n) waited until noon had passed, until the sheep had settled to one ide of the field, and crept out, gathering the soft tufts from the briars of the bushes.

Yet again, Puffy was surprised by their ability to comply and finish these challenges.

"Surely your husband had some hand in helping you finish this. Quickly mortal, while there is still light, take this, and fetch me the water from the upper most point of that mountain stream."

(y/n) took the pitcher, and slowly began to hike toward the mountain, dreading the dangerous climb ahead. The mountains slowly grew nearer, until (y/n) was forced to fully climb up and over rocks, and the potential fall could prove fatal.

They had paused for a rest, breathing heavy and staring up at the setting sun, there was no way they could make the trip to the top of the mountain and back before night fell.

Yet again, it all seemed helpless, until a kind eagle, indebted to Eret, swooped down, "Give me your jug child, and allow me to help."

When they returned to Puffy's castle, again they were met with surprise. No one had expected their return.

"You have done what I asked, and that makes me suspect you to be a witch. It will take a greater test to determine if you should see your husband again."

(y/n), barley held in a sigh, bowing their head.

"You will journey to the underworld, and meet Niki. She makes a beauty cream, I need you to get some for me. I've exhausted my supply."

(Y/n) began to shake, tears beginning to spill from their eyes, surely this task was impossible. No one could journey to the Underworld and make it back alive.

"Better get going." She scoffed, "And remember, not a single drop

They had no choice but to go.

It was a slow, painful journey, and it took much help, much advice to reach the underworld.

They called upon Niki, who greeted them kindly, and listened to their plight.

"I just wish to see my husband again, so I can explain myself, so I can apologize." (y/n) finished with a sigh.

Niki frowned, "That I cannot help with. But I can supply you with the beauty cream, to bring back to Puffy."

A box was filled and closed out of their view, before Niki presented it to them, with a warning, "The contents of this box, are not meant for mere mortals. It is highly dangerous for you to even look at it. You mustn't open this box, not for anything."

"I understand." They said, taking the box.

The journey back to the overworld seemed to pass quickly, but soon (y/n)s thoughts began to betray her.

Why would they carry this beauty cream if they were not able to take a drop for themself?

How were they suppose to confront their husband if they looked as ragged and hungry as they did now?

Slowly, the temptation took over, surely they would need this beauty cream more than the goddess of beauty.

As soon as the box was opened, they fell to the ground, nearly dead.

While they slept off their injuries, a great fight took place between the gods.

When they had at last awoken, they were greeted with the sight of their lovers face.

"Eret!" They gasped, "I'm sorry! I truly am! I don't know what I was thinking! Please forgive me! I love you!"

She smiled softly, "There is much we have to talk about my sweet."

It had been decided, that (y/n) would join the gods on Olympus, and remarry the god Eret.

Puffy would hurt them no more, and Eret, having heard what lengths they had gone too to get back to them, he couldn't keep them away.

#mcyt x reader #eret x reader #the eret x reader #teddy 06 #teddy 06 writes

82 notes · View notes

lovenona · 3 years

Text

– two slow dancers; part of the artist!sukuna cinematic universe

(contains: hurt/comfort, mentions of suicidal thoughts, depression, and character death)

it’s snowing, you notice. a white blanket floats down from the heavens in a peaceful silence, enveloping the earth in a cold, wet hug. you have never loved the snow, sure – but when it looks like this, slow and pure in the glow of a lone streetlamp, you admit that there is a certain joy in feeling like the main character in a dramatic winter film.

you’re not alone in your little film, either – you notice a familiar figure poised just outside the light of the streetlamp, back turned to you. he shivers slightly, because, like always, he isn’t dressed for the weather. (it’ll ruin my aesthetic, he always tells you, as if winter coats and doc martens are mutually exclusive.) your best friend choso has always been one for visual presentation. he would never sacrifice fashion for comfort; that’s just who he is.

you know this better than anyone, because it is you that choso makes late for class when he borrows your eyeliner in a frenzy to spruce up the signature black line painted across his nose. (it’s fashion, he says. how else will i stand out in this shithole school?)

you don’t know quite what he’s staring at: there’s nothing particularly interesting in front of you, and the only people left on campus at this hour are professors heading home to their families, tummies rumbling, and the stray students heading to and from the library, heads bowed under stress. the rest of the university left early to avoid the current snowstorm that will most definitely threaten your commute home. you, of course, had tried your hardest to leave sooner to avoid such an inconveniencing mess, but a certain tattoo-covered art student had successfully held you captive in an empty art classroom for far longer than expected.

(you are glad that it is dark out and that your winter coat has a high neckline.)

“choso?” you call out, wading through the snow as you approach him gently. he remains still, like a porcelain statue, as if his soul had abandoned his body and left only a hollow shell behind. snow gathers like little microscopic diamonds on his dark hair, and, in a very un-choso-like fashion, he does not even attempt to brush them away.

“choso? it’s me,” you try again. you’re close enough now that you place a tentative mitten on his shoulder, brushing away the faint layer of snow settled there. he shivers under your touch, says nothing. you look down; your shoes (his doc martens, your doc martens – you’re humanities students, after all) sit buried beneath a quickly thickening blanket.

the snow floats down; it’s still, silent, as if you and him were the only two people in the entire world.

while choso appears to be watching the falling crystals, his gaze seeks something farther away, something distant and inaccessible to you. although he’s never been the most expressive person, you can’t help but feel a certain vacancy radiating from his form. the lights are flickering; no one’s home. you grip him tighter, as if the force of your affections will return him to himself, as if he has simply forgotten what it is to be and needs only a gentle reminder.

for an indefinite stretch of time, you both say nothing – it’s just you holding his shoulder and him watching the snow. it’s hard and fast, now; you can barely see anything beyond your own feet and the outline of the lone streetlamp. you’ve exited reality and entered a timeless place, a wordless place that exists suspended somewhere between here and there. you forget to feel the cold.

“they loved the snow,” choso finally says, so quietly you wonder if you imagined it. “they never looked like it, but they were always begging to go sledding. we would go to this big hill behind our house.”

you’re silent. choso never willingly mentions his two younger brothers, at least not while sober. you learned after a serious heart-to-heart with him your freshman year that they were murdered and that choso never really recovered from it. you’ve seen their photographs in his apartment: three boys, completely unalike in appearance and stature, posed in the youthful awkwardness of holiday greeting cards. three boys smiling together on choso’s middle school graduation. three boys playing board games, going hiking, holding up their christmas gifts with innocent grins. they were killed in a hit and run the night of his high school graduation, he’d told you, six shots in and barely standing on his feet.

his brothers were everything to him. and the choso you know now, the choso you pull all-nighters with and share greasy fries with and have stress meltdowns during finals with, you know that this choso is only an echo of what he could have been. you know that this choso is perpetually lonely, that he’s hurting a hurt that will haunt him like a chronic ache for the rest of his life. i tried to end it, he told you the night you both got your shit rocked at a house party and he threw up in his bathtub for an hour. i just hated being alone, he admitted, and then he was crying. why am i alone?

(you’re not alone, you’d said, holding his head in your hands like a baby bird. not anymore, not while i'm here.)

he’s not crying now, but there’s a look in his eye, a tone in his voice, that suggests he will shatter at any moment. so you do what you know best, what you always do; you hug him, tightly, because if you let go he’ll crumble to dust and you’ll be lost forever.

you must be a vision, you think, a vision of the beautiful couple embracing in the christmas romantic comedy, if a romantic comedy included two best friends and an emotional meltdown.

he shudders against you; you know he’s crying, it’s inevitable. your mittens rub his back in circles, you press yourself closer and closer as if you could enter his body yourself and steal all of the sadness away. he returns the gesture almost immediately, begging you silently for something that cannot be articulated in human language. he buries his head in your neck like a bird in the sand, and you wait patiently as he takes what comfort he needs.

“i miss them,” he tells you, and his words are choked.

“i know,” you respond. “and that’s okay.”

snow falls, timeless: gathered at your boots, suspended in the air, it defies gravitational laws, floating silently around the only two people in the universe.

“thank you,” choso mumbles after a thousand years, finally, voice steadier this time. he sniffles pitifully. “thank you for being here.”

you hug him just that much tighter, rubbing a mitten through his hair to shake the snow away. “i’m not going anywhere,” you tell him softly, and you mean it. “now, let’s go to my place. you’re soaking wet and i don’t want you to get sick.”

choso obliges, clumsily wiping away his tears and snot, pulling away from your hug with the reluctance of a child who does not want the holidays to end. his eyes are red, and his eyeliner wobbly, and his cheeks flushed with emotion. but he looks calmer, now, as if his soul has taken up residence in his body again and is ready to be alive once more.

and so you move forth, two lone souls together against the universe. you jostle shoulders, stomping through the thick white blanket at your feet, speaking the language of two dancers who know everything without having to say it out loud. together you reach the subway station, step out of the snow, and allow yourselves to be pulled into reality and the movement of the world at large.

as you reach for your subway pass, choso clears his throat, and you look to him expectantly.

“can i borrow your eyeliner when we get to yours? my nose is smudged.”

#this is for my baby choso because gege be doing him so DIRTY #he deserves a fucking hug #and a kiss #choso #choso x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #adele writes #artist!jjk #choso.

155 notes · View notes

animedaddymilkers · 3 years

Text

Kinkmas 2020: Day 17

Prompt: Age Play w/ Shikaku

Genre: Smut/18+ || Tags: Age Play, Boss/Worker, Mutual Pining, Shower Sex, Creampie, Vaginal Sex || Characters: Shikaku Nara, Female Reader || read it on ao3 here

"(Y/N). My office. Now,” the gruff, irritated voice of your boss broke you from the paperwork you were attending to and you stood, quickly following after him.

You closed the heavy oak door behind you and smoothed your skirt out as you stood in front of his desk. Shikaku was glaring at the window, his hand stroking his facial hair. It was obvious he was fuming from something, trying to calm himself down so he wouldn’t irrationally take any anger out on you. That was just part of his personality that you adored, always so thoughtful for others and in control of his emotions. This week was rough enough for him, the anniversary of his wife’s death having been at the beginning of the week. Now, added to whatever he was upset about currently was sure to be too much for him to handle, especially alone. So, you stood there, waiting patiently and without pressure for him to speak, letting him be ready at his own pace.

“I was assigned the mission,” after five minutes of standing in silence he spoke, the words mumbled so quietly that it took you a moment to process them.

“You… that mission? Alone?! But that was supposed to be assigned to-”

“The strongest shinobi besides the Hokage. Yes. And apparently, that would be me. It’s an honor.”

“It’s a suicide mission! Surely you can’t really be expected to go alone!”

Shikaku finally turned from the window to face you, his expression as stern as always despite his initial unrest, “There’s no one else to accompany me.”

“I can go. Let me be your partner on this mission,” you were adamant in standing your ground on this, unable to accept your boss going out on such a risky mission alone.

“You’re too young.”

“And you’re too old!”

He scoffed before chuckling, catching you off guard as he heartily laughed while sinking into his office chair, “Every time I see that look in your eye and hear that fiery attitude I’m reminded of why you’re a perfect fit here,” he sighed, “I know I’m not going to change your mind on this, no matter how much I’d prefer you stay here safe and sound. But, I admire your tenacity, my little fawn. We leave in four days.”

You sighed and sat down in the chair on the other side of his desk, taking in the fact that he agreed to your offer before continuing, “Thank you, I’ll do my best to support you. We’ll come back. Together.”

“Mm, with you by my side I’d fight to the ends of the earth. But, you have been neglecting your training since being promoted to my assistant. We’re done with work for today, come to my house at dawn, I’ll personally oversee your training. It will be beneficial for us to become more...in sync before the mission as well.”

With a nod, you agreed to his conditions, not about to turn down one on one training with one of the best shinobi in the village, let alone one of the most attractive. After finishing what you were working on before being interrupted, you both packed up and left the office for the day. That night, you tried to go about your routine as normal but couldn’t help your mind from wandering. You thought about the events of the day, that brief moment where he used a pet name for you replayed a million times over, your cheeks heating up each time. Then, your mind would picture the possibilities that tomorrow morning might hold for you. Cheesy visuals filled your head of Shikaku wrapping his arms around you to show you proper form, an idea you no doubt got from cheesy romance movies. As if you need help perfecting your form. You were more than capable of holding your own in a fight and this training was simply to get you back in the swing of things.

The next morning came simultaneously too fast and not fast enough. You showed up at the Nara house, taking note that the house would be more appropriately labeled as a mansion. Dawn had yet to peak across the horizon, but Shikaku was already in the courtyard, kicking the air. Making your presence known, you set your supplies down on the porch before meeting his gaze. His face brightened when he saw you, sending a strange feeling to your chest.

“Ha! Figures you’d show up early. You’re too ambitious for your own good, kid.”

You grinned back at him as you started stretching, “Hey, you started early too, old man.”

He shook his head jovially, always amused when you dished back what he gave you. Without much more small talk, your training began and from then on you were focused on furthering your abilities. After all, the success of the mission was depending on both of you being at your absolute best for the entire duration. Shikaku knew better than to take it easy on you, instead treating you as any other opponent, and more importantly, treating you as an equal. It was a mild relief, but you were confident in your abilities to the point where you knew if he didn’t give it his all you’d lay his ass flat.

Two hours in and you were both fighting like a well-oiled machine, he went in for a hit, you blocked and parried to which he deflected. It ended up in you both barely being able to land a blow because the moves were just too predictable. Another half-hour and you agreed on a break, sitting on the engawa while catching your breath and chugging your water. You glanced over to Shikaku to find him already looking at you and suddenly you realized just how sweaty the training had made you. Alternatively, you also realized just how sweaty training had made Shikaku. The mesh shirt that was usually worn under his vest left little to your imagination, sweat glistening through the thin material. Silently, you thanked whatever gods existed and forced your attention back to a random tree in the courtyard.

“We should...clean up before work. You can use my shower,” he stood up after you agreed and led you inside, “Don’t worry about being quiet, Shikamaru’s on a mission of his own.”

You nodded and took note of the fact, still generally quiet though as he led you through the house to the bathroom. The place was even bigger from the inside and the bathroom itself looked like the size of your bedroom. Without much more thought you stripped once the door was closed and went to step in the shower. Blinking, you stared blankly at the shower knob, why the hell was each shower designed so damn differently? This shit looked like literal alien technology. You groaned and looked at your discarded clothes, there was no way in hell you were getting those leggings on while you were still so sweaty, let alone the sports bra. Grabbing a towel you wrapped it around your body and said a prayer.

“Shikaku…?” You called out tentatively, one hundred percent sure if you weren’t careful you’d get lost within the house, “Shikaku?”

“(Y/N)?” The door ahead on your left swung open and the older man appeared, currently shirtless and Kami, his hair was down.

“Uhm, I can’t figure out your shower…” admitting it out loud was mildly embarrassing and you could see the newspaper headline flash inside your head, ‘local shinobi gets stumped over fancy shower’.

Shikaku chuckled and rubbed his neck, “Forgot about that, yeah it’s a bit intimidating, isn’t it? I’ll show ya.”

You nodded and turned around, leading the way back to the bathroom, leaving Shikaku to trail behind you. Unintentionally, it was a test of will, his eyes desperately avoiding the sight of the towel barely covering the bottom of your ass. His eyes stared a hole into the back of your head trying to avoid your body. He was not going to objectify you, not now, not ever, he was better than this. Yet, he couldn’t help how his thoughts always wandered to you, though thankfully most of them weren’t dirty, or else he probably wouldn’t ever be able to look you in the eyes.

The bathroom couldn’t come fast enough and even as he leaned into the shower to turn it on you had to pry your eyes away from his backside, ignoring the way your eyes could spend ages just taking in all the scars that adorned his torso. He straightened himself out, standing tall again as the water began to spray. Well damn, he made it look so easy. You sighed and nodded in defeat, shower: 1, you: 0.

“Thanks…”

“Don’t worry about it. You gonna need help with anything else, kid? You know how the shampoo works, right?” a shit-eating grin spread across his face and you huffed before shooting him an innocent look.

“Well, now that you mention it, I’m not quite sure I know how, I think I need someone a bit older and wiser to teach me how,” you twirled your hair and batted your eyes, your voice an octave higher, really dialing up your little girl act.

The reaction was instantaneous, if ever there was a moment where you could pinpoint when a man’s willpower broke, this would be it. Shikaku unbuckled his pants and let them drop to the floor, leaving you the deer in the headlights now. The both of you played off the other too well, each pushing it just a bit farther, both refusing to be the one who backed out. That game of constant cat and mouse led you here, standing in the shower as the head of the Nara clan affectionately cleaned your hair. Not like you were complaining, though.

“Such a good little fawn, always eager to learn more. Are you taking in this lesson? Have you learned how to wash your hair, young one?”

“Yes sir, thank you for teaching me. Can you teach me how to wash my body now?” Pushing, nudging the boundary line further you rested your hands on his toned chest.

He smiled softly and grabbed the washcloth. There was no nervousness, most likely thanks to these roles you were both embracing. Instead, you felt confident. If the way you asked for him to wash you was any indication. His hands gently caressed your skin, lathering the soap over your body. Boldly, his hands lingered on your tits, brushing the rough material of the cloth over your nipples, making you arch into him. Your hands rested on his biceps, marveling in the way that they flexed just from washing you. After your torso was scrubbed the cloth wandered to your thighs, silently coaxing you to spread them.

Once you spread your legs his hand cupped your sex through the washcloth, another hand gently holding your face, keeping your eyes locked on his. Your hips instinctively rolled into his touch, a small gasp leaving you as the washcloth grazed over your clit. He grinned and finally leaned in, capturing your lips in his, thumb brushing over your cheek. Kissing back you slid your arms around his neck, keeping him there to kiss you more. His hand rubbed a bit harder before leaving altogether, washing the rest of your body while he kissed you. If his lips wouldn’t have been on yours you would have whined at the loss of contact. Luckily for him, he finished washing you soon enough, not leaving you enough time to complain.

As he hung up the washcloth, you refused to accept that was the end of your physical contact with him, “Can I practice what I learned on you, sir?”

“Well, of course. Learning by experience is always best. Go ahead, little one.”

With his affirmative answer, you reached up, scrubbing his long hair and massaging his scalp. Meanwhile, his hands wandered your sides, rubbing up and down as you tended to him. You made sure to condition his hair thoroughly, it’d be a shame to see those locks of his get dry. When it came to his body you washed it in record time, though you purposely avoided his crotch, saving it for last. Now, it was your turn to tease him, gently rubbing the washcloth over his half-hard cock. His eyes closed and he sighed deeply, trying to resist the way your hand wrapped around him through the cloth.

“Fuck me, Shikaku.”

Slowly, his eyes reopened and he looked at you, almost expecting you to be joking, or maybe he was hallucinating, but you repeated yourself, “Fuck me, Shikaku.”

He let out the breath he was holding and his hands gripped your hips, mouth leaning in to latch onto your neck this time. Carefully, he coaxed you to let him lift you, to let him show off those muscles he worked hard to earn. As if you really needed coaxing to let him do that. Your back pressed against the shower wall, legs wrapped around his waist, holding his hips close to yours. His cock nuzzled against you and he groaned, nipping at your neck. A moan left your lips and your hands went to his hair, tugging on it gently just to get him to groan again.

“I can’t wait any longer to have you, little fawn.”

“Mmm, figures, the old man doesn’t have any patience left in his old age,” you giggled softly, though, in reality, the feeling was mutual as you were more than ready to get railed by him.

“Hmph, damn kids and their smart mouths,” he mumbled into your neck but still reached down, pushing his cock into you slowly.

Your head leaned back against the wall in a silent gasp as his member spread you, deliciously sliding deeper until he hit your cervix. His arms wrapped around you like he was going to lose you, letting you get adjusted to his size before slowly thrusting. He groaned and kissed you as his hips moved at an agonizing pace to the point where you began to move yours forward just to meet him faster. Eventually, he got the hint, though he did prolong it a bit further just to tease you. Finally, he fucked his cock into you like he meant it, quick, deep strokes that hit you in all the right places. With every thrust, you could feel the prominent veins on his cock drag along your walls driving you, almost literally, up the wall.

The first time Shikaku moaned your name you nearly came right then, the sound sending a shiver down your spine and straight to your pussy. How many nights had you imagined what this would be like? Now, to have him fucking you like you were a goddess...it was overwhelming. As he continued to slam in and out of you, your nerves went wild, feeling like your whole body was on fire and the steamy bathroom didn’t help. One of his rough fingers met your clit and you knew you were done for. He rubbed quick and rough in time with his hips and you found yourself falling apart in his arms.

You cried out his name, clawing your nails down his back as your pussy spasmed and clenched around his cock. He held you tight, riding you through your orgasm, fingers still rubbing your clit as your thighs continued to shake. The son of a bitch sent you straight into a second orgasm, a scream of ecstasy tearing from your throat. Your whole body tensed and Shikaku buried himself deep inside of your pussy before he groaned and emptied his load. The feeling was heaven, his warm cum filling you full and as you came down from your high you found you couldn’t wait until tomorrow’s training session.

hope you enjoyed! remember likes & reblogs help me reach more people! :D

#naruto #naruto x reader #kinkmas 2020 #shikaku nara #shikaku x reader #shikaku x you #x you #x reader #reader insert #smut #naruto smut #fic #imagine

267 notes · View notes

maple-the-awesome · 3 years

Text

Be Her Guard || Chapter 12

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

WARNING: Strong language

Words: 3,374

Masterlist

John grumbles to himself when stepping into the living room, rubbing his tired eyes while setting course for the only thing that matters to him this early in the morning: a fresh cup of coffee.

"Good morning, John," you’re already cooking breakfast, although, it doesn’t appear that you’ve been awake for very long seeing that you’re still dressed in pajamas with your hair only slightly maintained. You send him a smile which he copies the best he can through his exhaustion.

"Morning, (Y/n)," he heads straight for the coffee machine, putting everything else aside until he can get at least a sip of the caffeine laced drink to jump start his senses.

While lazily selecting a mug from the cupboard, he gives a quick scan of the flat. It hasn’t occurred to him until now that Sherlock’s no where to be seen in either the kitchen or living room which leads him to question the detective’s whereabouts out loud.

“Oh, he’s still asleep,” you answer simply with a hum, cracking another egg into the pancake mix.

“Asleep? I didn’t think Sherlock ever slept,” the ex-military doctor comments, watching each droplet of coffee fall into the mug.

"Better go in there and take a picture. It's something that only happens once every year," you joke, although, you keep your content smile to yourself, an unnoticed blush rising to your cheeks simply at the thought of having slept next to Sherlock for the first time. Despite the hiccup of your nightmare, you'd say you had an amazing night's sleep.

It’s about fifteen minutes after John’s awaking that Sherlock finally wobbles into the kitchen himself, already wrapped snuggly in his robe. His fair is in a frizz and in desperate need of a good combing yet that will have to be done at a later time.

Drunk on sleep, he stretches his arms up with a yawn before lowering them around your waist, letting his chin fall to the crook of your neck as you begin pouring pancake batter into the pan," good morning, Sherlock."

He only hums in response, hiding his face farther away in your hair while breathing in your scent. Normally he'd refrain from PDA, but as it turns out, falling a sleep with your girlfriend in your arms sure does change one's thought towards the requirement of sleep, leaving him too tired to care what John thinks. He just might be tempted to doze off with you more often now.

It's a bit uncomfortable to watch, John will admit, but he does nothing to stop either of you, instead keeping his eyes trained on his newspaper. It isn't as if either of you are disrespectful with your affection, in fact, this is one of the first times John's seen the two of you be affectionate towards each other outside of simple flirting. It's just strange if anything. He's so use to that robotic-like side of Sherlock, not the Sherlock who willingly hugs a woman as if nothing else in the world exists. John's happy for him, but weirded out nonetheless.

'At least they haven't made out in front of me yet,' he thinks to himself with a sip of his coffee.

"Don't tell me you'll be making them into shapes of childish cartoon characters," Sherlock mumbles without even looking at the pancakes you’re creating.

"Don't worry, I'll make yours in normal, boring circles to go with your lack imagination."

Sherlock sighs through his nose before leaving your side while you explain to a confused John that your father always likes to make shaped pancakes which is a tradition you’ve inherited. Of course, Sherlock’s never liked them due to how ‘childish’ and ‘unnecessary’ they are, but that doesn’t stop you.

By the time breakfast is finished, Sherlock’s already typing away on the laptop in the living room, hardly paying attention to the plate of food you set in front of him as he’s too busy looking over his email," your mother would be having a fit if she saw you now."

Sherlock ignores that comment, too, glancing over at John despite him being uninvolved," don’t you have anywhere else to be today?"

"Why?” He asks, taking offensive to the question you don’t think Sherlock meant to sound so rude with.

"I need the flat to myself at approximately five this afternoon."

"I should've known..." the doctor rolls his eyes while going back to cutting his steaming pancakes,” I suppose I need to go to the store today since we’re nearly out of milk-”

"-And what about you?" Sherlock turns his attention to you next, barely letting John finish his sentence.

"I guess I could visit with Mrs. Hudson?" You answer hesitantly, not sure what else there is to do since going anywhere else without Sherlock could be seen as a risk.

Luckily, he nods in approval of the idea, finally picking up his plate to eat like all his normal flat mates,” perfect."

By the time the day grows older and the hours near five, Sherlock has finally gotten the flat to himself, a time he spends impatiently waiting with the laptop as his only company. Just as discussed during breakfast, John has been shooed out to go grocery shopping while you’re currently downstairs visiting with Mrs. Hudson who’s always overjoyed to get some quality time with you.

Alexa Mandible, after some time and struggle, has successfully managed to convince the Oregon State Prison Warden to allow Sherlock a video chat with Apollo, something that should prove once and for all if the man is currently behind bars.

With five in the afternoon being the agreed upon time (nine in the morning for the prison), Sherlock is convinced it’ll all be a massive waste of his afternoon. He could be using this valuable time to find Apollo rather than listen to someone give sloppy excuses as to his whereabouts, but regardless, he hopes the warden will at least provide some decent information like if Apollo had been given an appeal without anyone alerting the victim or her family. Anything helps with the pretty much dead-end Sherlock's been stuck at for two weeks now.

Finally, a video call rings on the laptop. It barely takes him a second to answer, the Warden’s face being the first he sees just as he had earlier predicted. The man is sitting in a room painted in a very plain shade of grey that nearly matches his hair aside from the littered strands of brown in it. The wrinkles covering his face make him look older than his given age, although, the stress of running a prison will do that to someone.

“Holmes.”

"Walsh.”

"According to Mrs. Mandible, I guess my word isn't enough to convince you Apollo Timmons is still paying off his sentence in my prison. Is that right?" The man, Hugh Walsh, gets right down to business with a condescending tilt of his head, clearly taking it as a dare to confirm such information.

"Anyone can lie.”

"I am a man of the law-"

"-As I said, anyone can lie. Titles and careers mean nothing about someone’s morals, in fact, people are often tempted to lie when it comes to protecting their jobs or simply making them easier. You, yourself, would have plenty of reason to lie about Timmons’ holding status if it means you’re protecting your credibility as a profound warden. To actually prove Timmons’ whereabouts, however-"

"-Is just as easy since there’s nothing for me to hide. As I’ve told Mrs. Mandible and as I’ll tell you directly: Apollo is still confined within my prison. Believe it or not, but we do routine rollcalls and individual wellness checks on each of our inmates,” Hugh interrupts, folding his hands on the table in front of himself,” but since you might as well admit my words means nothing to you, I’ll let your own eyes be proof enough. You aren’t the only man who believes in justice, after all. I believe that Timmons’ victim has every right to rest her mind knowing she’s safe from him, although, I will admit that I do gain some satisfaction in the thought of proving the Great yet Smug Sherlock Holmes wrong. The trouble of letting you speak to one measly prisoner will be worth that.”

"You're wasting time."

Hugh frowns in annoyance with a sigh escaping his lips. He reaches for his computer keys while muttering under his breath and pressing a few buttons before another call is added to the meeting. This call's camera starts off black then blurry before the picture soon becomes clearer... When it does, Sherlock feels his heart stop and a lump form in his throat.

There he is, the last person Sherlock ever expected to see. Apollo in all his glory sits in front of the camera in which someone is messing with. Sherlock can see the cuffs of an officer’s sleeve move out of frame just as quickly as they were there, fixing the camera to focus on the amused smirk the covers Apollo’s smug face.

Neither says a word at first, however, the look on Apollo's face speaks millions of his own self-satisfied thoughts. Sherlock, on the other hand, can only stare with wide eyes, his Mind Palace on red alert. It…It can’t be Apollo…but it is. There’s no deny it’s him because Sherlock can remember that punchable face from anywhere. He-

"How-What game is this?" He finally snaps out of it, narrowing his eyes at the screen.

"So just because you accuse me of being out of jail when I’m not means I'm playing a game? How many things are you going to wrongfully accused me of, Holmes? Was abusing and attempting to murder my fiancée not a big enough charge for you? You really want to add ‘jail escapee’ to the list? Man, crime rates must be low in England right now," Apollo does his best to cup his hands together even with the handcuffs around them, leaning a tad bit closer over the white counter he sits at.

"She received self-delivered packages and letters from you-"

"-How do you even know it they were self-delivered? Everyone's already told you: I'm in prison. See the orange? You think I just go around wearing this ugly color and handcuffs or are you suggesting that I magically teleported from here to England and back without anyone noticing?” Apollo rolls his eyes at the ridiculous allegation,”…alright, so I won’t deny the letters and flowers, but they weren’t self-delivered by any means. Do you know if she liked them, though? I made sure to send the right kind- the multicolored ones since I know she likes those over the simple red or orange ones. Orange really is a terrible color, isn't it-?"

"-You aren't to have contact with her," Sherlock states simply yet sternly, ignoring his previous question.

"He's right. It's a part of the restraining order," Hugh cuts in for the first time, trapped in the same annoying conversation as the detective,” who's allowing you to send them? God, if I find out some guard's been making deals with-”

"-If you must know, I've had other inmates send them. I buy the lilies with my allowance and write the letter then they send it out with their own mail; all for price, of course,” Apollo reluctantly admits,”…but it seems I won't be able to do any of that again, huh?"

"Afraid not," Hugh shakes his head, picking up a pencil to write himself a reminder to talks to the guards and question which inmates were involved. All the while, Sherlock and Apollo continue staring at one another with glares neither try to hide.

"It's a fucked-up system to put me behind bars then not allow me contact with my wife. I wasn't the one to shoot her; she did it to herself. She needs me to help her, not an emotionless ass like you," Apollo complains with a hiss. Sherlock tilts his head with a scoff.

“Your wife? She barely wanted to be your girlfriend,” he leans forward with a deadly look in his eyes,” you can play innocent as long as you want, but we both know what you did and as long as I’m around, you will never get anywhere near here again. I don’t believe for a second that you’re not a threat to her and I will never let my guard down even if I must do so for the rest of my life.”

Despite Sherlock's vow, Apollo simply smirks and nods his head along in a bored manner,” yeah, I'm sure you won't, but that doesn't mean I won't stop trying. I can put in for an appeal in two years, and I’ve already been talking with a really good lawyer. I’ll get out then fix everything with (Y/n), so go ahead and tell her to pick out her wedding dress in the meantime.”

‘She’ll be picking a dress for your funeral first,’ Sherlock wants to say, but he gets no time to voice it with Hugh already reentering the conversation.

“Alright, I gave you both the little chat you requested, and I’ve got a lot more work to do now that I have to interrogate inmates about their mail,” he sounds generally tired and on the edge of wanting a retirement,” is that all, Mr. Holmes? You don’t have anything else to go crying about to the lawyers?”

Sherlock sits straight, calmly shaking his head," nothing at all."

The call ends shortly after that, although, Sherlock doesn't miss the way Apollo flips him off before it does. With the screen returned to the home menu it had begun on, the detective is left sitting in silence while staring at it with furrowed eyebrows.

Suddenly, he shoots up to his feet and, with a shout of anger, throws the laptop across the room, scaring the life out of poor John who happens to just be making his way upstairs with a handful of groceries.

"SHIT, SHERLOCK! WHAT THE HELL!?” He cries out, practically dropping all the bags to pick up the laptop instead and make sure it isn't broken, after all, it’s technically his. Hissing various curses under his breath, he sets it on the coffee table with an angry shake of his head, oblivious to his friend's circled pacing a few feet away with his hands entangled in his hair and nails digging into his scalp.

“WHAT HAPPENED?!” Of course, you'd hear the ruckus, your voice calling out from the door of Mrs. Hudson’s flat which is the last thing Sherlock needs.

“NOTHING!" He answers, praying you won’t come to investigate. He’s in no condition nor mood to face you right now. Luckily for him, you never make an appearance which means you must've dismissed the shouting as being a result of him doing some stupid 'Sherlock-y' thing that John hates. He does apparently shoot the walls for crying out loud.

Meanwhile John presses the finger keys fruitlessly before standing straight and finally looking to his flat mate while gesturing to the object in irritation,” great. You broke it- You actually broke it!...What the hell has gotten into you, Sherlock?!"

"...Apollo is in jail..."

"What?" John raises an eyebrow, not sure if he had heard right. Even if he did, he doesn’t understand with the lack of context granted.

"Apollo’s in jail, John! As in he's still incarnated in the states!" Sherlock growls loud enough to get his anger across but quiet enough as to not alert you of anything again.

One could practically see the wheels turning in the shocked doctor’s head, taking their time processing what he’s just been told,” how do you know…?”

"Do you not listen to anything I say?! I had a video chat with the warden of his prison. I suspected that I’d only be confirming that Apollo’s not being held there, not that I’d end up talking to him myself! I saw him behind bars!” Sherlock continues to pace to the point that he might begin wearing out the carpet, his mind trapped on the new revelation,” he can’t be. The letters, the package- He said he had other inmates send them, but…It can’t be that simple; not with him! There must be something more I’m not seeing, but what?!”

John listens to his friend's restless rambling while trying to do his own bit of thinking on the matter, although, anything he comes up with will surely be nowhere near as complex as Sherlock's inner thoughts.

Throughout the years that they've been working together, he’s learned that there are often solutions to even the strangest of crimes. No matter how improbable they may seem to himself, Sherlock always has a way of uncovering the truth rather promptly. Perhaps that’s why it’s so concerning to see his current muddled state, maybe even offsetting in a way. It isn’t necessarily unheard for an occasional criminal to stump the detective, after all, Moriarty had led him on several twists and turns when they first met, but it’s a rare sight, nonetheless.

To see Sherlock be at a complete dead end with no understanding on how to turn around is shocking indeed, and it’s a feeling that he hates with a burning passion. He’s not meant to be wrong, other people are. He’s supposed to be right about his theories especially when it comes to Apollo. If he can’t solve this case of all cases, he might as well be as simpleminded as someone like Anderson!

"Maybe he has a secret twin that's been hanging around and giving the letters to (Y/n)?" John suggests hopefully, only realizing how absurd it sounds when hearing himself speak yet there’s no taking it back. Voicing his thoughts is the only way he feels he can help in this stressful moment anyways.

"Come on, John, it's never twins!" Sherlock huffs, not hesitating to dismiss the terrible idea.

Silence passes with Sherlock finally plopping onto his seat again, glaring across the room at nothing really, merely thinking long and hard about everything that’s happened in the span of a few minutes. He wants to disappear into his Mind Palace to fine where he went wrong, but John keeps talking.

“You saw Apollo’s behind bars, right? And you said that he claims to have had other prisoners send (Y/n) the letters, so let’s assume his word’s true-“

Sherlock directs his glare to the doctor, shaking his head sternly,"-we can't just 'assume' Apollo is telling the truth."

"Well, when you think about it, it isn't that farfetched, Sherlock. Anyone can make friends behind bars and ask them to send mail to someone else," John takes the opposite seat, his head falling into his hands before he sighs while rubbing his temple," look, what I'm trying to say is…Apollo could've never been out in the first place. Maybe that's all there ever was to this case. This entire time he’s just been having other inmates send those letters as a way of messing with (Y/n)’s mind without ever putting her life in any real danger again.”

Sherlock says nothing. He’s too torn. He hates to admit it, he really does, but there is a chance- a small one- John’s right, but he refuses to believe it; he doesn’t want to believe it. Maybe to everyone else the case is already solved now, but it can’t be that simple. He’s spent two weeks worrying over your safety, following leads and clues that might lead him to an escaped Apollo. He can’t accept that it’s all been just some wild goose chase; that this entire time you could’ve been living your life safety as you normally would. A certain question racks his brain, but now’s no time to be concerned over that.

The first thing he needs to do is ensure that the prison puts a permanent stop to Apollo sending letters to you by any means even if through other inmates. That’ll be a start. If the letters do stop, then that’s that; the Great sherlock Holmes was wrong for once and you’ve never been in any real danger this entire time. With Apollo behind bars, you’ll be safe and you won’t need to remain at his side for protection anymore.

NEXT CHAPTER➡️

#sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #x reader #sherlock fanfic #benedict cumberbatch #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x reader #reader insert

39 notes · View notes

averykedavra · 3 years

Note

“I’m going to die. I’m going to die with an absolute idiot!” logince? no pressure if you can't but if you can i look forward to reading it!

(Em, I know I’m answering this, but you better not read this ‘cause you said you’d be offline. You’re forbidden. Go do work now. And yes, this is really long, and yes I should have spread my work out to other prompts, but here I am.)

Words: 7922

Despite everything, this wasn’t even the worst errand that Janus had sent Logan on.

That would be the harpy feathers, which had taken three weeks and three cut fingers to obtain. Or perhaps the dragon scales--the ones the merchant tried to sell Logan were fakes, forcing him to track down the culprit before sundown. Or perhaps the chimera egg, because chimera eggs didn’t exist. No matter if Janus insisted that Logan should be ‘open to the possibility.’

So, yes, this errand wasn’t the worst of them all. However, it was still up there. Another horrible day to add to his never-ending laundry list. And he had a feeling this would go farther downhill than he expected, because they always did.

Especially when dealing with other witches.

“The spell can’t work without it,” Janus had said, barely paying attention. He was occupied with shaking his magic quill until it stopped replacing es with os. “Be back by dinner.”

Logan had pled, bargained, and complained as much as he could. But Janus, as always, said something about “building character” and “honing his skills” and shoved him out the door. So Logan gathered up his cloak, his pride, and headed for the port.

The one upside of such ridiculous errands was seeing the outside. He usually spent his time studying in the cottage or the garden, but when he reached the foot of the mountain, the port sprawled in front of him. Roads teeming with visitors, some in clothing of nearby villages, others in richer colors than anyone could drain from local berries. Beneath the sphinx-grey sky, the boats flanked the water, masts bristling into the sky and sails full and white like wings.

Logan allowed himself a few moments to stare. To drink in the sounds--languages he didn’t recognize, babbling like brooks--and the smell of baking bread and fresh fabric. A cry blossomed from one dock as a ship slid into the harbor, sails flying, just come back from the sea.

Then a bicycle flew past Logan, splattered his boots with mud, and successfully yanked him back into the real world. He shook himself, checked his candle--it had burned down to the first notch, blue flame merry even in the wind--and set off.

Janus hadn’t given him a map, as usual, and Logan didn’t have the time or the moonlight for a tracking spell. He knew he was aiming for the area near the warehouses, though, and he’d definitely know a coven when he saw it.

Probably. Maybe. It had been a while.

Logan kept to the edges of the crowds. The sun wasn’t too piercing today, but he was still a bit warm in his cloak. He could have gone without it, of course, but it had pockets. Janus would start a lecture if he heard Logan was going without his materials. Still, as he began to get strange glances, he wished he’d just tried to shove everything into his pocket. Most people seemed to simply be curious why he was a bit overdressed. A few, though, looked suspicious enough to make Logan press closer to the buildings.

As he hoped, he knew the door when he saw it. The building somehow managed to list in both directions simultaneously, and when Logan looked closer at it, it folded into itself and tried to avoid detection. Logan pumped his fist in triumph and jumped across a ditch to the door.

It was an old oak door. Logan looked around in the vain hope that Janus would appear and offer directions--he was already feeling cold and uneasy on the stoop. Someone was definitely watching him. Or maybe it was just fear of the stories he’d been told as a kid.

Funny, that he was still scared of witches when he was one. But he was only in training, and there was a difference between witches and witches. Janus said it best. “One is trustworthy,” he’d say, “and two’s company. But three’s a crowd and four’s a coven. If you’re outnumbered, run the other way.”

Logan craned his neck up and peered at the dark, musty windows. How much was he outnumbered right now? Could he still bolt before they spotted him?

Janus would be insufferable if Logan came back empty-handed. And Janus was a jerk and a prick and a bit of a terrible mentor, but he wouldn’t actually lead Logan into danger. At least, Logan hoped not.

Logan swallowed, looked back at the door, and reached for the bronze knocker.

Then the bronze shifted and a mouth snapped at him. He yelped and stumbled back. A bronze toad blinked at him, the knocker between its legs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” complained the toad, beady eyes squinting. Logan stepped a bit further away. “Are you casing the joint? Hey!”

“No!” Logan made a shushing motion. “I’m--I’m just here to talk to someone, don’t--be quiet!”

“Stranger,” the toad said, giving him a belligerent look. “You haven’t been invited.”

“Can I go in anyway?”

“No.”

“Can I talk to someone other than a sentient door knocker?”

“No.”

Logan decided to go for it anyway. He braced himself, reached between the frog’s legs, and pulled up the knocker. When he let it fall, it made a deep thumping noise, so close to thunder that Logan checked the sky to see if it was raining. When he looked back, the frog had pulled itself into a ball again. It was silent, save for the distant yells of sailors as ships pulled in and out of port.

“Hello?” Logan finally said. “I’m not going to just stand here all evening.”

Nothing responded.

He pulled at the knocker again and let it fall. Then he knocked several times on the door, and for good measure, kicked it. It hurt his foot. He could probably bust through the door if he had half an hour and phoenix tears, but as it was, he was resolutely locked out. Ugh.

He kicked the door again. It still hurt. He didn’t know why he expected otherwise.

Just as Logan was about to experiment with climbing through a window, someone yelled “Hold on, jeez, don’t bust the door down!”

Logan whipped his hand behind his back to look as though someone else had done the banging. After a few seconds, the door swung open abruptly. “What is it?”

“Uh,” said Logan, who had been planning for a myriad of things. He had not expected a teenager around his age, looking at him like he was an annoying solicitor. “Hi?”

“Hi,” the person repeated. “Do you need something, or--”

“Uh,” Logan said again. He wished he’d planned more thoroughly for this. “You guys have a kraken, right?”

“Yeah?” Their eyes widened a bit in realization. “Oh, okay, you’re not here about the rent.”

“No,” Logan said. “Is that a concern for you?”

“Half the reason we put the stupid frog up there in the first place.” The person--witch? Maybe? They were definitely something, Logan knew that much, but it was hard to tell in the shadows and their magic didn’t feel like a witch’s--rolled their eyes. “Anyway. What’s up with the kraken?”

“I was wondering if you had any spare tentacles?” Logan asked. “My mentor, J--” Crap, wait, no names. Names had power. What was Janus’ usual pseudonym? “Dee, he needs a tentacle for a spell, and he sent me to ask you for some.”

Well, more aptly, Janus had sent him to “get one, legally or not.” Logan decided not to mention that part.

“Oh!” The person nodded. “Yeah, bad luck--nobody’s home right now.”

“What?”

“The whole coven’s out,” they explained, leaning on the doorframe and tugging at their tunic. “Today’s the day that ship comes back from the northern islands, and everyone wants to see if there’s any lead on those siren theories. It’s been planned for weeks, didn’t Dee tell you?”

“He never tells me anything,” Logan said shortly. Although, he wondered if Janus had purposely sent him to the coven on an empty day. That didn’t bode well for the friendliness of the coven on a non-empty day. “What should I do?”

“Hm.” The person thought for a second, running a hand through their hair. The doorway was so shadowed that it looked like a portal. “I’m not really supposed to let anyone in. I’m holding down the fort, and I’d like to do a good job of standing guard--” They did a little flourish of the hand. “But I could hardly turn away such a petitioner as yourself!”

“I don’t suppose you have any tentacles on hand?” Logan suggested. “You could hand them through the door.”

“Don’t think so,” they said with a wince. “We barely ever harvest them, since it tends to go--poorly.”

Logan tried very carefully to not think about what that meant.

The person glanced into the house, then back at Logan. “Look. I feel bad about letting you leave empty-handed, but I’m really not supposed to let you in, so you’re going to have to be really quick, okay?”

Logan nodded fervently. “Very quick.”

“Fantastic!” They clapped their hands and stepped back into the house. “So, uh, follow me? And don’t touch anything.”

With only a slight pause and a glance at his candle--almost three notches burned through already--Logan entered the coven’s house.

The door slammed shut behind him.

It was dark. He paused before pulling out his candle, but nobody seemed to be upset, so he held it up. Blue light danced along the walls. The wallpaper was peeling, but the carpet was freshly vacuumed, and a vase of daisies balanced on a coffee table. Logan lifted his candle higher and caught the glimmer of spiderwebs, the gleam of stairs to a second floor, and a rustling between a few of the floorboards.

“Maggots or rats?” Logan asked, to judge the probability of the floor collapsing beneath them.

“Maggots,” they said nonchalantly. “Aine keeps some.”

Logan decided to step more carefully.

“Oh!” The person stopped in the middle of the foyer. “Oh, I’m a terrible host, you can’t even see! Hold on!”

A scurrying of shadows, and then the chandelier flared to life. The flames were bright red and dripped along with the wax, a few drops hissing when they hit the carpet far below. Now Logan could see the whole house, with a polished banister wrapping past the stairs and to the second floor. There was a small back door, a few cupboards, and a glimpse of a dining room. It was all dark wood, or maybe that was the red light, that clashed with Logan’s candle and made it a bruised purple.

Movement made Logan look up. Next to the chandelier was the person from before. They smiled and waved at him, before somersaulting off the stairs and landing easily on the carpet.

“Sorry,” they said. “Didn’t realize you couldn’t see. Is that better?”

Logan stared at them. “Did you just jump off the--”

And then his eyes finally adjusted to the light. And then Logan finally--finally, he heard in Janus’ voice, are you really that unobservant--noticed.

A nice smile with bright eyes and a stub nose. Hair that needed a cut, with tufts sticking out in the back. One hand casually leaning on the stairs, the other waving the match until it went out. Smoke coiled from their hand--a hand too smooth and too bony, like someone had just pulled skin over bones and called it a day. A nice smile and pure white eyes.

“Ah,” Logan said, feeling very, very stupid. Because now that he was paying attention, he could feel it, the gentle thrum of magic nearby. But not a rustle like Janus’, or even an unfamiliar flash like the witches he glimpsed in markets. A constant, cold weight in his stomach, like ballast on a ship. “You’re--ah.”

“My name’s Roman,” said Roman, looking barely fazed. “He/him. And I can tell you that, because I’m not all fancy and cagey with my name like all of you!”

“Roman,” Logan repeated. “Nice to meet you, Roman.”

“The pleasure is mine as well!” Roman gestured for him to follow. “Now come on, before everyone gets back.”

Logan nodded and followed, his candle flame shivering. The more he stepped away from the door, the more he felt the cold settling in his bones. Roman didn’t seem to notice, though, because he jumped cheerfully from floorboard to floorboard. When he caught Logan looking, he smiled, as if this was fun. Logan did not find it fun. Logan wished for it to be over.

“Here we are,” Roman said, tugging open a cupboard door. Instead of silverware, Logan saw a long tunnel. “Basement!”

“Basement,” Logan repeated. He supposed no one could keep a kraken in the living room. “Are you coming with me?”

“Yeah, no way you’d know what to do otherwise!” Roman grinned at him. “I’m your tour guide.”

Logan huffed. “I’d know what to do.”

“Sure you would.” Roman turned away, his grin fading to a smirk. “Your collar’s inside out.”

“Wh--is not!” Logan looked down and back up. “It isn’t!”

Roman laughed and stepped into the tunnel. The distant light framed him, making his skin gleam waxy. “Coming?”

Logan huffed again, gathered his cloak to keep it from dragging on the wet stone, and followed.

The tunnel was cramped. Roman led the way, jumping expertly from rock to rock, and Logan struggled to keep up. His blue candle lit the place in an eerie glow. When he tried to listen for sounds, he could hear nothing except a distant lapping of waves, which made his stomach turn.

He tripped, dropped a packet of laurel, and bent to grab it. Roman paused and waited with barely disguised mockery until Logan had gathered his things again.

“Shut up,” Logan said, even though Roman hadn’t said anything.

“You’re pretty small for a witch,” Roman said, turning back around. “Should you really be messing with this stuff?”

“Like I said, it was Dee’s idea.” Logan tried to hurry after him. “I’d much rather not be in a tunnel right now.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Roman sucked in a breath and let it out. “Look, I’d just--if I were you, I’d start trying to master necromancy, because you are absolutely doomed.”

“Am not,” Logan decided to say instead of panicking.

“Are too!” Roman fired back over his shoulder. “Now hurry up, we haven’t got all day, witch boy.”

“We’re the same age, Roman!”

“I’m taller than you!”

Logan bit back a retort and just tried to hurry. He tripped several more times, and Roman gave him a judgmental look. Logan tried to return it. As they approached the end of the tunnel, though, his anger was less and less strong. It was slowly replaced with apprehension.

Roman didn’t seem nervous. Although, Logan admitted, he didn’t know the guy well enough to be sure. He trusted Roman on instinct--maybe because he liked his smile, or because if he decided not to, this entire situation became more perilous by tenfold.

“You’re not going to kill me,” Logan decided to confirm. “Right?”

“What? No!” Roman laughed. “I would never do that.”

“And...”

“And I can’t say the same of anyone else here,” Roman said. “Or the lovely kraken you’ve decided to pay a visit to.”

Logan swallowed.

Roman kept walking ahead of him, and Logan tried to focus on anything except the house far behind them and the water ahead of them. Roman. He moved with smoothness, like candlewax dripping from a chandelier, but his joints often jerked in ways Logan didn’t believe were natural. His skin reflected Logan’s candle, and he seemed just slightly left of a living person. Just too perfect, and just too not.

When he was a kid, Logan heard stories about creations that fell apart mid-motion, a pile of limbs in the street. He hated that he could see exactly where it would happen--the joints jammed together, an ugly seam line, easy to break. He felt a bit like he was next to a fragile vase. One bump, and he’d find out what exactly Roman had been made of.

Candlewax, probably. That was a common one. Or wood, for a sturdier frame, and sometimes cloth. Janus told him about a glass one once. Logan could barely imagine the power that usually went into them--one witch was trustworthy, two was company, three was a crowd. Four was enough to make life from nothing.

Logan had found the whole thing fascinating. Until now, when he was following Roman through the tunnel, and beginning to think about it a bit too hard.

Roman was about Logan’s age. He must have grown just like Logan. He was probably registered as Roman Galatea--most were--if he legally existed at all. And Logan felt so horrible about even thinking like that, because it seemed to rob Roman of his personhood, except he didn’t really have any--except he clearly did, except--

Janus didn’t use those kinds of spells. He’d never created anything like that. Logan asked him, once, if it was dark magic.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Janus had told him, which was how most of his lectures started. “There’s no such thing as dark magic. There’s just magic.”

“Sounds like something a dark magician would say.”

Janus had sighed. “Some people would call creating life ‘dark magic,’ yes. I wouldn’t, because as stated above, I think it’s all stupid.”

Logan had paused. “You don’t do it, though.”

“Of course not.” Janus smirked. “There’s enough life in the world without me adding to it.”

And now Logan was here, approaching a kraken and somehow more scared of the only other living thing in the house.

And then Roman told him to hurry up, and Logan rolled his eyes, and he easily fell back into being annoyed by a kid his age. Maybe it meant something, how easy it was. Maybe it didn’t.

Maybe he was overthinking this to a ridiculous degree, because they’d just met and Roman didn’t even know his name.

“Almost there,” Roman said, pulling Logan from his thoughts. “Do you have a plan?”

“A plan?” Logan blinked. “Get a tentacle?”

A long pause. “Okay, look, I want to support you in your dreams and all, but--”

“But that’s a stupid plan?”

“But it was nice knowing you.”

Logan rolled his eyes again. They already felt sore from all the rolling. “I do have skills--”

“Not saying you don’t,” Roman said, in a tone that showed he was saying that Logan didn’t. “So do I. Doesn’t mean I do stupid things like charge in to face a kraken alone.”

“I have you.”

Roman snickered. “I’m not going to be much help, unless you want to be serenaded while you die painfully.”

“True,” Logan said. “Or you could murder me.”

“I’m trustworthy!”

“Are you?”

“Yes!” Roman pouted. “You’re the one who I don’t trust. Never trust a witch, you know.”

“You can trust witches,” Logan said, feeling a bit hurt. “One witch is trustworthy, and two is company.”

“And who says that?”

“Witches--” Logan paused. “I see your point.”

Roman laughed. “Hurry up, trustworthy witch boy.”

Logan hiked up his cloak. Despite his best efforts, the hem was entirely soaked with water. The bottom of the tunnel was getting steadily wetter as they traveled, splashing water as he walked, and he wondered how on earth such a long tunnel could exist under one house.

He asked Roman that, and Roman laughed. “We’re under the sea right now!”

“We’re what?” Logan was ashamed of the way his voice squeaked. “Is that safe?”

“Yeah, we’re deep down in the rock!” Roman held out a hand and a drop of water hit his palm. It skidded off the waxy surface. Logan almost jumped away from it when it fell. “Relax, you’ll be fine.”

Logan was far less certain. He had known a kraken was a water-dwelling creature, but he’d expected a small pond. Or, hopefully, a dry drawer with tentacles inside. He hadn’t planned for an entire ocean over his head. Logan shoved the image of drowning from his head--he was doing a lot of repression today, he noticed--and soldiered after Roman.

Before Logan could even ask Roman to slow down and possibly reassure him that they were not going to die, the tunnel finally opened up. Logan’s candle shuddered--four notches already, more than halfway burned through--and he stepped into the kraken’s cave.

Cave was the only word for it. It was a cylindrical hole in the rock, ten times taller than Logan, with stalactites bristling on the walls, cold and grey as icicles. A pool of dark water sat beneath them--a perfect circular disk, with small waves lapping at the stone. A few paths were hewn roughly into the rock. It smelled like brine and old fish at the market and Janus’ boots when he forgot to clean them. Roman plugged his nose.

And ten feet below them, a tentacle rested on an outcrop of rock. Ugly green, horrifically slimy, and with suckers the size of Logan’s palm.

“Good,” Logan said, trying to find some silver lining in this situation. “That should be simple.”

“Shh!” Roman’s hand clapped over Logan’s mouth. It was surprisingly warm, just like a normal hand, and Logan found himself distracted. “Come on, if it’s sleeping, you do not want to wake it up.”

“Okay, okay!” Logan batted Roman’s hand away. “I get it, Roman.”

“If you say so.” Roman stepped back towards the tunnel, which was a gaping hole in the rock. It looked like a mouth. Like a kraken’s mouth, in fact, and Logan was going to stop thinking now. “Well? Go ahead!”

“Right,” Logan said, wishing he knew a spell to summon confidence. He took a deep breath, tried to ignore the crushing weight of water above him, and tiptoed forward. Almost immediately, his foot skidded on the damp rock. He barely managed to keep his balance. Behind him, Roman laughed.

“Hey!” Logan complained. “You said be quiet!”

“Who’s the one talking now?”

Logan threw up his hands and turned around. Thankfully, the dark water was still as a mirror. The tentacle lolled on the rocks. He just needed to creep down, cut it off, and creep back up! Which, of course, relied on the kraken sleeping through the loss of a body part, but maybe krakens weren’t extremely sensitive to pain! Possibly. Hopefully.

When Logan got back, he was going to kill Janus.

He inched towards the edge of the rocks, checking every two seconds for movement. Nothing. Behind him, Roman loitered in the tunnel. Maybe he wanted to see the show.

Logan slipped between two rocks, scraping a knuckle on one. He bit back a yelp. No time for noise. His cloak was heavy with water--water above him, and below him, don’t think about that--but it muffled his footprints easily. He dug in one pocket, holding up the candle with the other, and pulled out a pocketknife. The blade was dull. He should have sharpened it before he left.

He should have done a lot of things, actually. For example, he should have written his will.

Logan let out a long breath, snuck down towards the water, and knelt next to the tentacle.

Up close, it was even more disgusting. Logan felt water seep through the knees of his pants, and he hoped it was water and not slime from the tentacle. When he glanced up, he could see Roman in the tunnel opening, watching him. Probably thinking he looked like an idiot. He probably did.

Logan gripped the knife tightly. Okay. A clean, swift cut--put the power in his arm, not his wrist, and keep it away from his other fingers. Okay. Focus.

Three, two, one.

Logan let the knife fall.

And to his credit--yes, the thinnest of silver linings, but he was going to allow himself something--the blade made it more than halfway through in one swoop. The flesh parted easily.

Then the tentacle spasmed, shot back into the water, and the candle slipped from his fingers. It skidded on the rocks and slipped into the water with a hiss. He could see the blue flame, still burning--and then he couldn’t, as a large shadow passed over it.

Ah.

Logan waited for something to happen. He should probably move, but he was frozen, watching the dark water. Silence. The drip-drip of water above him.

“Um,” Logan finally said, his voice high-pitched. “Roman?”

“What?” Roman asked.

“I--uh--” Logan swallowed. “We might want to run now.”

The water exploded.

Logan threw himself backwards, hitting the rocks and jostling his bones. He scrambled to his feet as quickly as possible. Something large moved above him, and water fell on him like rain, plastering his hair to his skull and fogging his glasses. He rubbed at them and tried to stumble in a direction that wasn’t near the giant flailing thing.

A hand grabbed his arm, and he was hauled in an entirely different direction. “You idiot!” Roman yelled, half-dragging him away from the water.

“You’re one to talk!” Logan managed. “Don’t be so loud!”

“Oh, what, because it’ll hear us?” Roman waved an arm at the boiling water. “I think we’re well past that.”

Logan swore and let Roman toss him behind a rock. He tried to catch his breath. Water dripped down his skin, already making his hands shake, and he could hear the sounds of rocks hitting each other. Roman crouched next to him, between the rock and the wall, eyes wide and white and very judgmental.

“I didn’t mean to,” Logan blurted out, as if it mattered at this point. “I didn’t--”

Roman rolled his eyes hard. “What do we do now?”

“Wait for it to tire out?”

Another tentacle, the size of a centaur, smacked the ceiling. Rocks trembled and stalactites quivered, promising a painful deluge.

Roman looked up at the shaking ceiling, then back at Logan. “Any other bright ideas, witch boy?”

“My name is Logan,” Logan snapped, then realized he had been an idiot. “Uh.”

“Relax, I can’t do anything with it, can I?” Roman eyed the rocks around them. “Do you think we could run for it?”

“I could hardly catch up to you.”

“Then what do we do?” Roman looked at Logan and his eyes lit up. “Do you have a spell for this?”

Logan almost laughed. “Yes, my convenient kraken-repelling spell that requires no time or materials, and can be cast while I’m drenched in water.”

“Oh, good!” Roman blinked. “That was sarcasm, wasn’t it.”

“Take a wild guess!” Logan peeked around the rock. The kraken didn’t seem to have found them yet, but its tentacles were flailing wildly and sleepily, like a rooster woke it up and it wanted to make the sound stop. “This is a disaster. What can you do to make it stop?”

“I’m not exactly powerful,” Roman said sheepishly. “I can ask it nicely?”

“It’s not sentient!”

“I could try anyway!”

“Wonderful.” Logan bit back a yell of frustration. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die with an absolute idiot!”

“Hey, rude!” Roman fired back, ducking a spray of water. “Who woke the thing up again? Uh, wasn’t me!”

“Dee told me to!” Logan ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t think he expected this to go so wrong, but I’m still going to blame him.”

“He’d, like, interfere, right?” Roman didn’t look hopeful. “If you got hurt?”

“He doesn’t know where I am.” Logan looked at his hands. They were scraped with blood and covered in mud, making the skin look even darker than usual. “I can usually get back to him by snuffing the candle--”

A tentacle narrowly missed their rock. It hit the wall, coiled against it in a spray of slime, and retreated angrily.

“--which is currently at the bottom of the pool,” Logan finished. “Because I dropped it.”

Roman seemed to hold back his own frustrated yell. “Okay. Wonderful. Fantastic. Just exactly what we needed.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Fine, then, we’re all doomed!” Roman threw up his hands. “We can’t outrun the thing--well, you certainly can’t--and we have no backup!”

Logan tried to scoot closer to the wall. “Do you have anyone to summon?”

“No,” Roman said.

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes.” Roman laughed a bit, which almost made Logan feel better. “It takes half the coven to even put this thing to sleep. I send them a flare, they’ll probably say ‘what flowers do you want at your funeral?’“

Logan groaned and let his head fall onto the wall. “Why’d you even let me in here?”

“You asked!” Roman complained. “I was being polite! I figured you’d get creeped out and turn around!”

“I should have,” Logan said. Curse his pride and inability to stop doing things when told to do them. “Too late now, I suppose.”

A deluge of water fell on them both. When Logan looked up, he saw the rocks shaking faster and faster. That was, to the best of his knowledge, very bad.

"How long would it take to run for it?” Logan asked.

“You’re wearing a cloak,” Roman said. “You’re not capable of running anywhere.”

Logan, with only a moment’s hesitation, tugged it off. He tossed it in the air. A tentacle speared it, and it vanished.

“You’re capable of running,” Roman amended. “Just not fast. I could run for it--”

“Don’t,” Logan said.

“Why not?”

“Well, if you wanted to do so, you would have already.” Logan eyed the rocks. “Besides, if the tunnel began to collapse, you’d be trapped.”

Roman let out a breath. “Fair. So we’re back to no plan?”

“Back to no plan,” Logan agreed, as more water trickled down the back of his neck. They could simply sit there as long as possible, which seemed the only solid option, but an option that still led to eventual death and/or mauling by tentacle. Logan needed to think.

He knew spells. Spells that mostly required materials, which were in his cloak, which were in the bottom of the pool along with the candle. He knew how to escape to Janus--but, again, candle.

Logan began to realize that his knowledge, while vast in areas such as geography and astrophysics, was ill-equipped to handle a kraken. When he got back to Janus, he was definitely going to teach himself every creature spell in the cottage.

If he got back.

Would Janus notice? Would he assume Logan was late again? How long would it take for him to put the pieces together and realize--

Logan was breathing too fast. He needed to calm down. He needed to think.

He glanced at Roman, who was still looking around wildly, as if he could summon a plan. Logan could feel Roman’s magic, thick and cold, in his chest.

And the beginnings of a plan formed. It was a plan that Logan hated on multiple levels, and Roman would probably despise, but it was a plan.

“Can you swim?” Logan asked.

“Yeah!” Roman said, yelling over the sound of a rock crashing into the water. “Can you?”

“No!” Logan said. “I’m terrified of water, actually!”

“You’re terrified of water?” Roman’s panic gave way to incredulity. “Humans need it.”

“I mean big bodies of water!” Logan pointed up. “Like what is currently above us!”

“Oh.”

“So no, I can’t swim.” Logan hesitated. “You can?”

“Candles float in water!” Roman grinned. “Thus, so do I.”

“Ah.” Logan put a few more pieces of the plan together in his head. “I have an idea, and you may not like it.”

“I don’t like anything you’ve said today,” Roman said. “By now, I’ve taken that for granted. Continue.”

Logan took a deep breath just as another splash of water hit them. He coughed. Roman thumped on his chest unhelpfully until the water receded.

“As I was saying,” Logan said, attempting to look more confident than he was. He probably looked a complete mess--no cloak, which bared his arms and mis-matched socks, and straggly hair over his forehead. Roman, by contrast, still looked fine. Nice smile and perfect hair. Unfair.

“As I was saying,” Logan repeated, trying to remember what he was saying. “We need a plan. I can get us out of here if I find that candle, but it’s somewhere in the pool--”

“And only one of us can swim and see in the dark,” Roman finished. He didn’t look happy, but he looked resigned. “So I get the candle for you?”

“I’ll distract the kraken in the meantime,” Logan said.

“That sounds dangerous.”

“So does swimming around in that pool,” Logan pointed out. “And this entire debacle in the first place--which, rest assured, I am going to yell at Dee for.”

“Yeah, that’s my biggest concern right now.” Roman peeked around the rock. “So I bring you the candle, and then--”

“I snuff it and teleport us out of here.”

“And it takes us--”

“To Dee, probably.” Logan paused. “Actually, it takes us to the last place I felt safe, so I’m not quite sure where we’ll end up. Most likely, near Dee.”

Roman looked a bit alarmed by the idea of teleporting somewhere random, but a tentacle crept around the rock and he smashed it with his hand. It retreated with a guttural hiss. “I guess we’ve got no better options.”

“Sorry,” Logan said, despite himself. “I don’t wish to put you in danger.”

“Well, the host has to be polite to the guests!” Roman said, smiling. “Compromise is the best plan, and I’m certainly brave enough to pull it off. Besides, I’m used to being taken advantage of!”

“Um--”

“So when do we do it?” Roman actually looked excited. Maybe he was just glad to have a plan. “Do I go ahead?”

“You can go a few seconds after I do,” Logan said. He pushed himself onto his knees and stared at the slippery rocks next to them. “I’ll run around and distract it. Maybe I’ll even grab a tentacle while I’m there.”

“Optimistic,” Roman said.

“It’s that or start crying.” Logan braced himself. He’d have to run fast, keep away from the walls, and do his best to be noticed. The exact opposite of his usual plan. “Go?”

“Good luck!”

“I’ll need it,” Logan said, and pushed himself out from behind the rock.

He’d meant to check on Roman, to see if Roman was leaving okay. He didn’t have time. Almost instantly, a tentacle barreled past him, hitting the wall with bone-shaking force. Logan tossed himself in the first direction he thought of, tumbled down a few rocks, and found himself far closer to the water than he’d like. It was frothing white and angry, tentacles clawing at the walls.

Okay, so he did not want to fall into that. Logan swallowed the lump of terror in his throat--he was going to drown--and began to scale the rocks. He could work in circles, or he could just bob from rock to rock, back and forth.

Quickly, though, he realized that no plan would work. He couldn’t plan ahead. All he could do was duck.

Duck a swing from overhead. Duck a flash of wet, grey skin from behind. Lunge left, lunge right, move before he slipped, move, move.

He found himself in a rhythm. Toss himself in a direction, grab wildly for a handhold, and dangle for a second. Then he heard a telltale splash and threw himself in a different direction. His hands ached. He barely noticed.

“Over here,” he yelled at one point. He was so out of breath that he barely made a sound. Maybe he was enough of a distraction already--he hoped so. Roman was down there somewhere. Hopefully.

Logan risked a glance at the water. No sign of him. Logan’s chest was cold, because of the freezing ocean water, not because of magic.

Toss himself in a direction, hope for a handhold, regret life decisions, repeat.

Logan was never going to complain about a boring errand again.

“Roman?” he finally called. No answer.

Roman could breathe underwater--well, more aptly, he didn’t need to breathe as much. He would be fine. Unless he’d fainted, or been smashed by a tentacle, or drowned--

Logan’s fingers slipped on a rock. He gripped it tighter and kept moving.

Move, grab, hang, move--

“Logan!”

Logan almost whooped in relief. He whirled and saw Roman, drenched and triumphant, ten feet below him. The candle guttered in his left hand. Only one notch left.

“Thank you!” Logan called back, out of politeness. Roman gave him a thumbs up, then leapt into the air to avoid a tentacle. Leap, duck, roll, and Roman was only a few feet away. He grinned widely at Logan.

“I’ll get to you,” Logan said, slipping down a sheet of rock. It crumbled under his feet, falling into the water. “Wait there.”

“No problem!” Roman said, which even Logan could tell was a lie. He dodged another tentacle, which looped around in midair and tried to grab him again. Roman kicked it. “Oh, it’s getting smarter!”

“Fascinating.” Logan let himself fall another few feet, then grabbed a notch of rock. “Almost there.”

“It was pretty cool down there,” Roman rambled, jumping from foot to foot. “Just one big eye--”

A wave of water hit Logan in the back.

The kraken had indeed gotten smarter. Or, perhaps, it was finally fully awake. This wave was tall enough to reach them both, and strong enough to punch Logan’s breath from his lungs. It hurt so much that he didn’t even realize when his hands emptied.

Logan fell into the water.

It was cold. Colder than Roman’s magic, colder than the coven’s house, colder than a winter blizzard. Logan almost gasped. He clapped his hand over his mouth as a last resort. Shock tingled up his legs and arms.

He wasn’t supposed to panic. He knew that much. He needed to kick off his shoes and swim for the surface. But the water was tossing him around, currents and foam and cold hands on his skin, and he didn’t know which way was up. He kicked his feet. One shoe slid off.

Through the fuzzy darkness, he saw a flash of blue.

Move--move as fast as he could. He needed to move--he was going to drown--

He sank deeper.

And two hands grabbed his.

Roman was far warmer than the water around them, oddly. And his magic, when it spilled into Logan, felt warm too. Molten. Roman squeezed Logan’s hands and pressed the candle into one of them. Logan looked down at it, trying to clear his head and remember exactly what he was supposed to do.

Right. Snuff the candle. Get home.

He could barely see--

Then everything was yellow. Roman’s face burned into view, eyes wide and pale, feet kicking carefully at the water. Logan looked down at the candle stub with its bright blue flame, then turned to look at the source of the light.

Ah. An eye, big as the sail of a ship, yellow and fiery with a slit-black pupil.

"Shit,” Logan said.

Bubbles erupted from his mouth. They looked like pearls in the yellow light. Logan blinked several times and tore his gaze away. But he could feel the eye on him--he could hear the water moving--he could hear the kraken’s heart, if he tried, a solid thump-thump through the water--

Roman said something muffled. Logan looked at him. Roman groaned and exaggeratedly mouthed snuff the candle.

Logan looked down at the candle. Snuff the candle. Except the candle was already in water, and it was burning strong. How had he done this before? He didn’t remember--all he remembered was the first time he used it, when Janus wasn’t safe yet, when he ended up halfway across the world--

Logan batted at the flame. It didn’t budge. He blew on it, and got a stream of yellow-lit bubbles. The candle was so small. If it went out, their chance was lost, and the entire ocean was above them and around them and--

Another muffled yell from Roman. Logan looked up.

You are a witch, Roman mouthed at him. You can snuff the--muffled--candle.

Logan steadied himself.

Magic always felt odd to use. It started as cold rain, when he was a kid, like a bucket of cold water in his bed to wake him up. As he grew, it was warmer, a light rain in the garden, dewdrops on a spring morning.

He dug at his magic like digging into dirt, and waited to find a shoot.

The candle fizzed.

He didn’t have enough. He hadn’t cast a spell all day, so he should have enough for a simple spell, but he was cold and wet and terrified and frozen in the gaze of a creature older and bigger than he was. And he was on his own.

If he was outnumbered, run the other way.

Roman squeezed his hand.

Except he wasn’t. He wasn’t outnumbered. It was two against one, although Roman wasn’t a witch, just a witch’s creation. Just a piece of candlewax and magic with a nice smile--

A piece of magic.

Oh, that was a terrible idea.

Can I, Logan tried to mouth, borrow some--

What? Roman mouthed back with high eyebrows.

Something moved in the darkness, and the yellow light winked out for a second, before returning in full force. It made Logan’s limbs feel heavy. He could barely see the candle’s flame.

Sorry, he decided to mouth. I’m sorry about this.

He could apologize more if they survived.

For now, Logan gripped Roman’s hand and concentrated. Roman. Probably Roman Galatea, but more importantly, Roman. Roman gave Logan his name--which was an act of trust that Logan was now breaking, but don’t think about that--and it made things easier.

Finding his own magic was digging in soil. Finding someone else’s was breaking through a layer of frost, and Logan really hoped it didn’t hurt, because he was trying to just borrow as much as he needed but he was tired and couldn’t focus--

Tug. Throw them into a random direction. Grab the candle. Cling to Roman’s hand.

Move.

The flame winked out.

The eye winked out.

And Logan took a gasping breath of fresh air.

They were standing at the foot of the mountain. In front of them was the port, teeming with life, and the late-afternoon sky streaked with sun. Ships creaked back and forth like toys, and sails billowed in the wind. Logan took one look at the ocean, stretching out to infinity, and promptly turned away.

He looked down at one hand. The candle was gone.

He looked at the other. Roman’s hand was still in his. Drops of water beaded on his skin.

Logan looked up just in time for Roman to crush him in a hug.

“We did it!” Roman cheered, spinning Logan in a circle. “Success! Victory!”

“Put me down!” Logan yelled, kicking at thin air.

“Triumph!” Roman declared, but he put Logan back down. Logan rubbed at his sleeves and tried to drain the water from his shirt. His cloak was probably beneath the ocean right now. Janus would be annoyed about that.

“We did it,” Roman repeated gleefully.

“We did it,” Logan agreed, allowing himself a small smile of his own. “I--uh. Sorry. About taking your magic without asking.”

“Oh,” Roman said, like he hadn’t considered that would be something worth apologizing for. “Well, it got us out, so I don’t mind.”

“Don’t you?” Logan asked. He almost wished Roman would argue with him, to make Logan feel less like a jerk.

“Eh, it was fine, emergencies are emergencies.” Roman shrugged. “Plus, your magic feels pretty nice!”

Logan blinked. “It does?”

“Uh--kind of,” Roman said hastily. “Not in a nice way. You’re annoying.”

“Ah,” Logan said. He fake-coughed to gather his thoughts, and found a real cough instead. More coughs bubbled up. He doubled over and squeezed his eyes shut until they faded. “I hate water.”

“After today, I might be joining you with that.” Roman wiped water from his hair ruefully. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire cavern collapsed soon.”

“Would the kraken die?”

“Probably not.” Roman looked out to sea. “It would just slip through the cracks, creeping through the shadows to prey on unsuspecting ships, its tentacles grasping for blood--”

“Don’t,” Logan pleaded. “I do not want to think about that.”

“But we beat it!” Roman grinned. “Kind of sort of! I mean, we successfully fled the scene, which is more than most people!”

“True,” Logan admitted. “I didn’t get a tentacle--”

“Is Dee going to be mad?”

Logan looked down at his wet, bloody clothes. On any other day, he’d say yes. He’d never actually failed an errand--but he’d never almost died on one, either.

“No,” Logan said. “He’ll understand. And after the kraken, I don’t think I’m scared of being yelled at.”

Roman nodded. “Yeah, me neither.”

“You--oh.” Logan winced. “Oh, you’re going to get in trouble for this, aren’t you?”

“If they find out!” Roman tapped the side of his nose. “I have many excuses.”

“And if they find out?”

“I’ll get an earful.” Roman sighed. “Since you didn’t steal anything, though, and since the kraken is still intact, I think it’ll pass.”

“That’s good.” Logan glanced up the mountain trail. Janus would definitely be expecting him soon. “Er--I should be going.”

“Oh!” Roman looked a bit disappointed. “Okay, yeah, you have your witchy business, I understand. Fair travels!”

Logan nodded slowly. “Thank you, Roman. For everything. I truly appreciate it.”

“Aw, he has a heart!” Roman grinned. “You’re welcome. I’m awesome.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Logan said. “Still, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You couldn’t have!”

“You’re ruining this.”

Roman grinned wider. In the sunlight, he didn’t look off anymore. Well, he didn’t look human, but Logan barely noticed. He looked a bit like a jackrabbit. Gangly and brown and long-legged, with bright and cheerful white eyes.

“My point is that I’m grateful.” Logan rubbed at his arm, feeling nervous. “And--if you ever need me, feel free to visit.”

“If I need a tentacle?”

“We don’t have tentacles. If you need something other than a tentacle, yes.”

“What use could I have for a non-tentacle?” Roman teased. “Your offer is much appreciated. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” Logan waved quickly at him. “Er--goodbye?”

“Fare thee well!” Roman bowed and jumped towards the port. He really was like a jackrabbit. “Don’t drown!”

“I’ll endeavor not to!”

Roman smiled and continued to scramble down the path.

“Wait,” Logan called, before he could stop himself. “Why did you help?”

“What?” Roman asked, pivoting.

“You could have easily ran,” Logan said, gesturing to Roman. “You’ve been leaping down the hillside. You could have left me and escaped.”

“We got out anyway, didn’t we?” Roman pressed a hand to his chest. “How could I abandon someone in need? Even an irritating and naive someone such as yourself.”

Logan glared at him.

“And--” Roman rubbed at his hair sheepishly. “You call me by my name. People don’t usually do that.”

“Oh,” Logan said.

Roman shrugged even more sheepishly.

“Well, I’ll just have to do it more to make up for it,” Logan said. “Does that work, Roman?”

Roman beamed. “Sounds like a plan, Logan.”

Janus would never recommend sharing his name with a near-stranger. Janus would say that was unsafe. Janus would say one witch was trustworthy, and one was all anyone needed.

But two was company. Logan found he rather liked having company.

“Sounds like a plan,” Logan agreed, and smiled back.

Give me a prompt, and I’ll write a short drabble!

63 notes · View notes

firelxdykatara · 4 years

Note

If you think their stories lacked empathy do you think Hama and Jet were redeemable? I don't hate Iroh or Azula or Zuko tbc, I'm just hearing a lot of people say it's unfair that people from the fire nation got to change when the people the Fire Nation hurt weren't.

My answer to the question of ‘could this character be redeemable’ is almost always going to be ‘yes’, unless the character in question is the literal embodiment of all evil or something. Galactus? Probably not redeemable, he’s a massive planet eater with no real conscious thought except, well, eating planets.

Can be redeemed is not the same as should be redeemed, though, and it also isn’t the same as ‘with the way this story has been constructed and executed thus far, I think a redemption would make sense’. Sometimes, the hero just has to kill the villain, or at least put them down/imprison/otherwise depower them to keep them from being a threat. (I’d argue that Ozai could not have reasonably been redeemed, given the story that was set up, and also that he wasn’t actually sufficiently depowered, and that even if Aang wasn’t gonna kill him, he should have been brought before a tribunal and executed for crimes against the Earth Kingdom and Water Tribes, and that leaving him alive indefinitely is the reason the New Ozai Society was able to gain traction, because his political power was not intrinsically tied to his bending, but that’s another rant altogether.) And, typically, if there is a villain getting redeemed, there needs to be a Bigger Bad who gets put down in their stead. (Zhao was this for book 1 Zuko. Palpatine was this for Vader. Etc.)

The reason I say that just about any villain you could name (barring, again, eldritch abominations or The Literal Embodiment of Evil) is redeemable is because redemption, when boiled down to its bare essentials, is simply this: the choice to do and be better.

Every sentient being is capable of making this choice, and so that possibility exists for every fictional sentient being, too--whether or not it would make sense for their character is entirely dependent on the surrounding narrative, and also their overall character arc. There is no real ‘point of no return’ for the ability to make this choice--however, there usually is such a point for the audience’s ability to believe they reasonably would make that choice. The farther down the path of villainy the character has gone--the more harm they’ve caused, the more people they’ve killed, the more evil they’ve done--the harder it will be to accept that they would ever actually decide to change.

This can be offset, of course, by giving the villain a sympathetic backstory and reasons for their actions--cool motive, still murder will usually apply, but if you write it well enough, you can believably chronicle the villain’s journey to the side of good. Some of your audience may not think it’s enough--for some people, any villain redemption for someone who did anything worse than say some mean things to another character is ‘villain apologism’ and not to be tolerated--but if the narrative scaffolding surrounding a given villain is sturdy enough, a majority of readers/viewers will accept it.

(As a side-note, a villain redeeming themselves is not--or should not be--reliant on the people they’ve hurt forgiving them. That can also be included, of course, but just as it’s entirely in character for some villains that they just would never make the choice to be better people, it’s in character for some heroes that they cannot forgive someone once they’ve done enough harm. Everyone has a breaking point, and if you’re going to go the ‘everyone forgives and welcomes them to the hero group’ route, that will need to be set up and constructed believably as well.)

Now that I’ve rambled for ages about redemption itself, I come to the actual point of your ask: yes, I do believe Hama and (especially) Jet were redeemable, and I do believe the fact that a man complicit in war and genocide for decades was allowed, by the narrative, to choose to be a good person and do good in the world, while characters who were victims of the war helmed by that man’s family were not granted the same dignity of that potential choice.

If either Hama or Jet had their stories end differently--if Jet had been allowed to heal on his own terms, without being brainwashed into being Nice and then killed off and only referenced once in the rest of the show via an off-hand joke about his casual demise, or if there had been a line or two at the end of The Puppetmaster where Katara expressed regret for what Hama had become and perhaps hope for being able to return for her, after the war, and get her the help she desperately needed (rather than appearing content to leave her languishing in the Fire Nation prison that was the source of her trauma), then it may not have seemed so much like the narrative was saying ‘victims of trauma who do not react in appropriately pacifistic ways will be punished for their anger’. But because both of them were treated so cavalierly at the end of their respective arcs/episodes, it leaves some unfortunate implications, particularly when contrasted with Iroh’s pre-series redemption, and the way so many fans call for Azula to be redeemed because ‘she’s a traumatized 14-year-old girl’ without extending the same to the traumatized 16-year-old boy who was basically murdered on-screen.

Jet was no worse, in terms of his character and his crimes, than Azula--little miss ‘I’m gonna suggest Daddy burn the Earth Kingdom to the ground’ does not have any moral superiority to lord over anyone. Hama was no worse than Iroh, when you consider the deaths he was responsible for as a wartime general with decades of military service under his belt, nevermind the siege of Ba Sing Se that was nearly two years long. If they both could believably be redeemed--if, as Azula stans so frequently claim, she deserved a redemption arc after everything she went through--then so could Jet and Hama. And the fact that the latter did not get that treatment, but instead were figuratively (and literally, really) left to rot by the narrative, while it could be seen as a consequence of the realities of war, still has unfortunate implications when you consider the way the characters who had ‘appropriate’ responses to trauma left by the war were treated.

#atla #jet #hama #iroh #azula #atla meta #on villains and redemption #asked #Anonymous

246 notes · View notes

fablesrose · 3 years

Text

Broken Earth, Broken Heart

Description: When someone’s heart breaks so does a piece of our world: this creates fissures, valleys, even cracks in the pavement. Let me tell you about the Grand Canyon.

Word Count: 1,285

Pairing: Loki x unnamed female character

Square filled: Angst

Warnings: fluff, ANGST, there is no happy ending here folks, death

A/n: this is for both @girl-next-door-writes Make Me Feel Bingo and for @kitkatd7‘s 600 follower writing challenge! Congrats hon! That prompt will be in bold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some of the most beautiful things in our world come from heartbreak. Every break in the Earth, every crack in the sidewalk where dandelions grow, every canyon you’ve ever seen, every single one of them is the result of a broken heart. Many have wondered what caused them, who’s heart was broken, but there’s one love story that very few know. It’s the most speculated story in existence, and it’s one that will never be forgotten by the Earth.

The Grand Canyon.

Who’s love was strong enough to make a scar that deep?

Many thought it never should have happened. But nevertheless, here we are, with a gaping crack in our world.

It all started with a young woman. She picked flowers. She baked bread. She wore plain clothes. She swept her small cabin in the west where her family had all passed on and the dust swirled in their memory.

She didn’t have many visitors, but that was okay, she had her well for water, chickens for eggs, a garden for food, and frankly, that was all she needed.

It all started with a young prince from far far away, who had lived countless lives, but was still looking for his own. There was the life his family told him he belonged, a life that the rest told him, but somewhere in his heart he knew he had to find out for himself.

He had all her ever needed, all her ever wanted, but for once he didn’t want or need any of it. He needed to get away from the pressure, and what better place to go then a lush dessert, where the only one who spoke to you was the wind.

He walked for miles, not to get anywhere, but simply to walk. It must have been centuries since he had done that. He didn’t even realize he had stumbled upon a small house until he was right at the doorstep. It didn’t seem like anyone was home, but it was obvious it was well cared for. There was a chair in the shade that he sat down upon, figuring he could use a break.

“Can I help you stranger?” The young woman walked from the back side of the house with a bucket of water in her arms.

“Not unless you know where I could find myself.”

She placed the bucket on the ground and sat on a stool nearby, “I’m afraid I don’t, but if you have nowhere to go you can stay here until you do, if you like.”

“I would be delighted.”

This is a story of a god who didn’t know who he was until he found a young woman who knew who she was, and showed him the way.

He helped her with chores and talked in between. He found that the best place to find yourself was to not think. You do. He could lay under the stars and try to figure himself out like a puzzle, but what was more effective was him weeding the garden and fixing the door.

He knew he could do all of this with the wave of his hand, but she didn’t know that. And he found he liked the connection. The dirt on his hand grounded him and the sweat on his brow helped him breathe.

The young woman was used to being alone, but his presence was not unwanted. He helped her everywhere she asked, and she would be lying if she said she didn’t mind the company. In fact she had grown rather fond.

He was a little confused sometimes, but always sincere. She wondered if when he found what he was looking for he would leave, just as mysteriously as he had come.

Little did she know that she was looking for something too.

They both found it in each other.

It happened gradually. First they shared a few jokes and laughs, but then it came to the point where they stood close together in the kitchen, shoulders brushing softly together, neither knowing what the other would say, but hoping it was that they cared.

It led to holding hands which led to a tender kiss in the moonlight. The most precious discoveries come when thought is not involved, and what better to stop thought then a kiss?

The prince was still learning who he was, but he knew he loved her. And he knew he liked who he was with her. And that was enough for him.

The young woman didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew she found it with him.

Neither of them had felt so much before. They had never felt such love.

The prince knew he must go home eventually. To his other worldly place. To announce that he had found himself and he found love. He was the second born, with less then an affect on the throne, but as much as his family had misled him on what he must do, they were well meaning, and he loved them. Though not as much as the young woman.

He explained what he must do and she had faith that he would always come home. For to him this little cabin surrounded by dust had become home.

His family was not as supportive as he would have hoped, but he understood. He was a prince, and her a simple woman in the middle of nowhere. They did tell him that he should live in the way that made him happy, but they all knew with how long they lived it would not be for long.

He knew it was worth it though.

But when he returned. Oh, but when he returned to that rickety cabin in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dust and chickens.

The door was swung nearly off it’s hinges. Some of the chickens were dead, the rest scattered far from where they should be.

Crows circled over head.

In the sun, lying under the sky, was the young woman, hands covered in blood from the wound on her head and her stomach.

The prince ran to her quickly, holding her face in his hands.

She smiled as she focused on his worried and panicked face, “I knew you would come home.”

“Stay awake, you hear me? Don’t you dare close your eyes! Please!”

And she didn’t. Her face was impossibly pale as she stared at the sun, but she didn’t stay awake.

“It’s for the best son.”

The prince turned to see that his father had followed him.

That’s when the reality that she was truly gone fell upon him.

The Earth beneath him started to shake. He wished for it to swallow him up as his heart shattered inside of him. But it didn’t. Instead he watched as the crack in the earth became a ravine that swallowed up the house and the garden that she loved so dearly and the ravine became a canyon farther than the prince’s eyes could see.

They say that if you walk the bottom of the canyon far enough, for long enough, without a thought in your head of where you’re going, you’ll stumble upon a small, rickety cabin, covered in dust. Inside you’ll find a young man, but eyes say he’s older then the canyon itself.

You could ask him a question. He’ll likely answer, but try not to ask about love. Some have tried to ask him what caused the canyon they sat in. He’s only answered once.

“Only the broken heart of a god with no hope, could break the Earth so tragically.”

Best Buds: @snarky--starky @kitkatd7 @confetti-its-an-imagine-blog @kaogasm

Loki: @whatafuckingdumbass

#loki fanfic #Loki Laufeyson #loki #loki x y/n #loki x reader #loki x unnamed female #angst #fluff #major character death #the grand canyon #Girl Next Door's Make Me Feel Bingo #make me feel bingo #kits600challenge

60 notes · View notes

plumoh · 3 years

Text

[SK8] at all times, at all sides

Rating: T

Word count: 7409

Summary: Kaoru is shaped by the choices he makes and the people surrounding him. And through the years, Kojirou was there in one way or another.

Note: AO3 link. This was posted a while after Kaoru’s birthday, as a character study of sorts, birthday by birthday. I make the assumption that in the present day, Kaoru and Kojirou are 27-28 years old.There is a brief mention of alcohol at age 20, and Kaoru is a bit drunk at age 26.

15.

Kaoru gets two additional piercings on his left ear on his fifteenth birthday.

The first one, at what is considered a normal place for an earring in the middle of the earlobe, was done as an impulsive act of brashness to show off to his friends at school at the beginning of the year. He likes the attention. The family name attached to him makes people gasp when they see him with holes in his ear, but he would be lying if he said it didn’t bring him some sort of satisfaction. It’s kind of ridiculous and entirely too stiff an attitude to be offended by some nails stuck into someone else’s skin, as if it changes who he fundamentally is. Besides, piercings are cool.

So Kaoru gets two additional piercings, a helix piercing and another one in the earlobe, and Kojirou whistles.

“You sure your parents won’t cut off your entire ear for that?” he asks, his gaze appraising Kaoru’s new look.

“I’ll live with only one ear, then,” Kaoru answers, shrugging. “What do you think? I look cool, right?”

Kaoru gestures to his ear, grinning and looking at Kojirou expectantly. He knows that he must be acting like a child who got permission to eat a second candy after dinner, but it’s his birthday and he feels he can be excited for what is, essentially, a new approach to his lifestyle. He paid for these piercings with his own pocket money (and money earned through foolish bets and challenges, and he’s thankful that most skaters are stupid).

Kojirou hums, his face pinched in intense concentration. Kaoru rolls his eyes.

“That’s a yes or no question, Kojirou.”

“Let me give you a complete review of your new fashion style, impatient bastard,” Kojirou says.

“I don’t need a complete review! They’re just piercings!”

Kojirou always takes forever when asked to give his opinion on any topic, be it about his younger brother’s latest baseball game or the best suited color for a piece of garment Kaoru’s mother has decided to wear for an important meeting. It’s utterly unnecessary and a waste of time—Kaoru isn’t asking Kojirou to write an essay about his piercings.

“Just answer the question,” Kaoru says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, if you like your piercings so much, maybe show them off more?” Kojirou sighs. “I don’t know, you have more hair than any human being is supposed to have. It hides the piercings.”

Kaoru snorts. “Complain to my mother about that.”

But Kaoru entertains the idea.

16.

Keeping his hair long is a simple matter of preference. There is no rule in his family stating that its members should have a specific length of hair, so why not? Very few boys and men have it this long, and Kojirou always asks him why he bothers taking care of such a useless physical feature when all it does is getting into his way when he skates. Kaoru admits he does have a point, but he likes his hair.

Kaoru is currently tying it into a ponytail, lazily skating on the sidewalk around their neighborhood. Kojirou is skating at his side eating an entire soda flavored Garigari-kun popsicle, shoving it into his mouth and crunching into the ice because he likes having brain freeze.

“Hey, it’s your birthday next week,” Kojirou announces, like it’s the most thrilling event of the week. “Did you plan something? Wanna go explore some new skating areas?”

Kaoru flips his hair over his shoulder and shrugs. Kojirou is looking at him curiously, almost intently, and that makes Kaoru raise an eyebrow.

“Nothing special, but it’s also on the same day as some renown calligrapher from Tokyo visiting our studio. So yeah.”

“All the way from Tokyo? That sounds important.”

“Maybe. I didn’t really pay attention.”

Simply thinking about all the formal procedures that will take place in his house and the fact he will have to be on his “best behavior, please, Kaoru” is pissing him off. He’s not interested in hearing about the works of this supposedly famous and talented calligrapher bestowing upon their modest family his knowledge and wise advice. Kaoru doesn’t even know why he still attends the calligraphy lessons when he’s pretty sure he’ll go into computer science or something. His parents are always on his case about maintaining his posture and improving his strokes every day, and at some point Kaoru started obeying to make their noisy demands stop. He doesn’t genuinely hate the art itself; he simply thinks that his time is better spent elsewhere. What does calligraphy have when computers can do much more fascinating stuff?

Kojirou is nibbling at the popsicle stick, eyeing him with that critical look he often gets when he considers throwing paper balls at Kaoru in class, or when he thinks that Kaoru needs a snack to calm down, like some fucking animal he’s trying to tame—Kaoru hates that somehow, food always works.

“You want to ditch?” Kojirou asks as neutrally as possible, but Kaoru hears the sympathy in his voice. Which is appreciated, but unnecessary.

“No, I was actually thinking of scandalizing my parents by cutting my hair and having it cropped short,” Kaoru says with a half-feral grin. “Like, strands of hair sticking everywhere and impossible to make it look presentable.”

Kojirou almost stumbles on his skateboard, even though it’s a straight line and he wasn’t even pushing with his feet on the concrete.

“What?! But you never shut up about your hair!”

“You fucking liar, I only ever say I like having it long!”

“Yeah, that still makes it stupid! Why would you cut your hair if you like it long?”

“Because hair grows again?”

“Not as fast as you’d think, if you even thought about it before blurting out you want to get a bowl cut.”

“Disheveled and rowdy haircut, not a bowl cut, you idiot!”

They make a turn at the corner of the street, expertly avoiding a kid walking her dog and dodging the woman carrying groceries behind her, not without getting scolded for skating in residential areas (or skating at all) but those are words that go in one ear and exit in the other. Kaoru smiles to himself and kicks into the ground to get more speed, jumps and flips his board in the air before landing on it again with minimal risk of smashing his face in the concrete. He lifts a fist in the air with a whooping cry.

“Oh hey, that was a good one!” he exclaims, giving Kojirou a radiant grin.

“You mastered this trick long ago, why are you so excited?” Kojirou grumbles.

“Because it felt nice, that’s all. Be happy about the small things in life, that’s what you keep saying.”

“Sometimes I feel you’re purposely throwing back my words at my face only when it’s convenient for you.”

“I always listen to you, even if it might come as a surprise.”

Kaoru laughs, spinning his board and continuing on a straight line, ahead of Kojirou. Today’s weather is pleasant and he can’t wait for the end of the school year at the end of the week to go skating all day. It will come with more calligraphy practice, but at least he will have time for his other hobbies too. And if he can’t focus on anything at home, he can still go to Kojirou’s place and bother him all day.

“Then don’t cut your hair!” Kojirou shouts, catching up to him.

The lines on Kojirou’s face are weird, all upset and a bit worried, and that’s not an expression Kaoru is used to see when they’re talking about haircuts, of all things. Maybe when they’re doing their geography homework or when they’ve spent one hour practicing tricks and got more bruises than actual results, but not hair.

“What’s up with you?” Kaoru asks, slowing down. “It’s just my hair. It’s a good prank.”

“You’re going to look like a bird’s nest for at least three months, you okay with that?” Kojirou retorts.

“That’s not the worst thing in existence. And if I recall, you told me last year I should show off my piercings more, so having short hair would effectively do that.”

Kojirou groans and drags a hand across his face, almost looking defeated.

“Just style it in a way that makes your piercings visible, then,” Kojirou adds. “You… have nice hair.”

Kaoru blinks. Kojirou looks straight ahead, his posture stiff, determined not to turn his head in Kaoru’s direction.

“I have nice hair,” Kaoru repeats.

“Yes.”

“You don’t want me to cut my hair because it looks nice?”

“Yes.”

“That might be the most honest compliment you’ve ever said to me.”

“Shut up, I’m never complimenting you ever again!”

Kojirou speeds up, but not before Kaoru catches a glimpse of his reddening ears. The situation is starting to make even less sense, but seeing Kojirou so flustered over nothing is piquing Kaoru’s interest and his lips stretch in a wide grin. Kaoru joins Kojirou in their less-than-recommended skating speed.

“Okay, but you’re being weird!” Kaoru shouts over the sound of their wheels scratching against the ground. “Was that an offer to style my hair?”

“I’m not talking to you,” Kojirou mutters.

“You’re the one who suggested it, you can’t drop the topic!”

It’s almost comical to see two teenagers loudly arguing about a pointless subject while skateboarding and avoiding any obstacles they come across, as if being on a board is the same as walking. Passersby shoot them quizzical looks and a lot of adults are clearly not approving their noise level.

They end up skating all the way to the playground near the elementary school of the neighborhood, where a few kids are playing while their parents are watching over them. There is a skating park farther away, but people are already using it and Kaoru doesn’t like skating with people not part of their crew unless he’s looking for a fight. So they keep skating around, at a lower speed because colliding with children won’t exactly look good on either of them.

“Fine, keep being stubborn, you asshole,” Kaoru grumbles. “I’ll get another piercing.”

Kojirou finally jerks his head towards Kaoru, his expression a lot less constipated and more curious. “On such a short notice?”

“I’ll find a way. And even if I can’t get it done before my birthday, it will still be infuriating for my parents.”

Kaoru taps at his lower lip, not missing the way Kojirou’s eyes follow the movement with rapt attention.

“I wanted to get a lip ring, anyway,” he says.

There is something simply enthralling in a lip ring—the light catches on it, and people are immediately in admiration when they see it. Not everyone has the guts to get one, after all.

Kojirou slowly nods, tearing his gaze away from Kaoru’s face.

“If you want,” he says. “I don’t see any problem with that.”

“You’re so weird today.” Kaoru rolls his eyes.

“You’re the weird one, obsessed with piercings.”

“You just wish you could be as cool as me. Race you to my home!”

“Damn it Kaoru, stop cheating!”

Kaoru ignores Kojirou and launches himself at full speed to make his skateboard pivot and turn around, going back from the way they came. Kojirou is still yelling at him.

Kaoru doesn’t manage to get his lip pierced before his birthday, but he does sweep the left side of his hair behind his head and keep it in place with a hair clamp, leaving his earrings in plain sight. To the calligrapher’s credit, upon seeing who the supposed Sakurayashiki heir is, he makes only the vaguest noise of shock before getting into business. Kaoru smiles all throughout the visit.

17.

Kaoru’s seventeenth birthday remains one of the most special days of his life.

He got gifts, snacks and high-fives from various people whom he cares more or less about (the crew bought a cake but Kaoru only got a thin slice of it because they are greedy bastards), while Kojirou bought him a book on AI that was way too expensive even if he has a part-time job salary (Kaoru wrestled him to the ground when he recognized the book).

Adam takes them skating in a place they’ve never explored before.

It’s beautiful. Exciting, captivating and alluring, making them use all their senses to turn at the right time, to ride down a hill without losing control, and to feel the full path reverberated through their bodies in shock waves. Skateboarding is fun, but this is on another level entirely—it’s like sliding on the edge of a cliff, giving heart palpitations but also an intoxicating feeling of a game that needs to be beaten, whose ending is all worth these efforts.

The three of them are skating as if wings sprouted on their back, uncaring of the world outside of their little bubble of thrills. Kaoru watches in fascination as Adam seems to fly across the track, smooth in his skating and unconcerned with the bumpy road. The wind seems to be an inconsequential factor in his descent in the slope, moving along with it and never straying far from the road. It’s subjugating, it’s beautiful, it’s freedom.

“Watch where you’re skating, idiot!” Kojirou yells right next to him, startling Kaoru out of his reverie.

Kaoru crouches low and makes a sharp turn, avoiding a rock that would have sent him sprawling. He straightens and keeps going at a controlled pace, glaring at Kojirou.

“I know what I’m doing!” he grunts.

“You almost smacked that wall with your face,” Kojirou points out with a glare of his own. “Stop getting distracted.”

“I’m not distracted,” Kaoru snaps back automatically.

But the look Kojirou is giving him is indescribable, so foreign on his face and even more so as it is directed at Kaoru. There is something brewing in the air and Kaoru doesn’t like it, doesn’t want a chasm opening between them because of a stupid argument, but he doesn’t even know what made Kojirou so irritable in the first place.

Adam is waiting for them at the end of the path, watching them arriving at a sullen pace with a raised eyebrow. Kaoru stops right in front of him and plasters a smile on his face, much more eager to talk about they’ve come here for.

“That’s an amazing place! Skating here is so fun, we can make a challenge out of a lot of things in this mountain.”

“Yes, the turns are different and there are many slopes that we need to be careful of,” Adam agrees, smiling. “I truly believe we can accomplish a lot, if we do it together. I want to create a special race here for skaters to push their limits.”

Adam looks at Kaoru, then at Kojirou—the glint of mischief and of confidence reflected in his eyes is the same as the one that pulls everyone in his orbit, making them give their all to become the best. It’s a look that Kaoru feels inextricably drawn to, enamored with the unbridled possibilities he imagines behind words that promise a paradise of freedom grander than anything they’ve ever known.

“You both have skills that will be useful to establish this race,” Adam continues. “People are following you and your skating is among the best. I said before that you guys were special, and I mean it.”

Kaoru does not preen, but the shivers that course through his body as Adam opens his heart are ones that feel pleasant, almost addictive. His grin splits his face in two.

“You can count on us, we’re going to create the best skating race in existence,” Kaoru assures. “Right, Kojirou?”

“Yeah, of course!”

Kojirou’s earnest tone is almost a relief—he’s clearly as excited about this race as them, and Kaoru would have been seriously worried if that wasn’t the case.

For the first time, the joyous expression on Adam’s face seems to be born out of sincerity plucked from the deepest corner of his heart. It suits him; it makes him look even more radiant than usual. Kaoru can’t look away.

“It’s decided, then,” Adam says. “The three of us, inaugurating the “S” race. Together.”

On that day, when Kaoru turned seventeen and his mind was filled with nothing but skateboarding, he thought that this is what belonging felt like.

18.

Sitting perfectly straight, legs tucked under him, Kaoru picks up a brush, dips it into ink he has carefully ground, presses it against the sheet of paper and splashes black trails all over it. The ink drips outside of the frame and stains the tatami floor of the study he hasn’t bothered to protect, littering everything in dark, angry marks that resemble the work of a child throwing a tantrum.

There is no word, no poem written on his paper. Half of the inkstick is grossly used up, its tip almost falling apart, like it wasn’t deemed worthy of being respected as one of the treasures of calligraphy. Kaoru is filling the paper with nothing but emptiness.

It’s not even rage moving his arm like a possessed demon. It would have been easier to deal with, if it was rage; handling it requires minimal effort, as he can mindlessly let his heart wreak havoc upon anything his hands come into contact with, or he can scream all the grievances he’s bottled up to clear the space occupied by unpleasant thoughts. Rage is physical, in and out, and Kaoru’s had years of practice getting rid of it.

But this is not rage that nudges him in the direction of destroying a perfectly good piece of paper with expensive ink and an even more expensive brush, tarnishing their quality and the noble use they are destined to. It’s cold and quiet resignation, trapping him in his own mind as he lets himself be selfish one last time and act out in childish anger.

Kaoru’s eighteenth birthday is spent alone, grieving his dream of ever cutting ties with family traditions. He hasn’t touched a skateboard in months and he hasn’t tinkered with his AI program in even longer. There was no point anyway—Kojirou has other things to focus on, and Adam left.

Kaoru was a fool to think he was strong and resolute enough to follow a path that is not written with the same deep ink as the one he’s used all his life.

20.

“You can legally drink now, congrats.”

“Great. I can sip my alcohol in the presence of guests and pretend I’m enjoying their company when all I want is getting drunk.”

“That’s not very professional, soon-to-be Sakurayashiki-sensei.”

“You’re one to talk, I bet you’re consuming way too many beers at those parties. Has gaining muscle mass made you lose brain cells?”

“Hey, you four-eyes, that was uncalled for!”

There is something moving behind Kojirou, a door opening and someone poking his head inside, and Kojirou turns his head to rattle off a few words in Italian before facing the camera again. Chin resting in his palm, Kaoru is watching with a raised eyebrow Kojirou’s roommate rummage through Kojirou’s dressing, before retreating back into the corridor.

“Does he make a habit to walk around your shared apartment half-naked?” Kaoru asks.

Kojirou laughs, waving his hand. “He was looking for a clean shirt, he forgot to do laundry yesterday. I told him he could borrow one of mine.”

“I’m surprised you still find shirts your size with the way your body’s taking the shape of a gorilla’s.”

“Just admit you’re jealous of my perfect muscles.”

Kojirou makes a show of flexing his bicep and Kaoru snorts.

“Yeah, I’m so jealous of that gorilla body that is unnecessarily big.” Kaoru deadpans.

“Believe it or not, it makes skating a lot more fun too,” Kojirou adds with a smile. “More power in the legs to do tricks.”

Kojirou looks...satisfied with the direction his life is taking. Kaoru is happy for him—studying abroad in culinary school and discovering a whole new culture seems to be the change of pace Kojirou needed. Sometimes Kaoru wishes he could also skate in the places full of pipes and curvy roads that Kojirou shows him, but he has to make do with the familiar tracks he’s skated on all his life.

“I upgraded Carla to calculate distances faster and to automatically record what she sees,” Kaoru says with a hint of smugness.

“Your AI having a girl’s name will never stop being weird,” Kojirou groans. “Why haven’t you chosen something normal like “Ghost Voice” or “Robotico”?”

“An AI is not a robot.” Kaoru pinches the bridge of his nose, already tired of having to repeat this for the umpteenth time. “Your Roomba is a robot. Carla recognizes many more things than the shape of your apartment.”

“Then program Carla to clean my apartment too.”

“Carla isn’t a vacuum cleaner, you dimwit!”

“That’s a big shame, maybe you should also create an AI cooking for you!”

Kaoru opens his mouth to reply something scathing, then snaps it shut. On the screen, Kojirou frowns.

“Don’t,” Kojirou warns.

“We have enough resources and data to program an AI that creates recipes from a list of ingredients,” Kaoru says anyway. “If we implement it into a robot, with the correct code and careful adjustments, then maybe it will be a decent cook.”

“If you start making a cook AI I don’t want to heart about it,” Kojirou mutters.

Kaoru rolls his eyes. “Do you think I have enough hours in a day to focus on another project? Carla already requires my full attention.”

There is no need for him to say that calligraphy practice is what he does most of the day, if he’s not attending courses on speech or on business. It’s his life now; he chose to become the next Sakurayashiki calligrapher and he can’t back down now. Not that he’s ever fully considered leaving calligraphy behind for one of his better, more interesting hobbies—and this was exactly the problem. He never untied his hands from the string tethering him to a brush.

“You always want to work on something, so I’m expecting anything from you when you’re bored,” Kojirou says with a smirk.

“Maybe my next project will make gorillas like you shut up.”

Kaoru is twenty years old, discovering every day new aspects of himself in a professional environment, but one thing that never changes is the comfort of simply existing as himself when he talks to Kojirou.

22.

Kaoru spends a couple of years simmering in feelings he doesn’t acknowledge.

He isn’t someone who takes the time to reflect on his own feelings, negative or positive. They simply happen and he decides on whether to act on them—which has been true since he was a child, throwing tantrums when he didn’t like the task he was asked to do, kicking someone he didn’t agree with as a teenager, and deflecting when answering journalists’ questions that would force him to look deep into his heart. He lives in the moment and tries very hard not to burden himself with useless thoughts and regrets he can’t act upon.

He doesn’t dwell more than necessary on his choice to inherit the family calligraphy studio, because it will lead to nothing productive. He has perhaps harbored ill feelings towards calligraphy in the past, but they’re not so visceral he can’t execute the job he’s been trained for since he could hold a brush. Sometimes he thinks he could have rejected everything he’s been taught and disappoint his family for the rest of his life, but he immediately chases the thought away and decides that suffering through a successful career of calligrapher appears to be a small sacrifice compared to the headaches that would have come with removing himself from the Sakurayashiki studio.

He’s a full grown adult, by society’s standards. He shed his sweaters for yukatas and took off his piercings with reluctance, feeling like he ripped off a part of himself that’s been with him forever to fit into a mold he’s accepted as his new normal. Those were remnants of his old, carefree life that he abandoned, and it’d be preposterous to wish for things to have gone differently.

At least he has his AI—a new spin to a traditional art that is resistant to change. Carla is efficient, impressive and shocks people into admiration; Kaoru has upgraded and improved the code as many times as it required, making her compatible with every device in his possession so that she could accompany him in all his tasks. Skating became a game of precision, detail and finesse, aiming for perfection beyond what the average mind would think of. Calligraphy is enhanced and magnified, the digital aspect adding beauty in an art that is almost exclusively done by hand. Incorporating technology in his otherwise boring job undoubtedly made his days easier and more fun.

Kaoru isn’t dissatisfied. He can do better, but he could have done worse. However, if there is one thing that makes him antsy it’s the realization that he’s seeing less of Kojirou with each passing day, and he would have never thought it would leave a growing ache in his chest every time he thinks about it.

They have their own lives to live. It’s part of growing up—and he hasn’t completely lost his best friend yet.

25.

They have been wandering the streets of Paris for exactly ten minutes and Kaoru is already starting to regret his decision.

“It’s not that hard to read a map,” he seethes, trying to grab Kojirou’s phone.

Kojirou lifts the device higher and turns his back on Kaoru, stubbornly keeping his eyes riveted on the screen.

“I’ve got this, stop distracting me,” Kojirou says.

“The metro station is right there, let’s just change itinerary, stupid gorilla!”

“You want to take the metro when we could explore the city on foot?”

“The probability of getting shitted on by pigeons is way too high for my liking.”

This gets an undignified snort from Kojirou, more amused than mocking though Kaoru knows not to assume when every one of his words can be thrown back at his face later on.

They do end up taking the metro. They can go anywhere in Paris by bus or metro, making it extremely convenient to find their way but it gets overwhelming really fast—the metro lines seem to be full of people at all hours of the day, according to Kaoru’s extensive research before their trip, and they are nothing like the monorail they have back in Okinawa. Most passengers are focused on their phones, while others are taking a quick nap, which is not that different from what they’re used to.

“It can’t be worse than the Tokyo rail lines,” Kaoru mutters as they’re being shaken by the train doing a particularly sharp and violent turn.

“You’ve never been to Tokyo,” Kojirou replies with a raised eyebrow.

“I did last year for a meeting.”

“And that single trip was enough for you to get the full experience of the infamous rush of Tokyo’s Yamanote line?”

“I wasn’t saying I used the Yamanote line, imbecile. All trains are crowded. I think you wouldn’t have been able to squeeze in with your gorilla body.”

“At least I’m not at risk of going blind when someone knocks off my glasses by pushing me around in a crowd!”

“I always carry a second pair of glasses with me to avoid this kind of incident!”

It’s probably a good thing that this line of metro makes the same level of noise as a tractor revved up at full power, because their arguing is by no means quiet and people are starting to stare at them. But as soon as Kaoru glances at them, they avert their eyes and pretend they weren’t gawking. Typical.

March weather is terrible. Their trip lasts one week, and there is an equal number of sunny days and of cloudy days, with high probability of rain. It shouldn’t be normal to have a changing weather so unpredictable that it makes planning for their day a real pain in the ass. Kojirou is already complaining about the sun beginning to leave space for clouds at merely eleven in the morning, and Kaoru silently agrees with the sentiment.

The food is good, at least.

“Reminds me a bit of what restaurants looked like in Italy,” Kojirou says around a mouthful of beef. “Maybe I can draw inspiration from those recipes.”

“It’s not Italian cuisine,” Kaoru points out. “Unless you intend to make a mixed menu.”

“Of course not, but the flavors can be useful.”

Kojirou is examining his piece of vegetable like a scientist observing an experiment under a microscope, as if it could give him the secrets of its cooking time or the spices used for it. Kaoru lightly kicks him under the table, and Kojirou hisses.

“Stop being weird and eat your food.”

“Do you really have to hit me every time you want to make a point?”

“I’m not hitting that hard.”

The other way around is more likely to happen; Kaoru won’t ever admit it but he doubts that Kojirou feels more pain than Kaoru does when he hits him. Those muscles are ridiculous and entirely unnecessary, honestly.

They take pictures at the landmarks and get mad at the long lines and narrow their eyes at the price of various food and drinks they stumble upon. They’re not short on money, but drinking a cup of café au lait at twice the price of what they can find in regular coffee shops doesn’t leave a good taste in their mouth. Kojirou uses the knowledge from his time in Italy to make educated guesses on whether they’re paying something at an unreasonable price or not—he looks a bit too smug doing so but Kaoru lets it slide for once and allows him to play the role of the brain for this specific aspect of their trip. Kaoru can at least trust Kojirou’s judgment when money is concerned (even if his intuition can be skewed sometimes).

“It’s only because it’s your birthday trip that I’m putting up with your need to visit museums,” Kojirou says, waving at the multiple pamphlets they gathered after three days of sightseeing.

“Having some culture ingrained in your mind is nothing but beneficial for you,” Kaoru retorts evenly.

Kojirou rolls his eyes, clearly not interested in that conversation, and gets up from his bed of their hotel room. It’s past midnight but they’re still wide awake. Sharing one room would be awkward or embarrassing for a lot of people, but Kaoru has known Kojirou half his life and it would be ridiculous to feel self-conscious now, when they’ve seen each other in various states of undress and wakefulness. Perhaps the only complaint Kaoru will voice that he didn’t have when he was thirteen is that the older Kojirou gets, the louder his snoring is (as if the noise level grows with the wideness of his body).

“Hey, Kaoru.”

Kaoru looks up from tomorrow’s schedule displayed on his phone to come face to face with a giant box of pastries and Kojirou’s bright grin. Kojirou is holding the box one-handed, slightly bent forward, like he would a tray to present his dish to his most loyal customers.

“Happy birthday, four-eyes,” Kojirou says on a light tone.

“Must you call me names when you’re wishing me happy birthday?” Kaoru scoffs, but he eyes the pastries with unconcealed interest.

They went to a bakery in the afternoon for a snack, buying a croissant, a pain au chocolat and a pain aux raisins because they apparently lack self control when it comes to cheap baked goods—but for some reason Kaoru missed the moment Kojirou acquired this box of pastries.

“It’s past midnight,” Kaoru reminds him.

Kojirou shrugs. “We’re grown adults and on holiday, I don’t think it’s much of a problem.”

“There are six different pastries in this box.”

“Nobody’s saying we should eat all of them right now, moron. Save some of them for tomorrow.”

They end up eating three pasties, one half each, while arguing about the pros and cons of buying smaller portions of different sweets over getting an entire cake for a birthday, as well as the point of starting celebrating said birthday at midnight instead of simply waiting for morning. They’ve had these conversations before, at Kaoru’s or Kojirou’s birthday over the years, but it seems they never grow sick of repeating the same arguments even when the topic is stupid.

It’s like a well-oiled machine; pushing on one button always leads to the same result. Kaoru and Kojirou argue because this is what they’re used to do, a response at their lips even before they hear the end of the other’s sentence. What comes out of their mouths takes the shape of banter but Kaoru, even though he usually ignores it, notices how at ease he is in these moments.

Kojirou invited him for this trip even if he didn’t have to, and bought pastries to share at midnight like they’re holding a small party. His face is illuminated by his generosity and his big heart that finds a way to carve itself in his eyes.

“Let’s go skating tomorrow afternoon, it will be fun,” Kojirou suggests, mischief and plain desire to have fun glimmering in his gaze.

And Kaoru can’t say no.

They brought their boards, like they did when they traveled to Los Angeles. It might sound like a waste of space in their luggage, but nobody has a say in what they consider fun. Kaoru had to change Carla’s battery for her to fall under airport regulation, which was a hassle on short notice (Kojirou dropped a plane ticket on Kaoru’s lap a week before departure, and Kaoru shoved back money at him but it somehow ended back in his hands after a few minutes of jostling) but definitely worth it, because there’s no way he will skate with a lower quality board.

On March 27th, when Kaoru turns twenty-five years old, he almost resorts to a more physical solution to win petty squabbles against skaters in another country, a behavior he was prone to display when he was seventeen. But he’s an adult who is traveling for leisure and isn’t foolish enough to ruin the trip by punching someone when he can skate away and show off with a few tricks involving exact calculations and perfect angles, so this is what he does—after Kojirou, admittedly, forced him to remain calm, as though he was his impulse control when Kojirou is just as quick to rise to a challenge.

Maybe the difference is that Kojirou isn’t a cocky bastard like Kaoru is. Debatable, but Kaoru won’t deny that he loves the feeling of achieving something flashy or impressive. Getting into trouble for it is always worth it, especially if Kojirou is there to live it with him. It’s never the same without Kojirou—they might bicker and have more arguments then actual conversations, but Kojirou’s a warm presence enveloping him in a tight hug he can never quite shake off.

The trip to Paris isn’t half-bad, and it’s full of memories with the person he trusts the most.

26.

Kojirou is very, very still when Kaoru finally stops fighting with himself and leans his head on his shoulder, completely wasted after drinking too much wine at this event gathering too many important people to talk to and drink with. The taxi is silent and all he can hear is the screech of the wheels on the asphalt.

“Rest until we reach your home,” Kojirou says, something akin to laughter in his voice.

“Hm.”

Kaoru registers the words coming out of Kojirou’s mouth, and judges them acceptable before closing his eyes and letting himself be rocked by the car drive. In his drunken haze, when he called Kojirou to be picked up, he forgot Kojirou lent his car to his little brother; remembering such an essential detail would have saved them a lot of trouble, but Kojirou called a taxi and is now sitting with Kaoru in the backseat instead of going back to his own home. What an idiot.

Kojirou helps him into his apartment, grumbling as his elbows hit the walls and his feet get caught in stray shoes in the genkan that Kaoru eventually wanted to sort out and put away. They manage to get to the couch, and Kaoru collapses on it without grace and lets out a long groan, draping an arm over his eyes.

“I’m not drinking at this sort of event again,” he complains.

“That’s your fault for not limiting yourself,” Kojirou sounds unimpressed. “You always say you’ll stop drinking but you keep doing it.”

“Half a glass with each guest is customary. Beyond that is called showing off.”

“So you’re showing off, stupid four-eyes.”

“Shut up, gorilla. I have something to prove.”

Kojirou’s sigh is filled with such apparent exasperation that Kaoru immediately realizes how petty and ridiculous he just sounded.

“On the day of your birthday, to top it all,” Kojirou says. “Do you need babysitting?”

“You are not going to babysit me,” Kaoru snaps. “I’ll just go to sleep.”

“Yeah, and you’ll start bitching tomorrow morning because you forgot to drink water and take a shower.”

“I’m not that incompetent, you giant brainless idiot.”

Kojirou doesn’t deign responding to his insult and slides behind the kitchen counter. Kaoru drops his arm and watches him rummaging through the cabinets with too much confidence for someone who doesn’t live there. Kojirou comes back with a glass of water and two slices of bread that Kaoru usually eats in the morning when he’s too lazy to make breakfast.

“You probably didn’t eat much, since your robophile brain was wired on ingesting wine.”

“I just said I don’t need your help,” Kaoru mutters.

Kojirou ignores him and deposits the items on the coffee table. He then sits down next to Kaoru, causing Kaoru to shift further on his side of the couch because of his needlessly big body.

“Do you have to sit so close to me?” Kaoru grumbles, leaning forward to snatch the water and the bread, pretending that his world didn’t start spinning as he did so. He takes a few sips of the water.

“Your couch isn’t large enough.”

“It’s your body that’s not average size, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re suspiciously coherent for someone who says he’s drunk.”

Kaoru shrugs, foregoing manners as he speaks and munches on the bread at the same time. “My mind is clear, my thoughts aren’t confused in the least.”

“Right. What time is it?”

Kaoru looks at the time displayed on his TV box, sitting on the stand pushed against the opposite wall of where they’re sitting. He squints at the numbers, slightly blurry despite his glasses still resting on his nose. He has no idea what time it is.

“Eleven forty-seven,” Kaoru announces.

“No, it’s twelve forty-seven,” Kojirou snickers. “Finish that, take a shower and go to bed.”

“And you’re going to stay here and take up space in my apartment?”

“Well, if your event hadn’t run for so long, I would have spent some time with you anyway since it’s your birthday. So I might as well stay until you fall asleep.”

Several things get jumbled in his head at that moment, and Kaoru stares at Kojirou in disbelief. There’s something funny and warm happening in the pit of his stomach.

“You have nothing else to do,” Kaoru asks, or accuses—he doesn’t know how his voice comes across.

“Just go to sleep, Kaoru.”

Kojirou takes the empty glass from Kaoru’s hands and puts it on the table. He then tugs Kaoru upright, holding his wrists in a gentle and careful grip, as if Kaoru will break if he’s not handled in the most delicate manner. Half of the second slice of bread is lying abandoned in the plate, but Kaoru doesn’t particularly mind as he realizes, with strange clarity, that this isn’t unpleasant to be taken care of like this. Kojirou is smiling at him with his most genuine expression, and Kaoru has to look down to avoid his gaze, embarrassed and fulfilled and relieved all at once.

28.

It’s been a long time coming, Kaoru thinks as his fingers tangle in Kojirou’s hair and he brings him closer, always closer to him. The night is warm and too uncomfortable for a spring day, but the heat twisting his stomach is from something entirely separate. His lips meet Kojirou’s endlessly, like this act alone will make him absorb whatever Kojirou is willing to give to him for safekeeping. It’s the first time they’re kissing and yet it feels like they should have been doing this for years now, hiding under the shade of a tree or behind a rocky wall to share a private moment together, in a pocket of time that will burst only when they decide to drop all pretenses.

He knows it’s been a long time coming, because Kojirou is laughing against his lips, and when Kaoru cracks an eye open he sees how open and fond Kojirou’s face is. Kaoru immediately wants to close his eyes again and to stop noticing how luminous everything has become.

“We’re so dumb,” Kojirou says.

“You are stupid, for holding back all those years,” Kaoru retorts.

“Yeah, now it’s my fault for being considerate of your feelings towards me.”

“If you believed for one instant that I’d cut ties with you, then you’re more foolish than I thought you were.”

Kojirou still has hi arms wound around Kaoru’s back, and when he shrugs he presses Kaoru closer to himself. There is no anger and no regret in his eyes or his posture, as though nothing in the world would strip him of the bliss he’s currently being filled with. Kaoru finds himself drunk on the sight.

“I didn’t think that, no. I was just too scared of doing anything that will cause a shift in our relationship.”

The words sound strange, once Kaoru hears them spoken out loud. Kojirou is the one constant in his life that never changed, a shadow at his back and a light guiding him. They’ve both seen each other at their worst and their best, tending to bruises and squeezing a shoulder in comfort or riling each other up as part of their routine. Kojirou is an entity that exists at Karou’s side, full of familiarity and overflowing with kindness that doesn’t need to be voiced.

Kojirou is stupid for ever having hesitated or doubted the strength of their bond. But Kaoru is stupid, too, for simply taking what Kojirou was offering without ever giving back properly.

“We’re never having this conversation again,” Kaoru warns, tugging at Kojirou’s hair and pressing his forehead against his. “I trust you, Kojirou. I always have. This isn’t going to change.”

Kojirou is clinging to every one of his words, looking at Kaoru with the most enraptured expression he’s ever shown. Like this is a dream that cannot be real. Kaoru scowls.

“Don’t look so surprised, gorilla. That’s not a secret.”

“I’m not surprised, I’m simply enjoying that you’re saying it at all,” Kojirou laughs.

“You never say anything pleasant about me either.”

“You’re the one who barges into my restaurant and half the time demand dishes that aren’t even on the menu, and I still cook them! I’m being nice enough!”

“What else would you do in a restaurant, muscles for brain ape?”

“I don’t know, cook a dish I have the actual ingredients for?”

Kaoru’s lips are pulled upward despite everything, his heart as light as ever in Kojirou’s presence. The ease surrounding them remains the same, electric veil sealing them in their own brand of intimacy they wouldn’t trade for anything else.

It feels effortless, then, to switch to a less barbed attitude but still retaining playfulness. Kaoru brushes strands of hair out of Kojirou’s face, and Kojirou runs a thumb under Kaoru’s eye.

“It’s my birthday at the end of the week,” Kaoru whispers, locking eyes with Kojirou. “Take me somewhere nice.”

“Bossy as ever,” Kojirou sighs, though his voice sounds like contentment and bliss contained in a space called home.

Kaoru smiles.

#matchablossom #joecherry #matcha blossom #kaoru sakurayashiki #kojiro nanjo #sk8 #sk8 the infinity #kaoru is like 'i know i have feelings but i'm making the decision of not seeing them'#i'm fascinated by his change from punk high schooler to stoic adult #i also have more thoughts about kaoru+calligraphy relationship that i'll eventually write down #when i have the time o(-(

23 notes · View notes

mrslittletall · 3 years

Note

Whump prompt: "I am fine"

With Oscar and Solaire.

More than a wound or an injury, how about it being about psychological angst :D?

Title: Guilt Fandom: Dark Souls Characters: Oscar of Astora & Solaire of Astora Word Count: 1.854 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30487920

Summary: Solaire and Oscar reflect on the death of the fire keeper after they returned from Blighttown.

(Author's note: The moment I saw the prompt, I knew that I had to use the Amor Fati versions, a fantastic, but angsty Oscar and Solaire centric fic. It is my own interpretation of a certain scene and clearly not canon to it. Please enjoy.)

Oscar sat in Fire Link Shrine, staring at the bonfire, or what remained from it. The truth was, nothing remained. It had been snuffed out. It was different from the destroyed bonfire in the Asylum however, because nobody had removed the coiled sword of it.

Instead, the reason for the absence of the bonfire laid in a cell below the stairs. Oscar's eyes briefly wandered to the place where the Crestfallen Warrior had once sat. He probably would have a snarky comment for the whole situation, asshole as he was.

Oscar got up and approached the stairs. Solaire still hadn't come back. As soon as the both of them had discovered the dead body of the fire keeper, they had found their culprit right away. Who else could it have been, but Lautrec? The knight of Carim had been a thorn in their side for far too long, spewing his poison wherever he could. Oscar had tolerated him far too long and he barely understood how Solaire had been able to stand being around him in the time Oscar had been stuck in a dark and very empty place, unable to be reborn by the bonfire.

They couldn't hunt Lautrec down however. They had returned from Blighttown and the journey left their bodies beaten and their Estus Flasks empty. With no bonfire to refill them, they first had to track down another and none of them was in the physical or mental state to brave the dangers of Lordran once more. So for the time being, they were stuck at Fire Link Shrine.

As Oscar reached the end of the stairs, he remembered that Lautrec had often sat down here. His eyes on the fire keeper. In hindsight, it had been obvious. How they hadn't seen it coming... they maybe had thought that not even someone as vile as Lautrec would commit the sin and kill a fire keeper. Especially because he was a knight of Carim, who would protect his maiden his whole life.

Thinking about Lautrec only made Oscar's wounds sting and give him a bad taste on his mouth, so he rather approached Solaire, who sat in front of the cell with a vacant stare. He must have sat there for hours now. They were undead and didn't need food or sleep, but Oscar himself knew how damaging it was to just be left alone with his thoughts. He knew it very well.

Deep inside he feared that Solaire might have gone hollow.

“Solaire?”, Oscar said, slowly approaching his friend. “You have sat here for hours, my friend.” Oscar paused for a bit, his worry deepening when Solaire didn't answer right away. “...Are you feeling alright?”

“I am fine.”

Solaire's answer came much more immediate than Oscar had anticipated. Too immediate. Oscar had the feeling that Solaire very much was... not fine. It was normal for Solaire. He always would downplay how he felt. He would always put others over himself. As long as he could help people, he felt fine. Oscar knew that he did it mainly to hide his own deep insecurities.

Insecurities I have been a part of causing.

Oscar was an elite knight, Solaire never had been a part of his group. Oscar had gotten his title mostly from social status and family name, but he hadn't been able to do anything when all his brethren had fallen in battle. He had never participated in their cruel jests with Solaire, but he had been indifferent about him as well. If only he could have been Solaire's friend sooner. He hated that he had lost most of his memories, but he hated the man he once was much more.

Who does say that you changed in the meantime?

Oscar shook his head at himself. He needed to stop these hurtful thoughts. This wasn't about him. Solaire needed him right now. Both of them were far closer to hollowing than they wanted, with Oscar even being stuck in a state of half hollowing, so that he never removed his helmet and preferred not to speak to others.

“You don't seem to be fine.”, Oscar said, sitting down next to Solaire.

“I am fine.”, Solaire just repeated, barely acknowledging Oscar's presence.

Oscar thought about his next words. What would be the sensible thing to say? What would Solaire feel at the moment? Guilt maybe? It felt like Solaire might blame himself for having let Lautrec go away, for not killing him, so that he would have hollowed down in the swamp.

“It wasn't your fault.”, Oscar said. “Neither of us could know that he would do it.”

“I did.”

Oscar's eyes widened at the response. Was there something he didn't knew? Should he poke about the issue a bit farther?

“Solaire?”, he asked, deciding to let the other knight take the initiative.

“Oscar...”, Solaire said. “There are things I haven't told you about.”

Oscar held his breath, waiting for Solaire to continue. Solaire surely was talking about the time in which Oscar had been “dead”, to him at least.

“It would warp your perspective of me.”, Solaire finally spoke, after Oscar finally released his breath.

Oscar used his next breath to reply: “Nothing you did could ever make me think lesser of you.”

Solaire had done so much for him, without him, Oscar had long gone hollow. Solaire had been nothing but a joy in his sorry existence as an Undead, he had been his precious friend. As far as Oscar knew, Solaire probably did blame himself for Oscar's death still, because he had insisted on helpin the woman that had lured both of them into the trap that had cost Oscar's life.

Solaire finally looked at Oscar, his blue eyes seemingly staring right through him. “Are you sure about this?”, he said dryly, as if he already had made up his mind about how Oscar would react.

“Yes, I am sure.”, Oscar replied. “Whatever happened down there, Solaire, you can tell me. I promise I won't think less of you.”

A deep sigh escaped Solaire's lips and he started to tell the story. Once he had left Lautrec to die in the swamp (Oscar felt that he still regretted not having killed Lautrec back then), he had found a cave in which a woman with a giant spider for a body had resided. She had attacked him and Solaire had come out victorious from this battle. Then, he found a sunlight medal on a wall. Upon trying to take it, a secret corridor had appeared and..

“The knight of thorns was there.”, Solaire said, nothing but tiredness in his voice, “I saw him and... I saw red. I could only think about, that he was responsible for your death, Oscar. That was all... all I could think about. I didn't simply fight him, I made sure to inflict as much pain as possible on him...”

“Solaire...”, Oscar didn't manage to say more than his friend's name before Solaire continued.

“There was this... woman there... blind, sick, broken. She spoke to me and thought that I was her sister. She was... very important to the knight of thorns...”

Oscar felt like he wanted to hold his breath again, having a bad feeling about where this story was going.

“He took away what was most precious for me right in front of my eyes, so I... I was raising my sword and was about to do the same to him... I... I only snapped out of it, because... because she told me... or more her sister that she thought was me, that she would happily die for her. I.. I couldn't go through with it. This had all been so wrong and then...”

Solaire took another deep breath and then the rest of the words just poured out of him.

“It was Lautrec who killed her, but it could have been me. I almost did it. All because I wanted to inflict pain on the knight of thorns. All because I wanted vengeance for you, Oscar.”

Solaire was actively sobbing now, burying his face in his hands. Oscar could only imagine the pain Solaire had been in. He asked himself how he had reacted would it have been Solaire that had died and not him. How he would have reacted if Solaired had never been reborn from the bonfire.

At the same time, Oscar felt a deep and dark shame bubble up in himself.

“I turned into nothing but a monster!”, Solaire cried out. “And the moment I should have been one, the moment I decided to let Lautrec live, I took the life of two innocent women. That makes me into an even worse monster!”

Oscar flinched upon hearing Solaire talk so ill of himself. He knew that Solaire wasn't... like this. Solaire was compassionate, far too compassionate. It was his compassion that had made him hesitate to kill Lautrec. Lautrec's actions weren't Solaire's fault. If anyone was at fault, it was..

“No, you are not at fault, Solaire.”, Oscar said, grabbing the hands of the sunlight warrior and removing them from his face, staring into his swollen and teary eyes. “When anyone was at fault, it was me. I was trapped in the darkness, that is why I couldn't be reborn, but I didn't make an effort. It was nice, warm, calm and someone was there to keep me company.”

A friend? Did he see the Chosen Undead as a friend? Probably not anymore after the shit they had pulled, but it couldn't be denied they had a history with each other.

“They showed me a world of... peace and serenity. A world in which I didn't had to care about anything in the world. I was so close to just... give in and stay there forever. It was the thought about you, my friend, that made me snap out of it. I knew that you were waiting for me, Solaire, that is why I could return.”

Oscar started into Solaire's face, saw his trembling lip and the unspoken words between them. Instead of saying anything, Oscar simply gave Solaire a tight hug.

“I am sorry, Oscar...”, Solaire sniffled after a while. “I appear to be... not fine after all.”

“I think... neither of us is.”, Oscar said. Or ever has been., he thought. “It's alright, we can figure this out. We have each other after all... we can always figure something out.”

“You don't think less of me?”, Solaire said, his voice hoarse and broken.

“How could I?”, Oscar asked. “You are not responsible for Lautrec's crimes and I promise to you, once we find him, we will make him accountable.”

Solaire finally stopped sniffing and reciprocated the hug. “Thank you... my brother.” (Author's note: This probably won't make too much sense when you haven't followed Amor Fati, which I very much recommend. If you like Oscar and Solaire and like angsty stories, go and read it.

It was fun writing versions of Oscar and Solaire that are not mine and I hope I did them justice. I look forward to the next chapter of Amor Fati.)

#dark souls #fanfiction #oscar of astora #solaire of astora #march of the whumps #request fill #ask answered #thx for the ask #littlewritesstuff #acebladespades

21 notes · View notes

charliesfantom · 3 years

Text

Here’s the last thing I’ll say about the situation! If you wanna talk about it or rant feel free to message me or whatever! But I won’t post anything else on the matter!

This whole thing has triggered my anxiety (it’s not as bad as it might be for other people, but still it’s not good). Charlie is my comfort actor/person...I never had a comfort actor before so I hadn’t felt this “connection” to someone else! The guy is the only one who can make me smile during a meltdown and that’s on his super positive attitude and his bubbly personality! So you can understand that when this whole thing started I was taken aback.

I have thought a lot about it since my last post and I’ve seen and read posts from other accounts. I understand all of the perspectives! And I had my own opinion on the matter.

What we know!

There were no minors! I think this part is what made the most people worried about this whole thing...So no need to worry about that anymore. No minors were involved

Charlie was not the one who brought up the smut part! It was the fans who did, which in my opinion is little bit weird to be that comfortable with mentioning smut to an actor, but people are different so it’s whatever I guess.

Charlie had no idea what smut was! They had to explain it to him. Simple, no farther explanation needed

The smut fanfic was recommended by one of the fans, not Charlie!

Charlie just sent the link of the fic, to make sure that he had found the right one aka the one they recommended

Idk how many of you have seen the proof video by @wlwcarries , but in that video you can see that after Charlie sent the link. He didn’t discuss about smut. Discussing something means having a whole ass conversation about it, which is not the case. The conversation about the fanfics in general was over...They kept having a conversation about other random things for a little while. The conversation was totally friendly and casual, no worries there!

I’m not mad at him or whatever! He didn’t do anything wrong! Nothing, niente, nada, nichts!! I said before that we should hold him accountable for it... but now, after the hours upon hours of thinking, I don’t believe that it’s our place. Do I believe that he needs to set boundaries tho? Yes! If he doesn’t, his problem. Idc! He can do whatever he wants...he is a grown adult! I just believe that there are some situations that can be avoided if there are boundaries! Like showing up at airports at 2am to ambush an actor, or showing up at someone’s apartment that you had no right to be there. I’m not saying that there won’t be people who will cross them, but at least sets the tone that not every behavior is acceptable.

Also...I said before that actors shouldn’t interact with fans in gcs and stuff. I thought about it, and everyone can interact however they like with other people, as long as everyone keeps things clean. Obviously! Charlie is someone who wants to connect with people as much as possible! He loves that back and forth with fans and surely fans enjoy it too. If everyone is happy, who am I to tell them what they can and cannot do? Nonetheless I understand that the power imbalance and the parasocial relationship involved can be dangerous if not careful. But I trust that Charlie and the fans are mature enough to handle it.

Now I do believe that if someone wants to share their conversation with Charlie or a famous person in general, they should make sure that nothing can be taken in a wrong way, because we have witnessed time and time again how easy it is for someone’s career to be destroyed. The fans in our situation didn’t realize how all this looked at first glance! Of course, I’m not talking about situations where this must happen, because unfortunately there are famous predators out there and that’s why fans, especially minors should be careful.

Also I don’t think it’s weird that Charlie or an adult might be reading smut between fictional characters that are supposed to be minors. I do it! But when I do, I don’t think that they are minors! I don’t think about age at all! They’re fictional characters, they don’t exist. I just think the character with their personality but without an age.

Plus, the first time I heard about smut, I didn’t understand that it was dirty dirty...To simply put it, I thought of Riverdale kind of smut, not a p*rnh*b smut! So when I first read smut I was like “Oh! Wow! This is getting interestingly intense...” and when I finished it “😳🤭Well that was something!” Me and my “innocent” brain! *laughs in dirty-mind* This might be the case for Charlie too.

Tbh I kinda feel “guilty” for immediately blowing this situation out of proportion, without having all the facts first...I don’t know if I should feel this way or not, but I do! And I know that we had every right to be worried! It was totally valid. I mean I know how it looked...but this is how I feel!

Anyway! It happened! I’m moving past this! Charlie did nothing wrong! The fans were just happy about their conversation with him. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. If Charlie wants to set boundaries, good for him. If he doesn’t, it’s his life, he decides what he gets to do with it and how he handles things.

If you don’t agree...I’m sorry, but that’s my final opinion on this. I respect yours, I ask you to respect mine!

#I think we have talked about this enough already #nothing inappropriate happened #relax #even the fans involved addressed it #I totally understand your concerns #and I see where you’re coming from #let’s make this place a happy place again #for fans to interact with each other #charlie gillespie #he is innocent #he is just a himbo #we been knew #julie and the phantoms #julie and the himbos #jatp #luke patterson

23 notes · View notes

ais-for-alex · 3 years

Text

The Scars of Our Past: chapter 21

So this is a very important chapter to the story and I don’t want to spoil anything but there are descriptions of traumatic events, death, and injuries so please read with caution if you are sensitive to anything of that nature. Anyway I hope y’all enjoy 🥰

You’re getting in too deep, Knut.

Leo blinked away the thought as he followed Logan up the stairs towards Finn's apartment. His mind wandered back to the two of them sitting in that courtyard with the soft music and the radiant warmth of the fire as their companions. And when he had glanced over to see the orange glow of firelight dancing over Logan’s face Leo’s heart ached at that look in his eyes. He could see that Logan felt so much inside but he was held back by the crippling fear of the unknown and the unspoken, Leo couldn’t stop himself from reaching out.

Damn, you are such a hypocrite. Talking about fear like you haven’t been living in the shadow of loss for so long you barely know what sunlight looks like anymore. Too scared to move on, too scared to let go.

This is different, Leo told himself, silencing those nagging words just as they got to the front door.

“Hey Fish, you here?” he called out as they slipped inside and began shedding jackets and scarves before wandering farther into the apartment.

“In here,” Finn said just as he and Logan walked into the living room to find him hanging upside-down from the recliner, one leg thrown over the back and the other over the arm. There was some tv show playing quietly in the background but Finn wasn’t really watching rather he was holding his phone precariously over his face playing some word game.

Leo laughed, “Is your default state just upside down?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” both Finn and Logan said at the same time, causing him to look up and see them.

“Lo?” he asked, Finn rolled off the chair in surprise falling to the floor with a thump, Leo could hear a bit of uncertainty in his voice.

“Hey,” Logan said softly, locking eyes with Finn, “Leo mentioned food so I tagged along, hope that’s ok?”

“’Course,” he answered without a thought, scrambling up off the floor, “you know you’re always welcome here.”

There was a tension between them, Leo could feel it bend and stretch like an elastic band tied between these two men. It flexed as they moved, pulled taught like they were testing how far it would stretch before snapping. This thing between Finn and Logan was strong though, nearly tangible with the intensity of whatever past lay in the space separating them. Something inside him was telling Leo that rather than breaking under their pull it was more likely that the elastic band would snap back into place, leaving behind sore red welts as raw and tender as the emotions tying them together in the first place.

“Alright,” Leo said, bumping his hip lightly against Logan still standing next to him, “I’m gonna go start working on dinner.”

Logan finally looked away from Finn's hot cocoa eyes to glance up at Leo, “Now this I’ve got to see,” he said with a laugh.

“Oh come on,” Leo huffed an exasperated chuckle, “just cause you guys can’t cook doesn’t mean nobody else can.”

“How do you know I can’t cook, hmm? I might be a master chef in disguise,” Logan joked.

Finn scoffed at that before slinging an arm over Logan’s shoulders and pulling him into a headlock, “come on Lo, no one’s gonna believe that.”

Leo rolled his eyes and made his way into the kitchen, Finn and Logan’s chatter followed close behind as he began pulling ingredients out of the newly stocked fridge and cabinets.

“This looks suspiciously healthy,” Logan commented while Leo washed and prepped a variety of veggies, he and Finn had settled at the counter to watch and talk as he cooked.

“Don’t make that face,” Leo laughed at the grimace Logan made, “healthy can be good.”

“Lo has an aversion to vegetables,” Finn teased, knocking their shoulders together.

“I do not,” he huffed back, “just if given the choice they’re not my first pick.”

“Well, then what would be your first pick? What’s your favorite food?” Leo asked as he began working on the chicken.

Logan closed his eyes and leaned his head back, “probably, filet mignon. Mmm,” he hummed low in his throat like he was imagining it.

“Ok, I’ll give that to you, few things trump steak,” Leo said, “maybe I’ll make it next time.” When Leo glanced up he met sparkling emerald eyes and Logan’s happy grin, it made his breath catch in his throat.

“So, whatcha making tonight?” Finn asked, resting his chin to rest in his hand against the counter while watching Leo work.

“I thought I’d do a honey and sesame chicken with a teriyaki stir fry,” Leo replied, snagging some seasoning off the counter.

“Ahh,” Finn sighed, wilting down to lay against the counter, “that sounds delicious.”

Both Leo and Logan laughed at his dramatics, their conversation dissolved into Finn and Logan’s upcoming game as Leo made dinner. Leo was only listening with half an ear but it sounded like they were concerned about their goalie who was struggling with an injury to his thigh. Soon the kitchen was filled with sizzling and the warm smell of cooking food making their stomachs grumble, by the time Leo had finished all three of them were salivating over the delicious looking meal.

As Leo was putting the finishing touches on the stir fry and pulled it from the heat of the stove he watched Finn slide off his stool at the counter before making his way over to the cabinets and grabbing plates. Logan wandered over to the fridge and snagged drinks for each of them. He was a little struck by how smoothly the three of them worked together; they moved and orbited around each other, somehow knowing exactly what the others needed and providing it before they could ask.

Once he had gotten his food Leo wandered back into the living room and settled on the far end of the couch, Finn and Logan joined only a moment later their plates piled high with food. Finn flopped on the opposite side of the couch, squishing back into the cushions comfortably. Logan chose to settle down and sit on the carpet near Finn’s legs, his back resting against the bottom of the couch as he placed his plate on the coffee table in front of him before pulling out his phone.

“Alright, what are we watching?” he asked, tilting his head back to look at Finn and Leo.

“Whatever is fine with me,” Finn said before shoveling a forkful of stir fry into his mouth.

Logan turned and fixed him with a disbelieving stare, “Fish, we both know you are literally the biggest movie snob on the planet, and will have very strong opinions on whatever we end up watching. We also know that if you make me choose again, we will be watching Fast and Furious.”

“Nooooo, not again!” Finn groaned, making Leo snort a laugh.

“What about you Le,” Logan asked, “any movie preferences?”

For a moment Leo’s brain shorted out at the nickname and the casual way it fell from Logan’s lips, he blinked hard realizing that he was supposed to be answering a question, “umm, well I always love a trashy disaster movie.”

“Sharknado!” Finn shouted, bouncing with excitement while trying not to spill his food.

“Yeah, that works for me,” he laughed.

“Alright, Sharknado it is,” Logan pulled it up on his phone and cast it to the Tv, while they all settled in with their dinners.

Leo tried to focus on the movie, he really did. However, it seemed that his attention couldn’t help but be pulled back to the two men next to him. He felt a little smile forming on his face as he watched them bicker back and forth about something silly a character on screen said, as he watched Finn lean down and ask for the veggies Logan had picked out of his food, watched them shoot glances at each other when they thought the other wouldn’t see. It was weird, this feeling that had begun pooling in his chest while watching them; Leo felt warm and giddy with it, it felt like summer sunlight was caught inside him making everything glow golden.

A soft contented sigh fell from his lips as Leo leaned over to stack his empty plate with Finn and Logan’s on the coffee table, he shifted in his spot turning to burrow into the squishy cushions and bring his feet up to rest on the spot in the middle of the sofa. Before he could stop himself, Leo let his legs extend to press his socked feet under Finn's warm thigh. And when Finn glanced up at him, a soft little smile at his lips, Leo flushed suddenly submerged in chocolate fondue eyes. Something inside him squirmed happily when Finn simply smiled a bit wider and rested his hand on Leo’s ankle before turning back to the movie.

Leo happily let himself drift in and out of a light doze while they watched, it seemed like one minute he blinked and the next Logan was turning the volume on the tv down as the credits rolled over the screen. Taking a deep breath that turned into a huge yawn Leo shifted a bit and reached up, stretching out the soreness from sitting in the same position too long.

He heard a soft chuckle from the floor and looked down only to meet Logan's bright eyes sparkling with the grin on his lips, “so you’re the type to sleep through the movie.”

“Guilty,” Leo said, suppressing another yawn.

“Ok, question,” Finn said in a mock serious voice, making Leo glance up at him, “promise not to be weirded out.”

“Alright shoot.”

Finn shifted watching Leo, he had his phone in his hand, “Do you not have social media? Cause I swear I have been trying to cyber stalk you since like the first time we met and I am finding nothing, zilch, nadda. The internet says you don’t exist. Which I find vaguely interesting cause I low key pride myself on my ability to find out pretty much anything about anybody, but for you… nothing.”

Leo couldn’t hold back the laugh that bubbled up out of him at the frustrated pout on Finn's face, “Yeah, I do have social media. I’m surprised you couldn’t find me; everything is just under my name.”

“That’s what I tried!” he cried.

“Did you spell it right?”

“I mean yeah? I think so, there’s only one way to spell it right? L-E-O Leo N-E-W-T Newt.”

Leo snorted out another laugh, “Fish, my last name is spelled K-N-U-T.”

Finn’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a moment then relaxed as he shot a look that seemed to be filled with a mixture of exasperation and disbelief, “wait a minute are you telling me your last name is Knut , and has been this entire time.”

“It's still pronounced like newt.”

Finn sighed, shaking his head. “Knut,” he glanced down at Logan and for a moment it seemed like they had an entire conversation in that one look, then chuckled softly, “Nutty.”

“Peanut,” Logan huffed a laugh.

“Ooo, Peanut Butter,” Finn shot back.

“Nutter Butter!” Logan supplied slapping Finn's thigh in excitement, “man, there is just so much potential for nicknames in that.”

“Right!” Finn exclaimed, “how did we not know this?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Leo chuckled, “laugh it up. I’ve heard all of them before.”

“Did you hear that Lo? I think Butternut Squash over here is challenging us.”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Logan said, turning to look up at Leo, “are you challenging us Peanut Brittle?”

At that Leo completely lost it, he could barely breathe through his snorts of laughter, “Oh, god! I suddenly feel like I’ve made a grave mistake.”

“Awe, don’t worry Banana Nut Muffin, we take nicknames very seriously,” Finn said in a sympathetic voice as he reached out and patted Leo’s leg softly, this only prompted Leo to laugh even harder.

It took a couple minutes before their laughter died down to only the occasional chuckle. Leo was warm and relaxed; his body pressed into the crease between the cushions, he could hear the little bubble click sounds as Finn typed on his phone.

Both Leo and Logan’s eyes suddenly snapped onto Finn when a sharp gasp was sucked into his lungs.

“You ok up there, Fish?” Logan asked

“I- um yeah… it’s just-“ Finn was still looking down at his phone, “um… Le?”

“Hm?” Leo hummed, waiting for Finn to say whatever it was he wanted to ask.

“Is this… is this about you?” he asked, holding his phone out for Leo to look at.

Looking at the screen Leo saw that Finn had typed out his name into a google search but rather than links to his various social media accounts the first result that Finn had clicked on was a digital copy of his hometown newspaper. Leo’s blood ran cold as his eyes took in the headline he had tried to scrub from his mind back when he first saw it, the hollow words that could never actually make people understand the pain he felt that night.

Fatal Crash Claims Over 30 Lives Leaving Only One Survivor

Leo sucked in a shaky breath as Finn's phone slipped out of his lax grip, “I…” he pulled his legs in close to himself and wrapped his arms around them like he was trying to protect his heart from the cutting pain of his memories. “I… I forgot that would probably come up,” he said, voice quiet and timid, “um… it- it was a couple years ago now.”

“Hey,” Logan said, he had moved closer and was now sitting on the edge of the coffee table, “you don’t have to talk about it. If you aren’t ready yet, that’s ok,” he reached out and gently pulled one of Leo’s hands into his own.

Leo thought about that for a moment, thought about shoving it all away again, and hiding from the pain.

Sweetheart, the only way to make it hurt a little less is to start letting yourself move on. His mama’s words came back to his mind and Leo knew that it was time to move on, no more hiding no more running away, it was time to start healing.

“No,” Leo said, breathing in deep to steady his hurt bleeding heart, “I… I think it’s time. I’ve been running away from that night for so long now, it’s time I told someone. And you guys are… important to me, you should know what happened.”

Finn shifted on the couch so he was turned to watch Leo with patient eyes, Logan still had Leo’s hand wrapped in his own warm fingers gently massaging the tension from his palm. Somehow Leo was able to draw strength from them, he felt it flow into him until he felt completely safe and secure in their presence.

“It… it was a couple years back now,” Leo began, his voice was shaky; it wavered with emotion as he continued. “But, I actually used to play hockey,” Leo huffed a humorless chuckle at the surprise on Finn and Logan’s faces, “yeah, I played goalie, pretty much since the day I learned to skate. And I mean, not to toot my own horn but I was good too. Everyone said I would go on to play for the NHL, it was my dream you know?”

Finn and Logan both nodded, they knew exactly how that dream went but they stayed quiet waiting for Leo to continue.

“But, that dream got taken away. From me… and from them,” Leo choked back a sob. “We had an away game that night, just a couple hours away so the school didn’t want to pay for a hotel afterwards.”

Leo breathed in deep, he remembered the night with such crystal clarity it could have happened mere hours ago. He could still feel fatigue in his bones from a hard intense game, but the giddy adrenaline filled satisfaction of a win made it easier to deal with. The team was piling onto their bus tired but excited, Leo was grinning ear to ear as he climbed the rickety steps.

Making his way down the narrow aisle towards his spot at the back of the bus Leo caught Cody’s eyes and felt his insides squirm at the private little wink sent his way. Leo had gotten a shutout, and it felt like they were barely off the ice when Cody had pulled him by his jersey into the nearest supply closet to kiss him until Leo didn’t know which way was up, whispering promises of every filthy thing they would do together when they got home.

The bus roared to life just as Leo slung his bag up into the overhead rack and settled down onto the sticky plastic bench. The heat of the engine soaked up into his body soothing his sore muscles while the rumbling and rattling lulled him to sleep.

“We were maybe about two, three hours into the drive when-“ Leo paused a bit unsure in his story, “I guess I don’t really know. They told me a gas tanker hit us, but all I can remember was the sounds…”

Leo had no words to describe the horrible, horrible sound of metal crunching and scraping as it crumpled under impact, as it folded around the soft flesh of his teammates as easily as folding a paper crane. There are no words on earth that could describe the blood curdling screams of agony, of horror and fear echoing out from the people he loved.

“Um… anyway, I was thrown pretty hard but I was still close enough to get to the emergency exit.”

He could still feel that brief moment of weightlessness only a split second before the sharp impact as his body was tossed like a ragdoll to the opposite side of the bus, he felt it sliding, grinding against the asphalt for what seemed like an eternity before finally coming to a halt. Leo blinked against the darkness around him, his eyes were hazy and his left side was searing with pain; it felt like his arm had been ripped off.

He clutched his injured arm close, grunting in pain as he looked around trying to figure out where he was. Leo could hear people crying, screaming but his eyes were too blurry to find them. A thick fog was trying to cloud Leo’s brain as he lay amongst ripped metal and shattered window glass, he wanted to sleep, wanted to escape the horrible pain. He let his head roll back to rest against whatever hard surface he lay on, the side of the bus? The ceiling? Leo didn’t know anymore. He blinked against the fog, knowing somewhere inside him he shouldn’t fall asleep, but then he saw it. A light, it was blurry and out of focus, just like the rest of the world at that moment but it was something. His entire body flared in pain as he moved towards it crawling slowly, shards of glass digging into his palms as he finally made it to the large hole that used to be the back window of the bus.

The moment his feet hit the highway asphalt Leo collapsed, his body crumpling to the ground. He lay there for a moment panting his eyes locked onto that light that had guided him out of the wreckage just for something to hold onto.

“I’m not sure how long I was there, just staring into that light,” Leo sniffled. There were tears running down his face, Logan had threaded their fingers together and Leo was so immensely grateful for the grounding sensation of his warm palm. “Turns out it was headlights, there hadn’t been many cars out so late but a little family saw the crash and pulled over to call 911. They pulled me away from the bus,” Leo squeezed his eyes closed, and he was back staring at that light, but then there was a face blocking it out.

He didn’t recognize the person; it was too blurry, there was too much pain, but he felt their hands as they dragged him away from the remnants of the bus. It hurt, them dragging his injured body against the glass covered ground but in the very next moment that pain was completely forgotten when the world was washed in scorching heat and blinding light.

“The very last thing I remember was this loud ringing in my ears… and when I looked up there was fire, raining down around us.”

“I woke up in the hospital with a concussion and a dislocated shoulder,” Leo said through little gasps, “they told me… they told me that I was the only one to survive, it was a one in a million chance that I made it out of that wreck. They said it was a miracle, but it didn’t feel like a miracle. I lost everyone that night, anyone who hadn’t died from the initial crash… they did in the explosion. Those people, they were more than my team, they were my family. And they all died, even- even Cody.” Leo couldn’t hold back the sob, “he was my person, I thought we would spend our lives together. But he was taken away from me, all of it was taken away from me.”

“Oh Leo,” Finn gasped, there were tears streaming down his face too as he crawled across the space separating them and pulled Leo forward into his arms, “come here sweetheart.”

Logan’s hand slipped from his but settled between his shoulder blades instead as Leo let himself be pulled into Finn's embrace, he burrowed his face into the crook of his shoulder and felt the hurt flow through him. Soul shattering sobs wracked through his body as the memories of that night crashed over him again and again. After all this time of shoving it down, hiding them inside himself, he was finally letting everything out.

“You know,” Leo said sniffling into Finn's neck, “after I got out of the hospital, I felt so… lost. I’d lost my partner, my friends, the thought of getting back on the ice nearly made me sick.” Leo tightened his arms around Finn's waist, “But the worst part… the worst part was the way that people looked at me. You can’t even imagine what it feels like when the people who used to consider you a part of their family, look at you and you can see it in their eyes that they wish you were dead. They look at you and you know that in a heartbeat they would let you die just to have their son back.”

Leo pulled back from Finn's arms a bit and drew in a deep shuddering breath, “and honestly, I can’t even blame them. Cause if given the choice, I would trade my life to give them the opportunity to live theirs.” Taking a deep shuddering breath Leo squeezed his eyes closed, “even though I walked away, sometimes I think a part of me died with my brothers on the bus that night. And now I’m stuck trying to live as this broken shell of a person.”

“Le?” Leo could feel Logan’s hand soothing up and down his back, “Leo, please look at me.” Logan’s voice was soft and pleading, and as much as he simply wanted to keep his eyes squeezed closed and hide from everything the tenderness he heard there made Leo blink open to look into emerald green eyes glazed with a sheen of tears.

“I’m no good with words. But I hope I can make you understand this, Leo you are not broken . You have suffered unimaginable pain; pain that’s left scars on your heart, and those take time to heal. But those scars do not make you broken ,” Logan reached out to cup Leo’s face in his warm palms, his fingers brushing away the tear tracks running down his cheeks, “you are whole, and healing, and perfect.”

Leo felt a piece of his heart click into place at Logan’s words, he leaned out of Finns arms a bit more and pulled Logan into him holding him close letting his warm comfort soak into him soothing away just a bit of the pain. Somehow while he was surrounded by them the hurt inside lost its sharp cutting edge, it eased to a dull throb still there but easier.

“You know, you said that we’re important to you,” Finns said, his voice rough with thinly veiled emotion, “but Leo, you're important to us too. So, we’re here for you Nutty, for anything.”

Leo huffed a wet laugh through his still streaming tears, “I’m never getting rid of that nickname am I?”

Finn grinned tenderly at him, “not a chance in hell.”

Read on AO3

#sweater weather #coast to coast #leo knut #logan tremblay #lumosinlove #o'knutzy #finn o’hara #writing #figure skating #the scars of our past

8 notes · View notes