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goblinkingdomsblog · 3 years

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Hello I hope you are doing well !! I was wondering if it okay to request the mafia universe where they meet the agent y/n have a moment but then the agent smile and go away in like we will meet again kinda way I’m sorry if it’s too much you don’t have to do it I appreciate your writing and love it thank you for your hard work 💕

They get hurt while running away from the police, but agent y/n helps them - part 1

Members: hyung line.

Genre: mafia!AU, reaction.

Premise: during a police chase, one of the mobsters ends up getting injured. Suddenly, you appear when he least expected it, willing to help him. You say you will see each other again in the future. With complete certainty: after all, you will guarantee it yourself.

TW: (V) = Violence.

Mafia Series Masterlist

Mafia Series Plot

Hii!! I hope you enjoy this post, and that it meets well your request!

I'm really happy to know that you like the things that I write! Thank youu!!! 💜❤😁

+ Sorry for the delay, I wanted to make a long version of this reaction. The part 2 is already posted!

"We'll see each other again, don't worry."

Namjoon:

The damn right leg. It was always that damn leg.

Namjoon gasped, lowering himself against the wall of the dark alley. The smell there was not at all pleasant, and the humidity certainly wouldn't leave his expensive suit unpunished, but he was too busy to care about that at the moment.

Everything happened in a flash: one hour, he was sitting comfortably on a soft leather sofa, talking to the leaders of the other two most important gangs in Seoul (maintaining good relations between partner companies was essential); on the other, he was running down the wet sidewalk, after escaping from the building through a side door. The damned police had somehow discovered the secret meeting, probably through a traitor, and had invaded the place, trying to kill three birds with one stone.

Even his security guards had stayed behind, exchanging shots with the police to give him enough time to escape. He hated having to escape, looking like a coward, but he knew it was necessary.

Another thing he hated: he couldn't run fast without dropping at least one of his weapons, or himself. It was in a fall on the wet street that he had injured his leg, the same one that had broken twice before, and that now was hurting again thanks to his shitty motor coordination. He knew he was being chased, so he got up and forced himself to run for several more blocks, until the pain became too unbearable to walk. It was at that moment that he hid in the alley, where he was until now.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the wet darkness. Without a gun, he could do nothing but watch, hoping his bad luck wasn’t that glaring that day.

When you turned into the alley with your weapon in your fists, using its wall for protection, you saw him immediately.

The mafia boss, sitting on the floor, with an empty expression.

Frowning, you checked if that was a trap and if there was someone around, but he seemed completely alone. Raising your voice, you announced your presence, and the first thing he saw was your well-equipped uniform.

- Hands up. Put them behind your head. - you said, with controlled calm.

Namjoon sighed, obeying slowly.

- I'm unarmed. You don't need to be alarmed.

- Get up and come over here. - you ordered, ignoring his words.

The mobster started to get up, but then he slid back down the wall. He tried a couple more times, until he gave up and lay motionless on the floor.

- Hurry up.

- I am unable. I think I broke my leg again. - he murmured, almost as if admitting it was a shame.

Suspicious, you didn't move forward initially. You checked the alley again, but no one was in sight. So, you decided to use a different strategy: you approached with the gun pointed at his head, after all, none of the henchmen would dare threaten the life of their leader (or at least that was what you hoped to be true).

- If you try anything "funny", I swear I'll kill you, okay? - you hissed, bending down in front of him.

The man's legs were stretched out in front of him, and the right was in an ugly position, proving that he was telling the truth. The bone must have torn the flesh, because a bloody wheel was beginning to form in his pants. It would be disgusting to anyone who was not used to brutality.

- How did you get hurt like that?

- Let's say that this specific bone is not the strongest. It is already the third incident that occurs with the poor thing. - he tried to laugh, perhaps to feel better about himself, but the pain prevented him.

You then took a deep breath. You couldn't leave the man bleeding there, even if he wasn't the best of people. It went against your values.

By slowly lowering the weapon (but keeping it within immediate reach), you began to roll up your uniform sleeves. The basic first aid classes you took when you joined the police would have to do.

- What will you do? - he asked, lost in hesitation and fear, as he noticed your approach.

- I will help you not to bleed a river. But it will really hurt, and it will be a really temporary solution. - you answered, seriously.

Without saying anything more, the man just fell silent, a thoughtful expression appearing on his face.

You put your hands firmly on his leg and, using the techniques you had learned, started to push. The pain was absurd, but he preferred to bite his lip until it bled rather than scream. Of course, being a fugitive from the police should be part of the motivation for not making too much noise.

The cracking of bones when they went back to place was hollow and dark, but at least the meat stopped being kept open. Taking a serious look at him, you noticed that the man was pale with pain, looking like he was about to pass out.

- Breathe in. The worst is over. - you replied, rummaging through your belt until you found the bandages you always carried along, in case of personal emergencies.

Carefully but firmly, you started to bandage his leg, just to stop the bleeding and keep the leg in place for as long as possible.

- Don't move too much, or you could make your situation even worse.

The man remained silent for a few minutes, just watching your serious expression and your nimble hands as you bandaged his leg. He wasn't sure about how to react, after all, that kind of situation was not quite what a mobster would expect from a police agent.

- Uh... why are you helping me?

You lifted your head, facing him directly.

- One of the most important parts of doing justice involves not letting anyone bleed to death. And even if your wound is not that deadly, I believe that waiting for a long time in a wet alley is not the most ideal healing scenario. - letting go and wiping your hands on the leftover gauze, you took your gun out of your belt and stood up - I'll give you the advantage of not immediately telling them where you are. But hope your henchmen find you fast.

He watched you walk away, going back cautiously to the exit of the alley.

- But... I... - unable to formulate a coherent sentence and not wanting to look like an idiot, Namjoon just gave up asking questions - I suppose that's what it means to be on the good side. Thank you anyway.

Surprisingly, you turned around one last time. The smile that shone on your face exposing all your teeth and lifting the corners of your mouth, giving you an air of extreme cleverness, took away the little breath that was left to Namjoon.

- Oh, but you don't need thank me now, because we will meet again. And next time, I'm not going to be that good. - clicking your tongue, you took a step towards the darkness - You better be well prepared.

So, you're gone, leaving him alone in the alley until the moment he would be found by the other gang members (which took a little longer than it should have).

Seokjin:

Shit!

That whole day was being terrible. First, Jin had started by clashing with members of a rival gang. Then the police arrived, shooting anyone they saw ahead. It was in the middle of so many fights that he ended up being shot in the palm of his hand, and his dominant hand!

Pressing his hand against his now-stained shirt chest, he continued walking through the seemingly empty industrial quarter, unsure of how to hold his revolver straight.

Everything should have been a simple negotiation, but things got off track too quickly.

His palm had already bled so badly that the entire front of his shirt was red. In addition, he could no longer move his fingers, which was a really bad signal. Containing a sob, he let a few tears roll down his face.

He was concerned with his own hand, but his biggest concern was if it would lose its usefulness forever. How would he be a hacker after that, without being able to type?

It was at that moment that you found him wandering alone and desperate. You had been looking for the fugitives in the more distant streets, to make sure they didn't get far. However, when you found the boy crying, a part of the adrenaline that dominated your mind dissipated. He barely held a gun, after all.

With patience, you announced your presence. When he saw you, he threw his head back in mourning, as if he were indignant at the heavens.

- I can't handle it right now! - he whimpered.

Rolling your eyes, you approached, your gun in hand.

- Don't worry, I won't shoot if you don't do anything stupid.

Eyes widening, he pulled his hand away from the body, in a strangled cry.

- How would I do it if there's a hole in my hand?!

Even a few feet away, the fact that it was possible to see through his hand was disturbing. The bullet had gone in and out, leaving a hole with color of blood, bones and nerves showing. Yes, the boy's despair was justified. You just kept calm because you've seen a lot of complicated situations like that before.

- You have to stop the bleeding!

- How am I going to do this with one hand?! - the silent tears continued to run down his face.

Sighing, you finally approached, scaring him by holding his hand.

- What is this?!

- A basic aid, considering that the nearest hospital is two kilometers from here. - you replied simply, taking improvised bandages from inside the jacket of your uniform.

There was not much to do about that hand other than to stop the bleeding. Avoiding looking at his blood-soaked shirt (which was not a pleasant sight at all), you began to wrap the wound with the fabric, covering the hole and tightening the bandage tightly.

He let out a sob of pain, but he didn't back down, knowing he needed to put up with it.

- Take good care of this wound.

He wiped his wet face with his healthy hand, sniffling.

- I don't even know if I'll have a hand after this! - the reaction would be comical if it weren't tragic. The panic in his voice was real.

So, you closed your expression, getting completely serious.

- You will take care of your hand and you will stop being pessimistic. It'll be there the next time we meet. - so, you gave a smile of certainty, small but absolute.

Then, moving away, you raised your weapon again, passing by him.

It took a few seconds for Seokjin to understand what you had said. The pain left him with slow thinking.

- Hey, next time?! - he exclaimed, turning in your direction.

Unfortunately, you were too far away to be stopped. He watched you leave for a much longer time than the expected.

Yoongi:

He was no longer able to walk, so he didn't force himself anymore. It didn't matter that he was inside the same building that the police were still in: he just couldn't get away anymore.

Limping painfully for a few more steps, he sat down in the narrow hall, resting his back against one of the walls. He and his two customers had been caught during the delivery of a shipment of heroin, and one of the damned customers had stabbed him to have time to escape. Literally.

With a small knife stuck in his thigh, Yoongi was actually slower than the others, easier to be captured. He was just lucky to be in the company of his most trusted friends, who came into conflict with the police just so he could run. He was worried about them now, of course, and he couldn't even repay their sacrifice and really escape. The pain was so much, and the blood on his clothes was so much, that his veins seemed to be filled with acid, which caused a burning sensation in his entire body.

Closing his mouth to try to hold his breath and feeling the sweat on his forehead, he leaned his head against the wall, looking at the ceiling for a few moments. The knife was still stuck in his leg and needed to be pulled out. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted to three. Then, lifting his trembling hands, he put them on the handle of the knife. That gesture alone was enough to make more cold sweat run down the back of his neck.

Then, as he prepared to pull the knife out, you appeared at the end of the hall. Wide-eyed, you observed the injured man and what he intended to do.

- Wait! Don't pull it! - you exclaimed, startling him.

I mean, Yoongi got scared, but the only thing he did was to turn his head slowly towards you, without really expressing fear.

You turned the other way, knowing that your colleagues were close. Specifically, a colleague who hated mobsters, and who would certainly have no mercy when shooting a man who was already injured. There was even a trail of drops of blood on the carpet, which went as far as the dealer was left.

- Why not? Sometime it will have to go. - he said, in a weak voice, with the tone of someone who no longer cared.

You slowly lowered your weapon when you realized that he was not carrying any gun. Then you looked at him again, snorting when you realized that you would need to act quickly.

Too many people had been hurt that day. You needed to fix the situation. Then, running up to him, you bent down in front of the man.

- You were stabbed in your thigh, that is full of important blood vessels. In addition, you are already bleeding too much. - you said, scolding him with some anger - If you pull the knife, it can make the situation worse and cause a much worse bleeding. Even though it hurts, the knife seems to be stopping the wound.

Too impressed by how straightforward you were, he just remained silent, nodding his head to signal that he would obey. In the distance, you heard your angered colleague's voice. Then you faced the mobster again, running your hands over his shoulders.

- I'm going to get you out of here and put you in a place where you're not in the immediate sight of a gun. But I can't do anything else. You will need hospital care.

Yoongi opened his eyes wide when you started to help him up, shocked by the situation as a whole.

- Why are you doing this? - he asked, his voice low and strangled with pain.

With effort, you managed to get him upright, but you were practically carrying his full weight.

- Because I think people should go through a fair trial, and not just get shot in the head like will happen if I leave you here. - striving to walk, you started down the corridor, towards the basement of the building - And make sure that your leg does not leave a trail of blood behind us, even if you have to tighten the fabric of your pants around the wound.

Again, he obeyed without protest, containing a cry of pain as he prevented the blood from dripping on the floor. He was shaking and sweaty, and the pain he was enduring must have been scary. Still, that was better than leaving him to die.

You followed as quickly as possible to the staircase, and each step was a sacrifice for Yoongi. The black mask you were wearing, part of the uniform, prevented him from seeing your face, but your eyebrows were frown at the smell of blood and the man in agony.

When you reached the basement, you hid the man behind a tall and heavy closet. The place was small, dusty and probably untouched for months. Still, you left him on the floor, sitting.

Stretching your aching back, you searched for the bad and cheap phone you used when you went to work, for emergencies. You turned it on and handed it over to the injured man, just before standing.

- Use this to call someone who can help you. It's the most I can do for you. - you said, as soon as he held the little electronic device.

Pale but with lively eyes, Yoongi took another deep breath to be able to speak through the pain.

- Thanks. - he said simply, closing his eyes when a flash of pain passed through his body. Then, he opened his eyes again - Isn't this phone tapped? It would be pretty easy to track me, then.

With a mysterious expression, you walked away. Even though you were wearing a mask, he could see the corners of your mouth going up to form a mysterious smile.

- You will have to find it out until the next time we meet. - you replied, taking your weapon from the belt just before leaving by the same staircase you had traveled before - Do not expect me to help you again.

Hoseok:

Hoseok was crying, something he hated to do. However, getting shot in the chest was not something that happened every day, and it was okay to cry in a situation like that.

With his hands pressed to the bleeding wound, he staggered down a deserted road in the hot dry night. The road was flanked by plantations, since it was located in the countryside, and the only noises there were that of the plants moving with the wind and that of the nocturnal animals.

He was afraid of those animals, after all, he smelled of blood. Still, nothing too dangerous should be there, as farmers would exterminate any creature. Even the "creature" himself, probably, if he appeared bleeding and wanted by the police in one of the houses far from the road.

He stumbled forward, needing to lean on one of the wooden fences. The pain in his chest was so strong that he had no idea where he was running to.

Suddenly, he felt the cold muzzle of a gun at the back of his head. As he bent over the fence, he stopped paying attention to the environment, and didn't notice when you approached silently.

- Hands up! - you hissed between teeth.

With a high-pitched cry, he remained in place.

- I'm using my hands to stop the bleeding from the shot your colleague gave me in the chest! - he exclaimed, his voice exuding real pain.

Swallowing hard, you wondered if it was true, and ordered him to turn around. When he did it, weak, the front of the shirt soaked in blood was proof enough.

The man's luck was that the shot had hit the right side of his chest and not the heart. The bullet was still lodged in his chest, but the bleeding was not aggressive enough to had hit an artery. That man was very, very lucky.

- Give me your gun. - you said, forcing the man to hand over his revolver. As soon as you made sure he was unarmed, you lowered your own weapon - Let me see.

By taking the man's hands away and looking more closely at the wound hole, you were sure that no very important veins had been hit. Then you started to take off the man's coat.

- Hey, what are you doing?! Isn't it enough that you invaded our place and killed 4 people?! - he exclaimed, irritated and scared.

Hearing those words was not pleasant, but they were true. So you didn't answer, just folding the jacket efficiently and wrapping it diagonally around his body, tying it tightly on his back.

- I'm helping you, you bastard.

Arching his eyebrows, he realized you were telling the truth.

- Why? - he asked, confused.

- Because nobody else is going to die today. I'll make sure of that. - you answered seriously - Now tighten the wound again. Prevent too much blood from being lost.

The man was already pale, but when he heard of blood, he became even more so. He swallowed hard, his face still wet with tears.

- Are you sure that I will not die?

You started to smile wryly, wanting to laugh at his crybaby face. However, as you watched his expression, you realized that his panic was real. You then changed your expression, smiling without showing your teeth but confidently.

- I am sure. We will meet in the future, because I will keep you alive. - you said, walking away - Now, run to the house after this plantation behind you and ask for help. I have to go back to the mission.

He wanted to say something else, but you were already walking away. The courage you gave him through your steady smile was enough.

He had the strength to run to the nearest house and ask for help.

Maknae line here.

The images used on this post are not mine, credits to the owners!

Kisses from the Goblin Kingdom! :)

#fanfiction #writing #bts #bts mafia au #bts mafia fic #kpop imagines #kpop mafia #imagines #books and libraries #goblin king #hyung line #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #bts x reader #agent reader

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eleanore-delphinium · 3 years

Text

Reciprocate II (2021 version)

DISCLAIMER: Repost with additional details and edits from same title piece found in DAMIRAE ENTRIES.

But this particular one didn’t really change much as compared to the 2021 version of part 1.

Finale: Reciprocate III: The After

Reciprocate II: Damian

In a sterile white room devoid of any color and of any indication of ownership or personalization, laid a single figure on top of a white medical bed, white sheets tucked over her sternum. The room felt bright because of the color, it was also rather lonely and rather very empty—except for the pale woman with long purple hair that laid on the bed. An empty chair on her right side and bedside tables with nothing on top, on either side of her bed. Her hands laid on her sides and her eyes closed. There was no indication of movement except for her quiet breathing.

The door opened to reveal Damian Wayne in a white button up shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black slacks and black dress shoes. Despite his neat outfit, his hair was a mess and his eyes were bloodshot with eyebags underneath. He looked as though he had not slept well at all—which was likely the case.

Afterall, he had not slept well since the day Raven got stabbed. There were good days and bad, now—today was a better day. He walked to the empty chair beside Raven’s right hand, his back facing the door. He sat on the chair and gazed longingly at the figure on the bed.

And he recalled what had transpired that night—the night that caused Raven’s current medical condition.

Raven had fallen and her eyes slowly fluttered close. He could tell that she was trying not to lose consciousness. Raven lifted a hand towards Damian and Garfield’s general direction making Damian wonder if she was trying to reach out to him or Garfield.

‘It had to be Garfield.’, He thought because it would not make sense if Raven was trying to reach out to him. Damian couldn’t help but feel very bitter inside. She would never choose him. She would unlikely want to hold him with her dying breath.

At this moment the creature was distracted by Tim who was on the other side, seeing this—Damian took the opportunity to run to Raven. He took note of the footsteps that followed behind him, Garfield was right behind him as they ran toward Raven.

Her raised hand was faltering and Damian felt as though his heart was about to jump out of his throat-- out of fear.

No. You cannot close your eyes. I will not allow it!

Damian ran faster towards Raven and as her hand fell to the ground, he finally reached her side. But her eyes had also closed, and Damian held his breath as he-- so very gently, held her in his arms.

“Raven! Raven!” He called to her frantically. “No. No. No. Don’t close your eyes, please come back, stay conscious!” His breathing was ragged, his heart beating loudly in his ears. Damian bit his lip and held his breath in a conscious manner, as he tried to calm himself, and think. He had to think.

“Raven! Oh god no.” Garfield stood hovering above Raven, and the next second he was reaching out to Raven. But Damian pulled her closer to him and gave Garfield the darkest and cruelest glare Garfield had ever seen. And Garfield froze, he took a deep breath and gulped down his fear.

“Gar…” Terra came running towards Garfield, and her eyes laid on Raven. “No, if-if she didn’t try to protect me—” Damian gave Terra the same glare Garfield received, making her unable to finish her thought. She froze in fear too.

“We have to stop her bleeding.” Damian absent-mindedly said, his voice cold, and as he scanned Raven’s wound, his eye twitched. Raven had a gaping hole on her chest, Damian did not want to think about it—but the situation was truly grim.

“How are you going to—” Garfield received another glare from Damian.

Damian was not asking or seeking their help to stop Raven’s bleeding, he had said what he had said to inform them only. He will deal with Raven’s injury, no one else is suitable.

Damian reached for something in his utility belt, and he pulled out three silver balls. His facial expression seemingly frozen in a cold and uncaring manner as he placed the one-inch sized ball strategically on her gaping wound. He placed one on top and two at the bottom, forming a triangle. It beeped and glowed a faint blue and from it came out a purple like foam.

Damian’s right eye twitched, his lips pressed together so much that his lips became pale and his brows drawn so closely together, that he looked like he would punch the next person who would touch him.

He had no choice. This was the only way to ‘plug’ Raven’s gaping hole. She was losing too much blood because of it.

Damian clenched his teeth even more, if that was even possible. He leaned Raven on his right arm as his hands clenched tightly. If he had not had gloves on, then anyone would be able to see how white his fist had become. His brows still tightly knit together, it looked painful to watch his brows like that.

And to Garfield and Terra, he looked like the scariest man on earth. They seemed to fear Damian more than the unbeatable monster that had stabbed Raven into this state.

Damian hated what he had to do. He hated that he had to plug Raven like this. He hated that he knew he had to put her down now. Now.

There was a moment of hesitance, but Damian bit his lip till it bled to keep his focus.

“We need to put Raven in a safe spot,” He said in a clipped manner as he picked Raven up in his arms in a princess carry, “Distract that thing and keep him far away from her.” He continued absent-mindedly as his eyes quickly analyzed the best spot to hide her away.

And at the same time, he recalled her injury. There were no organs that were damaged, that at least is a good thing. And he hoped and prayed-- at that same moment-- that Raven can survive this.

With Damian standing on his full length, Garfield snapped out from his frozen state and had begun to reach out for Raven once again.

“Don’t you dare touch her!” Damian snarled in such an unsightly manner that Garfield remembered the initial fear Damian gave him. Terra did not feel the fear again because she was looking at Garfield with worry and realization. Terra missed to see Damian’s expression and his words did not register in her mind because she knew at that moment while looking at Garfield—that Raven and Garfield will always have history.

Of course, she knew of Raven and Garfield’s relationship and didn’t mind it. Raven was simply his past. Garfield told her that he loves her, and that he would never go back to Raven—if that was something Terra worried about. And he must have kept his word. But the years Raven and him shared was something that could never be erased. And emotions built up throughout those years was something that couldn’t be replaced so easily. To realize such a thing now of all places—

Damian had accidentally hit Terra as he started moving, cutting Terra’s thoughts. For a second her eyes laid on the boy wonder—and to her, she did not see a hero protecting or saving someone. She saw a man holding someone in a way that showed he was too afraid to hold any tighter in fear of losing her. A man refusing to blink, too afraid that it would be his last sight of her and that she would turn into dust any moment now. He held her in such a cautious manner—that it hurt to see him so forlorn like that.

That was something she thought she would never see in Damian Wayne. His body—every cell seemed to radiate a want to not let go of the woman in his arms. A conflict of holding her so tightly so he can remember how it feels to hold her and yet—still, he was a man of responsibility. Despite his desire to just be with her—he knew where he stands—the monster was still there.

Terra quickly turned, refusing to see Garfield’s expression—it was something she did not want to see right now.

“I will cover for you, Damian.” She told him firmly not waiting for a response and simply initiated her suggestion.

Damian sighed loudly in the white room, his forehead resting on his hands that was propped up on the bed beside Raven’s right hand. When they finally got to neutralize the enemy, the first thing Damian did was run to where Raven was. He was so afraid that when he got there, she would be cold and blue.

But she held on.

She held on.

He sighed again, as he turned his head that was resting on his right hand towards Raven.

He begged his father to help him keep her alive, and the first few months—God those were awful. When they arrived to have her healed, nothing was working. Whatever that creature was and what he did, messed with her. He begged his father to do anything—anything. Somehow, they found a way to stabilize her and close the gaping hole in her chest—of course every step was a struggle.

Seeing her with so many tubes and monitors, some advanced tech and some actual alien tech, hurt Damian in a way that a bullet shot could not compare. And he felt so helpless. It was probably the helplessness that hit him even worse than a bullet wound.

Damian Wayne—son of Batman, son of Bruce Wayne, a robin—a boy wonder—an assassin at some point, still a man seen as the heir of the Demon’s Head—felt so powerless despite all the titles and honor and glory those titles held. He still felt powerless.

He held the woman he had loved for years in his arms, and had to leave her in her injured state to defend the world of the very same creature that injured her in the first place. He left her all alone in a corner—not even knowing if she would be alive when he returned. He knew that having someone guard her would be a waste of manpower. He had to think of the bigger picture—because it is his responsibility, he couldn’t put her over that. And a small part of him hates himself for it.

He had seen her struggle to survive day after day, and night after night since then. The rejection her body faced—and his selfishness, thinking—hoping that she would survive it.

And she did.

She survived everything. And most of the tubes and monitors were finally taken away. Of course, she still had an IV drip and a monitor checking her vitals, just in case. Still, it was fifteen less tubes and monitors—and doctors and scientists.

Damian reached out for Raven’s right hand with his left, his palm resting on the back of her hand. He had gotten so used to all the tubes and monitors, that the first week without them was so unfamiliar to him.

Every time he visited her, he expected the tubes and monitors to multiply and revert back to when they couldn’t seem to cure her. Up until just a few weeks ago, he expected that they would return because she would become unstable again. But it never happened. He was so thankful it never happened. He slipped his right hand under hers, his worries just seemed like paranoia.

“Raven, won’t you wake up already?” He muttered as he had gotten used to talking to himself whenever he visited her.

“I still planned to confess to you,” He chuckled emptily “Won’t you at least let me do that?” He brought her hand to his forehead. “Let me be selfish…”

~.~.~.~.~

The door to Raven’s personal room opened, revealing Damian in his robin uniform, his mask off. He walked to her in a slightly slump manner and he took her hands on his and sighed.

“I’m sorry Raven, it appears that I can’t visit you for the unforeseeable future. Something came up.” He looked at her sleeping face sadly.

“Don’t be angry, I try to visit you every day after all, even if it’s just for a couple of minutes, but I never missed a day since you got injured.” He paused a vacant look on his face. “If you ask me, I’m pretty sure they were lenient on my lack of participation in missions recently because I looked as if I had lost a lover.” He laughed in a broken manner.

“It’s funny-- how I am reacting as if I had lost a lover—when we never really got to be together. It would be nice if you wake up—at least let me confess to you clearly. And you can put a rest to my pining.” He didn’t know why, but he felt that he had to rearrange her hair before he left and so he did.

“I will come back, I promise you.” He said as he reluctantly let go of her hand. He refused to look back as he left the room, and took his mask from his utility belt and puts it on.

~.~.~.~.~

The door opened gently again as Damian Wayne in an all-black outfit walked in. He was in his signature black turtleneck. He had on a thin black framed eyeglass on his nose and held a book on his left hand. He had gotten used to opening the door slowly and gently, out of the fear that when he opened the door she wouldn’t be there anymore.

At first, he thought that it was an unreasonable fear, but clearly it was not. He was afraid that the time he wasn’t with her, she would have long been gone. And when he comes to visit, he would be greeted with an empty bed. And he would not be able to even say his farewells.

He closed the door even more gently—because when the door is closed this time was theirs—well his. Because she was still unconscious—still very unaware of his presence.

“Hey Raven, I brought the book I last read to you—I have enough time today to read to you just a few chapters.” He said as he walked to his position beside her. He took a seat on the chair and held her right hand with his right hand. “It would be nice if you woke up soon.” He smiled grimly, the words have started becoming something he said out of habit.

Damian gave her a little recap of what he had read to her before as he held her hand. After that, he continued where he left off, holding her hand when he wasn’t flipping through pages. He read in a slow manner; his mind more aware of the fact that her hand felt so very right against his, instead of the words he was saying aloud.

~.~.~.~.~

Raven was still lying unconscious in the white room, on her white bed. Everything was quiet inside.

“Damian it’s been almost eight months!” Came a voice from outside the room.

“So, what Grayson!” Yelled back the voice of Damian Wayne. He was in an argument right outside of Raven’s room with Dick Grayson, his adopted brother—also known as Nightwing.

“Are you serious Dami?” A pause. “At least let others see her!”

“By others you mean Garfield, right?” A loud bang was heard from inside the room.

“Well—shit, yes! Why won’t you let Gar see her? He has been asking about her or where she is.”

“Don’t you dare bring Garfield to see her—don’t you dare!” A furious reply from Damian as shuffling footsteps were heard.

“Look man, I get it. I really do. But Damian, you can’t just hide her away from her teammates.” Dick said in a tone of anxiousness.

“You see her too.” Was Damian’s quiet response.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” A louder bang entered Raven’s room ending Dick’s words.

“She planned to leave anyway.” Damian said defensively. There was silence for a few seconds and a frustrated humph could be heard from outside the room.

“I—I didn’t think anyone would be able to deal with seeing her in that way—I” Damian paused. “I don’t think they’d want to see her in a coma—I thought it was for the best. I—I’m sorry Grayson, I will let them see her—but—just not Garfield, Grayson. That is all I am asking from you, just not him. He caused her enough pain.” And the door to Raven’s room opened. She still laid there asleep. Damian did not wait for Dick’s reply and he slowly closed the door behind him.

He was in a black button up polo shirt tucked into his black slacks, that was held into place by a black belt with a silver metal piece and he wore his black leather shoes. He looked tired but there was no hint of anger from what had transpired outside Raven’s bedroom.

“You must have heard our little argument, huh?” He said approaching the familiar chair he always sat on when visiting her. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep.” He continued as he sat down on the chair and took her hand in his again. “Of course, I didn’t disturb your sleep, after all you're still unconscious.” A hollow chuckle soon followed.

Damian placed the back of Raven’s hand against his forehead. “You can wake up now. Scold me for being so selfish. For not allowing Garfield to visit you. In fact, for not letting anyone else visit you aside from a select few. But—mostly Garfield. I will not allow him in here too— in this space-- so why don’t you wake up and just tell me how selfish I am.” He tilted his head to look at Raven while her hand was still pressed on the temple of his head.

But as usual there was no response, he was so used to talking to himself by now. At this point, Damian was very convinced that Raven had tried to reach out for Garfield, one last time, before she fainted. And the thought was something that caused him bitterness.

Even in her near-death, Garfield was the last in her mind.

~.~.~.~.~

Damian was sitting on the same chair holding Raven’s hand. Three months have passed since Damian and Dick’s heated argument outside of Raven’s bedroom. He wore a red hoodie with black pants and black shoes. This time around, for the first time, he looked less tired since this whole ordeal happened.

“It looks like you had a lot of visitors this month too.” He glanced at the flowers on both bedside tables, pictures in frames of Raven with the team and other things. Now the room seemed to have a little bit of a personality.

“I think it’s great that you have some visitors. Though I admit, I think that eventually they will come to visit less and less, so I think you should wake up soon. Everyone misses you a lot. I think the longer you stay asleep people would forget about you. Everyone you know is a hero Raven, and even though you stay asleep—we still have to defend the people. Everyone’s priorities will shift and they would have less time to see you. And because they have started settling with your absence, for sure the visits will lessen. But I promise, I will visit you every day until you wake up.” Damian placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand and he froze.

His lips hovering over her hand. He wiped the spot he kissed her at, with his thumb.

“I’m sorry, I should be asking permission. I didn’t—” He stared at the back of her hand. “I’m sorry I don’t know since when I started doing that, but I’m sorry. I overstepped.” He gently placed her hand back on the bed and stood up. “Let’s see what’s in the drawers, shall we?” He muttered to himself and surveyed every nook and cranny and objects in her room, keeping a mental inventory.

“We will be starting a new book soon. I no longer keep track of the books we’ve read.” He said after finishing his inspection of the room and went to sit back on the chair and crossed his arms across his chest.

“Well—I mean I keep track of the titles but no longer itemize them…” He added quietly, he used to count them but stopped at around the fifth book because it seemed like the list would continue to grow. And seeing the number rise would just be another reminder of the fact that the days waiting for Raven to wake was stretching to impossibility.

~.~.~.~.~

It was a little over a year since Raven has been in her comatose state. The room felt heavy and she stirred because of it. Her breathing a little louder—a little labored. Her eyes fluttered open—her vision a blur. She saw two figures at the foot of her bed. The taller one looking at the shorter man. The shorter one was looking at her startled—he seemed to have an odd skin color. She could almost swear it was green. Raven’s eyes started to roll back to unconsciousness.

“Dick, she’s awake!” It was a familiar voice; Raven couldn’t help but think.

“What?” Dick turned to look at Raven, her eyelids slowly closing, her labored breathing slowly quieting down.

“I saw her eyes open; I swear it!” She recognized the voice as Garfield, but knowing who it was did not give her any extra motivation to fight her sleepiness.

“What the fuck is going on here!” Another familiar voice furiously entered Raven’s faltering consciousness. She wanted to wake up—to fight the tiredness she was feeling. But it was simply too late now.

The door had banged open when Damian entered. Damian was still wearing his black outer coat, his shoes dirty as he had just arrived from outside. He had no time to freshen up to visit Raven because he found out what Dick was up to.

When his eyes laid on Garfield who was looking at Raven, he wanted to rip Garfield’s head off. Damian Wayne looked like he was going to pop a vein on his neck. He glared at Dick with such open hostility that Dick was taken aback, and Garfield beside him recalled the fear Damian instilled in him that night Raven got injured.

“Her eyes opened; I saw it!” Garfield said frantically, hoping that would ease Damian’s anger. Damian stole a glance at Raven—but she was at the same state he had last seen her in.

Comatose.

“I asked you one thing, Grayson!” He growled as he slowly stomped his way to Dick whose hands were up in a ‘I surrender’ way. Damian grabbed Dick’s coat collar and pulled him close. “One thing Grayson!” He shoved Dick and pointed at Garfield.

“Look—you can’t continue denying someone who wants to visit a friend.” Dick tried to calm his brother down as he straightened his coat.

“Friend?” Damian snorted in response.

“Look, Damian I begged Dick to bring me to her.” Garfield said and he received Damian’s angry glare.

“Get. Out.” Damian simply said, he looked as though he would kill either of them any second now. For some weird reason Garfield got a little more courage at that moment, he began to open his mouth. Dick seeing Garfield’s lips open—quickly intercepted by pulling Garfield by the arm and pulling him towards the door.

“I’m sorry little D, we will talk about it outside.” Dick said as he draggedGarfield out, giving Garfield a stern look to ensure Garfield’s silence. Garfield wasn’t happy but he understood that Dick was looking out for him.

Damian stood where he was, glaring at Raven as he waited for the door to close behind Dick and Garfield. He was stiff in his spot and his fists clenched so tightly. He was still very much angry. He stood like that for five more minutes before he tried to calm himself down. His fist unclenched and his brows unfurrow.

“So—well, stop pretending then—he's gone now—so wake up.” He demanded in a low voice as he hovered beside Raven near the chair. She did not move. And Damian laughed brokenly as he fell on his knees. He reached out for her right hand absentmindedly and rested his nose on the back of her palm.

“So, it turns out you just needed him to visit you to wake up?” Damian whispered as tears fell on her hand. “So why aren’t you awake already?” He sobbed.

It was never him—she never chose him.

~.~.~.~.~

It had been four months since Garfield had been regularly visiting Raven, and at times he would also bring Terra with him. Damian had conceded Garfield's wish to allow him visitation rights to see Raven. Damian could not stay angry at Dick for over two weeks, and the pair reconciled, despite Dick undermining Damian’s wishes. Damian understood that Dick was looking out for him.

Damian’s family was very much worried over him since Raven’s fall. He acted more detached and unapproachable. He wasn’t sleeping well and every second he could spare he was always hovering over Raven. In fact, he slept well hunched by Raven’s bedside with Raven’s hand against his hands and forehead. Damian was even unwilling to celebrate his twenty-second birthday with Raven still unconscious. And they could see the toll it was taking on Damian.

His family knew he needed a little push to try and let Raven’s state go and pushing Damian to allow Garfield entry was the way to do it. Damian needed to move on.

But here he was again, in the white room he specifically prepared for her. Her accommodations are all arranged by him, and his visits are always a constant. But the past four months were difficult, as he was also actively avoiding having to meet Garfield when Garfield was visiting Raven.

When Damian was able to take a step back from his anger at what Dick did—he knew that his family did it to distract Damian—to keep him away from lurking around Raven. He understood it was made of good intentions. Damian reached out for Raven’s hand, a habit he has come to develop long ago.

He wore a plain white shirt with jeans. His hair was not as neat as it usually was, and there were eyebags under his eyes yet again.

“But I guess I am a man who will only love one person in their lifetime.” He muttered, placing Raven’s hand against his right cheek. “I’ve come to wonder sometimes if I am unfortunate to be such a man—or to fall for you—” he studied her face; he has memorized every detail about her. How could he not when he was here, beside her so frequently.

“I’ve come to learn that loving you is not something to be regretful about. In fact, I am rather thankful for it. But you really got me pining over you, Raven.” He sighed, his eyes not capturing even the smallest of movement from Raven. “I love you.” He whispered and brushed his lips against the skin on the back of her hand.

A week and a half after, Damian paced at the foot of Raven’s bed, very much frustrated. He paused and glared at Raven, running his hands through his head, a sign of his developing anger. He stomped towards his spot as he glared at Raven again.

His hair was a mess, his eyebags had gotten darker. His clothes that was a plain black shirt with jeans had creases, very uncharacteristic of him.

“I don’t get it!” He said, containing most of his anger. “You obviously woke up the first time Garfield visited you! Tsk, as it turns out, all you need was for him to visit you-- for you to wake up. So why did you go back to sleep!” His tone louder now and he sighed to try and dispel a little of his anger. His hand at his side clenched into balls.

Damian was seething in anger, and he exhaled and inhaled in air as if he was palpitating. Finally, the anger he had dissipated. But it was replaced by raw hopelessness, anyone who would see him in such a state, would feel their hearts knot.

“You really—really got me pining over you.” Damian said as he knelt on the floor with a hunched back as he took her right hand in between his palms. “It’s funny how you pined over someone else as I pined over you—it seems that you're making me pine over you just as long as you pined over him.”

The chair he usually sat on was across the room, toppled down. A droplet of water falls in front of Damian’s right knee.

~.~.~.~.~

Two months passed just like that. Raven’s friends had long since stopped visiting her as frequently as they did the first three months. Asking them to take so much time off of their busy hero life was too much to ask for. But Damian always made time for her, and at almost a year and a half the toll of doing so had fully manifested.

He looked so tired, his eye bags are in the darkest shade it had been since the accident. He looked thinner, not scarily thin, but it was obvious he had lost some weight. His clothes were as neat as it could be. His white button up shirt crisp and so is his black slacks. His black leather shoes are very shiny. He placed a lot of effort in his appearance because even he could tell that his health has waned, and he was compensating with his clothes.

When Raven was in ICU for the first three months, he was in such a bad state. When she finally got relatively cured but was in comatose, he looked better-- more relaxed. Then a little after, he had to continue with his responsibilities, particularly as a hero and somehow, he managed. The weight he had initially lost, he had regained and now he had shed perhaps even more than he did at that time.

But now at almost a year and a half of juggling hero life, personal and family life. Being with Raven almost every day since the night she got hurt. To actively avoid Garfield while Garfield was visiting and arranging his own visits to go around Garfield’s visitation, but also keeping to his schedule and preference of seeing Raven on a very regular basis. And Raven still not waking up—Damian was quite spent.

He was sitting on his chair facing Raven’s right hand. His head propped onto his hands which were propped up on his knees. He was looking at Raven’s face blankly, dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t know how much longer he could do this.

Raven’s state was always at the forefront of his mind. And when he was on a mission, he tried to put it as a lesser priority. But when he is near to death his first thought is: If I die who will look after Raven? And so, he fights with every screaming fiber he had, even when he was in such excruciating pain. After all, he still had to see her wake up.

One would think a year and a half wasn’t really a long time—but it did not feel like it has been just over a year for Damian—it felt like he has been waiting for her to wake up for five years.

He had just realized quite recently, just exactly how much stress he had gotten due to all this. And it was taking a major toll on him. He now completely understood why his family was worried about it—about him. Hindsight after all is 20/20 and he now clearly saw exactly how concerning his state was.

There was only one solution. His eyes flickered to Raven—he had not noticed that his gaze had drifted off of her and was surprised when his eyes laid on her again. He sighed and suddenly stood up, and picked up a lock of her hair.

“Raven, your hair has grown quite a bit—it's already at waist length. I thought of having it cut—but I think that should be your decision.” He placed it back down. “If you don’t wake up any time soon—I’m afraid I would have to let you go.” He mumbled to himself as he turned around to lean on the bed and gaze at the ceiling blankly.

Two weeks after, Damian was back in her room, looking even worse. This time he was just standing beside Raven with a very empty gaze. He had been standing there in his black slacks, black dress shoes and a green button up polo shirt for fifteen minutes already.

“I give up Rae.” He looked down on the ground. His words were so soft because he was very much afraid of the implications himself. He knew he had to let her go.

“I—I don’t think I can visit you like this.” He fought the tears as he said his words a little louder. And there was nothing left to say, he just softly touched her hand for a second and pulled away and then looked at her blankly.

A month after Damian’s decision to let Raven go, he realized getting to the conclusion and acknowledging what had to be done and executing his decisions were two completely different things. He was still visiting her in the same consistency that he always had. And he knew he had to fight to break the habit that he had already formed. Seeing her was second nature to him, and he simply had to break it.

~.~.~.~.~

Two months after, Damian was finally able to decrease his visits. And had even met Garfield a few times and actually didn’t mind it. His visit reduction was not really significant but the fact he was able to decrease it at all, was a win for him.

He was in jeans and a red shirt, looking very casual and he looked more unbothered and not so tired. His hands in his pockets as he just stood. For the first time, he looked genuinely relaxed. His gaze at her was soft and the eyebags he had been sporting in different shades, for almost two years, were significantly less dark this time.

“I know I don’t visit often anymore—and you probably can’t tell—aside from the obvious,” A small twinkle in his eyes at the little joke. The fact that he could make a joke like that, spoke volumes of how far he had come. “You really made me pine over you for the duration you pined over Garfield. Nine years—you really made this whole thing come into full circle. You pined for him for nine years and decided to move on completely—but this happens.” He gestured at her generally.

“Now I have pined for you for the same duration, and I have decided to move on too.” He said grimly and the hint of playfulness he had prior was gone. “It really came full circle.”

He just stood to her right with a small smile. He tried his best not to stay so long to visit her nowadays. Damian found that standing was the best option in order for him not to stay longer than he intended.

Damian puts his hand atop Raven’s, he has also avoided holding her hand properly or else he’d find himself sitting on his spot and just holding her hand. He would then talk to her and the intended short visit would become like his regular visits from before.

“I have decided. I am moving on—I am letting you go.” And he pulled his hand away a little too quickly, afraid of the temptation that was the familiarity of her hand against his—or maybe it was his hand against hers. After all, it was always him holding onto her.

His head had looked away to look at the flowers on her bedside tables. He has been talking to her about visiting her less, and letting her go for a few months now. At first it was just a passing thought. But the last two months, it seemed Damian had to tell her every time he visited. He was unaware of how frequent he was telling her that. But in retrospect, he could tell now that he had been dropping hints.

It started from hints, to telling her absentmindedly, to repeatedly telling her every time he visits—until finally he was able to visit less. And because Damian turned his head, he missed the small twitch of Raven’s hand when he pulled his hand away, to look at her bedside tables.

There was silence, as he looked down and closed his eyes. He squeezed his eyes for a moment then sighed as he looked at Raven, a faint smile on his lips. He took a step back, feeling as though he was leaving his heart on this spot. He then turned feeling lonely yet strong and regretful at the same time.

When he was gone, Raven’s eyebrow twitched.

The next day when Damian decided to check on Raven’s condition, he was frozen in fear to see the scientist and doctors hovering over Raven who was attached to so many monitors and tubes.

It was like he had stepped into the time she was brought in to close up her wound. He was unfrozen when she saw her spasming. He ran towards her, as her chest lifted and she was choking, black almost slime like blood came out from her mouth and spilled from her oxygen mask.

“Sir—we need you out of the way.” A doctor pulled Damian away. “Who let this one in!” The doctor added and a nurse took Damian away, trying to console him.

“This is odd—there seems to be no traces of the compound we found last time. But her body is rejecting something.” Damian heard the doctor say, at that moment Raven’s eyes opened and her line of sight fell on Damian’s instantly. Her hand lifted slowly to his direction; her eyes wet as her face slowly turned red from the lack of oxygen. A doctor had already punctured her lungs to assist her in breathing, but black blood was oozing out from it.

“Let me, the fuck go!” Damian yelled as he strongly shoved the nurse off of him. He was normally someone who didn’t do this, but seeing Raven’s face slowly contort to fear and resignation, he actually went against the nurse. He remembered when she was in ICU for the first few months he observed quietly from the distance, but he couldn’t now.

“Raven!” He called out as he knelt on the floor and held her right hand that she had stretched out. “I promise, I will not leave you. So, you have to fight this!”

She squeezed his hand in hers as best as she could as her eyes closed and a tear slipped from her eye.

“Sir—I’m sorry but you are being a distraction.” A bulky man approached Damian, giving him no choice but to let go of Raven’s hand and put his hands up as he slowly left the room.

“She’s—I heard the subject has powers—” A person in a lab gown said, perhaps a scientist.

“Patient.” A doctor cuts off the scientist.

Before Damian was shoved out of the room, he stole a glance of Raven, her hand was glowing a faint purple black hue. And it seemed that she could breathe.

“Sir—there seems to be something appearing—” And that was the last thing Damian heard before the door was shut close in front of him.

Two weeks later Raven was finally stable but still in a coma. They were fighting with her condition for those two weeks—cross referencing and analyzing data, finding and testing out new information. And everything has now calmed down. He was only allowed entry today after the stunt that he pulled.

Damian was sitting on his chair, holding her hand. He wore a white t-shirt with many creases. His hair is a slightly better case compared to his shirt. And the outfit was complete with a plain pair of jeans and casual shoes. And to top it all off, his eyebags had become darker again.

”You really scared me. God, I forgot how afraid I was of losing you recently—you really know how to make someone remember, huh?” He muttered as he put her hand against his forehead, he was shaking a bit, as he fought his tears. And he felt her hand twitch against his—and he choked as he looked at her face.

Her eyes were still close but for the first time, he actually felt her react. In two years, she finally moved. He smiled tightly and nodded his head. He brought her hand against his lips and softly kissed her hand.

“You reached out to me that night, didn’t you?” He put her hand against his cheek as he turned his head towards her again. “You have to wake up and clarify that to me.” And he heard her loudly inhale.

For the first time in months, he finally had hope that she would wake up. “I promise you; I will wait for you to wake up. This time, I will not break this promise.”

~.~.~.~.~

The door suddenly opened with a panic stricken Damian. He was unable to take off his outer coat and change into cleaner shoes because he heard a crash from generally where Raven’s room was located, on the second floor, when he had just entered the building.

“Raven!” He called out his fear practically at the base of his throat.

When he heard the loud crash, he feared for the worst. His eyes at first saw an empty bed, and his heart almost jumped out of his chest. The vase on her right bedside table with flowers had shattered on the floor. He quickly searched for Raven, and exhaled deeply when he spotted her at the foot of her bed. She was holding onto her bed with great difficulty. Her eyes observed Damian wearily.

He approached her, thinking that maybe this was a dream.

“Raven.” He whispered when he was two feet away, her violet eyes did not show any recognition at seeing Damian. He picked her up and carried her in his arms, and despite not recognizing him at first, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Damian.” She whispered and he squeezed him back. She rested her forehead on his shoulder, as he carried her back to her bed. He set her down gently as he pulled away, she grabbed his right hand.

“It feels so perfect.” She gently told him, and Damian was startled by her words. A smile slowly formed and he found himself chuckling.

“I’ve been here almost every day, holding your hand. Maybe your hand molded into mine—” He shook his head. "Or maybe the other way around.”

“I—my memory is kind of fuzzy,” Raven said as she laid back in bed. “But I know you, I remember you. I heard you so often. It became scary when you weren’t there.” Her eyes started to flutter, she seemed a little bit too tired. But she continued to hold his hand until she fully fell into slumber, to which her grip loosened.

Damian took the opportunity to call the doctors and scientist to inform them of her condition.

When she awoke again the doctors, scientists and Damian were talking.

~.~.~.~.~

A month after, Raven was already walking by herself inside her room. She started walking around the villa quite recently. But she has not been able to walk outside yet. She found that once the door to go outside the villa was opened, her knees would buckle. So, for the past month she was mostly roaming indoors.

She had found out that this was one of Bruce Wayne’s properties, and Damian had asked for the property. Damian was someone who would never ask anything of anyone if he could do it himself, so it was surprising to everyone that Damian had asked for this villa. And because of that Bruce granted Damian the property, if not for that, in the very least to give Damian some peace of mind. At least then Damian would know Raven had a place to stay and would not be kicked out if he so much as vanished.

She also found out that Damian did not spare any expense in her recuperation and that her situation was quite odd. The creature’s origin could not be quite narrowed down, thus its effects on her were up on the air. But that was where the doctors and scientists and all the tech was for, alien tech included. With the collective resources provided, they were able to make something to assist Raven’s condition.

“Raven, I think you should really try to get out.” Damian said as he walked in. He looked so happy seeing her, just standing by the window gazing out. She turned her head to smile at him.

He looked better—in fact the happiest and relaxed he had ever been in two years. His clothes were pressed well, it was a casual attire, and he had no hint of any kind of weariness. No more eyebags, and his eyes no longer looked so dead.

“If you go with me, I can try.” She responded, she had not seen him in two weeks due to his busy schedule, with the team and talking to her doctors and scientists. Him learning and relearning everything about her condition since she got attacked, and he also had family matters, he didn’t really have time to be with Raven recently and she understood.

She kept herself busy by building her physical strength through walking within the walls of Damian’s villa. She also used the time to comb through her thoughts.

“Okay.” He agreed as he offered her his right hand and she accepted it with both her hands. Until now he couldn’t believe that she was awake.

“I really thought I was dreaming when you woke up a month ago.” He confessed again as he sighed and led her to the door.

“I’m here. Everything is still a bit fuzzy. But I know you—I trust you. Your Damian.” Raven responded unhurriedly as she placed a hand on his arm.

Fifteen minutes later, Damian came in with Raven in his arms weeping.

“I—I can’t… it—it…” And she wept.

“I’m sorry, we will take it step by step. I will be here if you ever want to try and go outside.” He comforted her as he placed her on her bed. She nodded as he wiped away her tears.

“I thought I was going to die—” She sobbed. “There was something I wanted to do… I don’t—” Another sob, “I don’t recall what.”

He held her hands and then she suddenly froze on the spot. She looked at him in the eyes, and she blinked as the tears fell. “I didn’t want to leave you.”

And this time it was his time to freeze on the spot. Raven pulled her hands away from his, and she placed her fingertips on either side of his face.

“I was afraid that I didn’t have enough time with you. I wanted to know you more.” Her vision seemed to go back to that night. “I wanted to be with you.” She absent-mindedly brushed her lips against his. And when the pressure registered in her brain, she pulled away, an apology at the tip of her tongue.

Raven was surprised to feel an even heavier pressure against her lips. And she returned the kiss as well as deepened it. She noted how she was reacting very naturally over the situation, and how inexperienced Damian was. And she pulled away.

“Is this your first kiss?” She asked him. And he looked away with a small blush on his face.

“It’s—I’m very inexperienced with dating…” He admitted, and she observed him as she wiped her tears.

“I’m assuming, I have dated before.” She replied impartially.

“Yes, Garfield.” He responded blankly, and when the name came off Damian’s mouth, he saw her expression soften. His eye twitched as he looked away. He suddenly felt her hands against his, making him turn to look at her again.

“Gar… field…” She muttered, his hand clenching at the way she called his name. “Was he the only one I dated?” Damian nodded in response.

“I see…” She said with furrowed brows. “My head is aching a bit. I think I should rest…” Raven lets go of Damian’s hands.

“Can we try going outside again tomorrow?” Damian was pulled out from his reverie with the inquiry, surprise in his eyes.

“Of course, I would love that.” She smiled at his response.

“Can you—” She looked at him hesitatingly. “Can you hold my hand when we do?”

He was even more shocked to hear those words, and he smiled as he placed a hand on her cheek. “Of course, Raven.”

“I would like to date you, Damian.” Raven stared at Damian, who just pulled his hand away from her cheek and straightened his posture as he looked away.

“Your memory isn’t like what it was Raven, I think it’s too early to say that.” His response wasn’t something she enjoyed but Raven pressed her lips together and did not push him.

She didn’t recall her love for Garfield at the moment and assuming she would choose Damian when she does recall, would be too much of wishful thinking on Damian's part.

~.~.~.~.~

The sun was setting and the white room was filled with an orange hue from the setting sun outside. Raven and Damian had just arrived from walking outside. This time around she was able to stay outside longer without having flashbacks of the night she got stabbed. It was great progress. But she always held Damian as if he was the only remaining lifeboat in an open, turbulent ocean.

Damian and Raven were continuing a pleasant conversation they had outside in her bedroom, when suddenly the door opened.

“Raven!” Garfield came in with such a relieved look on his face, his eyes expectant as he searched for her. Damian and Raven’s happy conversation grew stale as they turned their head to the door.

“Raven!” He called out again when his eyes landed on her but Raven remained in place. “Of course, you wouldn’t tell me she is awake!” Garfield added with a glare to Damian, whose head was casted down.

“Tsk, Greyson.” He muttered, Greyson right behind Garfield but was hidden from Damian’s line of sight. Despite Damian’s head casted down, he took note of Raven’s reaction.

She was still, she stood in place, but Damian could tell, she was so close to running to Garfield and hugging him. And all Damian could do was squeeze his eyes shut, as he inhaled softly while clenching his fists.

Seeing Garfield, Raven felt like her soul from inside her was vibrating with excitement. And yet, at the same time it felt as though a thin layer of frost blanketed her entire body, and it was enough to render her frozen. Despite her deep desire to hug Garfield, her feet were so heavily planted on the floor, that she didn’t even move an inch. Her breathing was shallow and unhurriedly soft, and she just focused on that.

The days had passed so pleasantly after Raven woke up that Damian had thought that he had a place in her heart. But seeing her like this, he knew—Garfield still outweighs him.

“Get out.” Raven said, to which Damian snapped his head to Raven’s direction, who had simply turned her back and walked to the window. “All of you.”

Damian wanted to say something, his fists curling and uncurling by his sides, but he saw her stiff figure with crossed arms as she stubbornly looked outside. He was the last to leave.

He came back a few hours later, to see Raven sitting by the windowsill looking outside.

“He hasn’t left has he?” She whispered hoarsely not looking at who entered. Damian shook his head as he replied, even though she would not see it.

“His downstairs, hoping you’d at least see him.” He got no response, but she tilted her head.

“I didn’t see him leave.” She muttered vacantly.

“I’m here to convince you to eat dinner.” And Raven turned to look at him, a frown on her face.

“Okay,” She sighed. “But you are eating with me.”

Damian was startled at hearing this, a second passed before the words sunk in.

“Alright.” He blinked at her.

“Here.” She added and he told her that he would be back, as he left for a moment to get them their dinner.

When he arrived with food, they sat on a pub table that was added a little after Raven woke up. It could only sit two people, and it was made of some nice honey brown wood. The cushions of the chair are red and its frame is made of the same wood as the table. It was rather small for two people, but they made do.

Raven was vacantly playing with her food while Damian observed her with a frown. He had not yet scolded her for not eating, as he was giving her just a little more time.

With a sigh she said, “It’s odd, when I saw him, it felt like I just realized the world was a puzzle with missing pieces, and his presence just made all the missing pieces appear on it’s designated places. He was familiar, he was someone I knew—love, maybe even… but something didn’t sit well with me. I didn’t want to approach him. And I didn’t want him to approach me.” Damian just listened as she said her piece.

The two were enveloped in a tranquility that evidently belonged to them, and them alone. They felt secured in each other’s presence and there was no response needed.

~.~.~.~.~

It took Raven three days to be able to even meet Garfield. The sun was setting, and from Raven’s window, one could see Raven talking with Garfield. They were sitting on a bench facing the sunset, their backs facing the window in Raven’s room.

So, it was a given that the two did not see Damian observing them from the window. He did not look upset nor joyful with the scene he was seeing. But once Garfield placed a hand on Raven’s hand, and she tilted her head a bit towards Garfield, you could see Damian’s face slowly turn into unpleasantness.

When the minutes passed, and Garfield nor Raven had not pulled away from one another, his face contorted to wanting to storm out from Raven’s room to standing still and just holding his breath—just hoping and wishing—that she had not chosen Garfield.

But the minutes continued to pass, and Garfield’s hand continued to rest on Raven’s hand. And Raven glanced at him with a smile forming on her lips. And Damian couldn’t help but think that despite Raven having difficulties in leaving the building with him, if it was Garfield with her—of course it would be easier for her to be outside with him-- with Garfield.

And Raven started closing in on the space between her and Garfield, and Damian did not want to see that. So, he turned around quickly, and he stood with his back against them, as he flexed his fists, and sighed. He had hurried to see her; he had gone through the garage so he was unable to see them in the yard. Once he got into her room, and she wasn’t there, Damian absentmindedly walked to the window. That was when he saw her and Garfield together on a bench, looking like lovers.

He wondered how long he stood by the window looking at them. He closed his eyes and sighed again, by the end of the day it was never him. He walked to the door without looking back.

A few days later, Raven is pacing her room anxiously. She had not seen Damian in days, she worried he saw her and Garfield the other day and that was why he was nowhere to be seen. But she wanted to explain to him what he had seen wasn’t what he thought. She had to tell him.

And she could feel the panic go up onto her throat. She sat on her bed, facing the door. She had refused to step out of her room after she talked to Garfield—not without Damian. She could not find the strength to go out of her room after her chat with Garfield.

Raven buried her hands on her face as the tears started to stream from her eyes. All she could see under her closed eyes, was the time—that night, when she reached out for Damian. The pain when that black spike hit her sternum.

She recalled her desire to be with Damian, but right now she felt it so very intensely that she was afraid. She was so afraid that she had lost that chance. And the door opened, and in an instant she was up on her feet with wide eyes. Seeing that it was Damian, she sobbed as she ran towards Damian and tackled him with a hug.

He was startled and it took a moment for him to realize that she was hugging him so tightly. He gently returned her hug.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back. I was so scared.” She wept on the nook of his shoulder, her feet not even touching the floor.

“I’m sorry for worrying you.” He replied softly, and tightened his hold on her as he set her down a bit so that she could touch the floor. They stood like that for a moment.

Raven eventually pulled away and tried to collect her bearings. She wiped her tears and looked at Damian in the eyes. On the other hand, he was wishing she hadn’t pulled away-- maybe that was the only time he could hold her like that. And she reached for his hands and it felt so right.

“When Gar came, and guided me outside, I couldn’t find the strength to step through the door. All I could think about was that I need you. I need you to hold my hand as I step outside. While that night kept flashing through my mind. But he held my hand—and it felt so familiar. And all my fears just vanished.” She looked down on their feet. “And I found myself outside—with him.” There was guilt in her face and on the tone of her voice. And Damian honestly did not want to hear what she had to say next. But she held his hands tighter, making him decide to just keep quiet. A small smile formed on her lips as tears fell and splatter on the floor.

“I forgot the time I was injured, till the time before he held my hands. It felt like I could breathe again.” Damian’s right eye twitched, he wondered what was her point. She suddenly flicked her head to look at him, and he was startled.

“He will always be someone that matters to me, we will always have history. I have loved him for nine years, we shared so many memories—so many firsts. But I do not want to be with him. I want to be with you. And I know I am asking a lot, but if all these don't bother you—I would love it, if you would date me.” But she was greeted with silence. “I want you. I want to be with you.” She softly added, her confidence fading.

“I don’t mind.” He said so softly, but Raven didn’t hear it.

“If that is an issue for you, then I completely understand.” She continued on.

“I don’t mind.” He repeated.

“I know it’s been two years, and that there must have been someone you became interested in. Or maybe you’ve even dated a bit. I know we don’t talk about it, but I get that—” She squeezed her eyes, her tone ready to break in a sob.

“Raven, I want to be with you.” He cupped her cheek and tilted her head towards him. She looked at him with the slightest hint of distrust. “I’ve always wanted to be with you—I waited for you.” He said, being able to say those words felt like such a relief to Damian. And the tears started falling from Raven’s eyes as the distrust was washed away.

“I almost gave up, I admit that.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at her anymore. She cupped both of his cheeks.

“If I were in your place, even I would waver.” She told him, trying to catch his dodging eyes. When she finally was able to lock her eyes with his, she added. “Garfield will always have some meaning to me—his all I have known for nine years, even before sleeping for two years—my history with him is half of my life. I was afraid. I thought he was the only one who could possibly love someone like me—I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. I want my next memories and moments-- with you. And slowly those memories I had, and my history with him, will just be a fraction of my life. I want you. I want every possible milestone with you, Damian.”

He slowly nodded, and when Raven’s eyes registered the nod, he couldn’t help but smile and chuckle. But she looked like she was going to cry out of happiness and disbelieve. This time she has chosen him.

“I never thought this day would happen.” He leaned in to rest his forehead against hers, and a soft smile formed on her lips. And they shared the moment in silence. After a while, Damian talks.

“I was afraid to ask, or open up about this, especially since you were still recuperating—and your memories are fuzzy. But who would have thought you would catch me by surprise and open up the topic yourself?” Raven took the opportunity to plant a kiss on his lips, and he conservatively kissed back to which she deepened the kiss. And she pulled away recalling Damian’s inexperience last time.

“We will take it step by step. I might still remember more about Garfield, and I might get a little confused. But remind me that I chose you since that night.” She leaned her forehead against his, eyes locked with one another. Damian’s eyes flickered with surprise and the confirmation that she chose him that night, made his eyes soften with the acknowledgement. He caressed her face with his thumb.

“I finally caught up to you.” He whispered, a giggle bubbling up on the base of Raven’s throat.

~.~.~.~.~

A few months later, the white sterile room was no longer white nor empty. Raven had flipped the room with Damian’s help and approval. Its walls were now a soft lilac color. The room’s furniture was either accented with white, glass or silver metals. And the ceiling was littered with little crystals, that once the lights were off, would illuminate like stars in different colors. The medical bed swapped for a king sized bed. Her sheets were navy blue and white.

“Raven, are you ready?” Damian’s voice came from outside her open door. She turned in her white fitted dress with the thinnest spaghetti straps. Her long hair that passed her waist was tied into a fishtail braid.

“Of course!” She replied happily, as she ran towards the door, and tackled Damian with a hug and giggled.

“Excited for our brunch?” He teased.

“Absolutely!” She replied without missing a second.

Later that night they were in her bedroom. Damian sat on her bed and she was kneeling over his lap. Raven’s hair slowly unravelling from its braid. Their lips have been intertwined with one another for minutes now. He had one hand on her waist and the other on her thigh, a bit too afraid to rest it on her bum. While her hands were on his neck and on his chest.

Raven broke off the kiss, and started kissing his neck.

“If we’re going too fast, you can tell me.” She muttered in between kisses. But when she did not hear any response, she pulled away to look at him.

“I know Garfield and I had a lot of firsts together, if that bothers you…” Damian broke away from his dazed state and looked at her questioningly.

“I admit, at first it did,” His eyes followed his hand as it traveled from her thigh to her waist which he caressed. “Thinking of how he knows how to please you…” He looked back at her conflicted eyes. “But that just means I have to learn how to please you my way. You two were together for so long—it would be a given that I’m not your first. That is alright. But you are mine.” He admitted a small blush on his face. And she smiled as she kissed his eye and trailed kisses to his jawline. He was being brought back to his dazed state.

“I feel honored.” She whispered in between her kisses. And she playfully bit his ear after. Damian was startled and grabbed her butt and she gasped.

“Then I will take the lead then.” She whispered alluringly by his ear, as her hands travelled under his shirt. Her braid was completely undone at this point, soft black wavy waist length hair cascading down her head.

FIN.

Bonus Scene:

Garfield and Raven were outside on the yard and they had been talking for hours that the sun had finally begun to set.

“You know, when I woke up, I couldn’t find myself to walk out of my room. Eventually, I was able to overcome it. But I found that it was so difficult to step outside the villa. All I could see was that night and being stabbed, and the last person I saw.” Raven confessed and Garfield placed a hand on hers to comfort her.

“But Damian was there, he guided me and stayed with me as we walked outside.” A small smile on her lips. “I always held him like I was in open water and he was the lifeboat. I was afraid of losing him. I mean, I still am. I still hold him so tightly, because I’m afraid that it would be my last chance with him. I thought I was going to die that night, Gar.”

“But when you offered your hand and held me, after you said you knew of my condition—my fear outside.” She glanced at the open area. “I forgot how afraid I was of going outside. It was like my fears these few months were nothing but a phantom. You were always associated with love and happy memories for me. But you and I both know, Gar, we were imperfect. We were destructive. We had become unhappy together for a very long time.” And she glanced at him fully.

“I want to say goodbye.” She finally said, and Garfield looked at her gently as Raven extended her arms to hug him. “I want to start a new romance—with Damian.” She whispered as they embraced one another.

“I wish you two happiness.” Garfield said as he pulled away.

“Yes, thank you.” She looked back at Damian’s villa. “I was so afraid I would lose him, I still do now, it's why I always hold him tightly whenever we go outside.” She looked back at the sunset that was facing them.

“I held on because of him—I’m sure it was him, I could feel his hand and hear him every now and then, until all I knew was his presence.” She mumbled mostly to herself.

Alternate (timeline) Ending:

Damian was asleep on the table, and had woken up with a jolt, all teary eyed.

“Damian, what’s wrong?” Raven said as she approached the table.

“I had a dream, you got injured and you were in a coma.” He replied. And he tells her what happened in his dream.

Alternate’s Alternate Ending: (Reciprocate timeline)

“I had a dream, you got injured and you were in a coma.” He replied as Raven sat down beside him. She gently places a hand on his, as she smiles softly.

“Damian, that did happen.” She replied unhurriedly.

35 notes · View notes

poptod · 3 years

Text

The Breeding Kings, pt. 14, (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: And the blame.

Notes: WC: 5.6k

Crimson painted his clothes as Batnoam fell to his knees, rushing to support his uncle's limp neck. Abdhamon's mouth gaped open as his head lolled to the side, the whites of his eyes rolling back to expose red veins, crawling up to his cloudy iris. A sharp gasp tore through you as you saw this. Batnoam cradled the corpse in his arms, calling his name again and again but never crying. No, he shook the weak shoulders, as though he were trying to wake the man up, not hug him.

Ahkmen grabbed you by the waist, pulling you close with the sudden realization that someone here killed Abdhamon. Someone stabbed him, someone was capable of murder, and he only knew five out of twenty-plus people, and even those relationships were no more than a scant introduction.

Others around him had the same idea––people grouped into each other, drawing closer to those they trusted and staring wide-eyed at anyone they distrusted. Murmurs ran through the crowd as Batnoam finally raised himself to his feet.

"How did this happen," he said, his voice trembling and low.

The mumbles disappeared into silence.

"Who did this?!" He barked louder, causing you to flinch back into Ahk's hold.

"Calm down, Batnoam," Ahk said softly.

"Don't tell me what to do!" He seethed, his hands curling into fists. "Someone here did this. We're four days' travel from any city."

Ahk's grip on your shoulders grew tighter.

"None of you are leaving till the murderer steps forward," said Batnoam as he met the eye of every listener.

"We don't have enough food to just stay here," Khawa said, stepping forward. "We need to keep moving."

"I'll starve all of you out," Batnoam growled. "I don't care how long it takes."

Frightened words poured from the mouths of onlookers, panicked by the sudden proclamation.

"My people need to be in Babylon within the week, we can't afford this kind of break," interrupted one of the women standing beside the Egyptian soldier Makko had warned Ahk about.

"You think I can afford the death of my uncle?" Batnoam responded bitterly.

"I don't –"

"No one is leaving. I want all of you inside this tent, now," Batnoam said as he drew out his sword, pointing everyone towards the white tent that the corpse of Abdhamon bled out under.

Awkward looks were followed by shuffling as Batnoam barked the order again, thrusting the curved blade towards the group. Ahk backed both of you away, rushing you into the tent and pulling you to the furthest corner, and sitting down quietly in hopes of avoiding suspicion.

Over time with you, Ahk slowly realized you only rarely initiated touch with him or anyone, but now you were pressing yourself against him, nearly sitting in his lap. You were wrapped around his arm, your legs half propped up on his own crossed legs.

"We'll do this organized," Batnoam said, watching carefully and counting those seated. "Clean. Fair. Unlike the coward who took Abdhamon in the night instead of facing his opponent like a man."

Ahk grimaced.

"I want you all to pick a representative," he said. "Someone you believe will protect your innocence, should you have it."

You and Ahk looked to each other.

"Do we.. both go up?" He asked softly.

"Do not ask me," you said, raising your hands defensively.

"Hey," someone whispered, tapping you on the shoulder.

You turned and Ahk followed as they tapped his shoulder, as well.

"You can go with us," Makko suggested, gesturing to his group.

"Who's speaking for you?" Ahk asked.

"Khawa."

"Absolutely," Ahk agreed without hesitation. He then turned to you and said in a much softer voice, "right? Is that alright?"

"Yes, that is good," you said quietly, your gaze darting between him, Makko, and Batnoam.

"Okay. Are you feeling alright?"

"Well..." you sucked in a breath as you looked up at him, "no. I do not see... the dead very much."

"Ah," he mumbled.

It was understandable––he was, in a way, desensitized to violence, and found himself more comfortable around it than many others were, but still less comfortable than people such as. He had never been sure whether or not you'd seen the actual death of your family members, and going by your current reaction he'd venture to guess you hadn't. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure what was worse; seeing your parents killed, or having them go missing without a single trace, like they'd never existed in the first place.

He began to wonder about Batnoam, about his parents, if he'd lost them and that was why he was with his uncle now. Batnoam was old enough to be on his own––a little over 20 years old––but that didn't mean he was self-sufficient.

Those thoughts, those questions, left his mind as you curled further into him, feeling your rapidly beating heart through his arm clutched to your chest. He shuffled to try and hold you.

"Don't worry," he murmured, his lips pressed to the top of your head. "I'll keep us safe."

How he would do that he had no idea, but he was assured he would sooner walk into the ocean than leave you defenseless.

Both of you fell asleep, leant against each other until someone knocked Ahk's supporting hand with their foot, collapsing your fragile tower. Ahk looked up in a blunder, recognizing Khawa above him holding a torch.

"What is –" you mumbled as you sat up, before being interrupted.

"I am to question all of you," she said, looking to each of her counterparts, and then to you.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Ahk sighed. "This is going to take forever. The desert isn't exactly a safe place to hold a murder investigation."

"I am fully aware of that, Aganu," she said sternly. "What would you do?"

He had no reply, which was in itself its' own answer. He shrunk into himself and crossed his arms, relenting to Khawa, who nodded her head curtly before beginning with Eshai.

Each interview took hours, leaving the whole of the caravan cooped up, cramped, and irritable. Rumors spread easily beneath the white tent, even into the next morning. Khawa only managed to get through three people by sunrise, leaving you and Ahk to scuff the dirt floor, Ahk braiding short, curled strands of your hair, and you petting your cat curled up after a long night of wandering. Almost all the mud from the dead sea was gone by now, but it still left traces of red in the locks.

Shirat had been plucking her lute for the past couple hours, though there was no melody or rhythm to the notes, and she played very quietly so as to not draw attention. Eshai didn't have that same aptitude, and paced for the hours following his interrogation. Similarly, Makko couldn't stop talking, spouting theories and worries without thought.

"Vhat do you think he will do to whoever did zis?" He asked in a quiet voice, broken by his relentlessly bouncing leg.

"I don't know, Makko," Ahk said, the same thing he said for the last six questions.

"Maybe.. he vill cast zem into the desert?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe he vill just kill zem," he shrugged.

"Well... where does he come from?" Ahk asked, his hands falling from your hair as he focused onto Makko.

"I don't think he ever said," Makko said, pulling at his lip with tense fingers. "He might have said zat he was on the Euphrates, but I do not know for surely."

"That's mostly Babylonian, isn't it?"

Makko shrugged, his eyes falling to the ground.

"They're eye for an eye types," Ahk said quietly.

"... I hope so," Makko mumbled, earning a surprised look from Ahk. He quickly explained himself with, "I do not trust those who can take a life."

"I don't blame you," he said as he returned to your hair, continuing with the small, half-done braid hanging near your ear.

Once his arms tired of holding up his hands, he dropped them into your lap, shifting to wrap himself around your torso from the back. He rested his chin on your shoulder, taking in your scent deeply till he leant on your cheek.

"Be needing something?" You asked with a halfhearted chuckle.

"No," he sighed, enjoying how wholly he could wrap around you, hiding you from sight. "Just a little tired."

"You did sleep," you said.

"A little," he said with a small nod. "Not going to sleep for a while after this."

"Oh. You will still help me to get sleep, yes?" You asked, twisting to try and face him, only to bump your nose with his and turn rapidly away in embarrassment.

"Yeah," he mumbled, slowly resting his chin back on your shoulder as you tried to breathe. "Of course."

Khawa returned with the last of her own people, her attention then turning to Ahk, who was still wrapped around you and dozing uneasily. You nudged him after noticing her look.

"Your turn, Egyptian," she said, turning to leave, leading him to a corner of the abandoned edges of camp, where no one could hear them speak.

He gulped through a tight throat as he sat down on a boulder, his knees pressed tight together and his hands intertwined neatly in his lap. Khawa spared him little mercy, sitting down across from him with a seething look, her glare burning through his consciousness. He hadn't done anything––at least not to his knowledge––but she already had him sweating bullets.

"How had you met this group?" She began with, never blinking even once while Ahk tried to stutter out an answer.

"Batnoam, um.. he and Yogi were talking in one of the shops at Jericho, and, uh... they found out we were going the same direction, so Batnoam introduced us to his uncle," he said, fidgeting with the growing tail end of his hair.

"And how did you meet Yogi?"

"In Egypt," he said with a nod. "My friend introduced us, they worked at the school I attended."

"Why are you travelling through the desert?"

"We're trying to find Yogi's home. They weren't... they aren't safe in Egypt. Yogi thinks Harappa will be better for them," he answered quietly.

"Why is it not safe in Egypt for them?"

"I'm... honestly.." he trailed off as he tried to recall what exactly had spurred the escape on, as there were several occurrences leading up to the decision. "Yogi kept trying to learn what the priests were teaching me and some of the other noble's children, and the soldiers didn't like that, so... I, um, I found them locked beneath the palace."

"Because they were trying to... learn?" She asked with an odd look.

"I know," he said, sighing. "I never claimed Egypt had great ideas when it comes to immigrants and the poor."

"No one really does," she said quietly.

A moment of silence passed before the questions resumed, continuing into the late morning when Khawa finally returned Ahk to the tent. The walk back was equally as silent, Ahk's hands curled into anxious fists even as he sat back down next to you, calming only with your touch on his thigh.

"Are you good?" You asked, your eyes flickering all over his body as though you were searching him for wounds.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, looking away.

"Yogi," a quiet voice said from above, nudging you on the leg. You neck craned up to Khawa. "I need to ask you questions, too."

"Oh," you said, glancing around before picking Sephys carefully off of your lap, and placing her in Ahk's.

Khawa offered you her hand, pulling you up when you took it. You cleared your breath, brushed your clothes of dust and hair, and followed Khawa out of the tent, glancing back to Ahk with a tented brow tight with anxiousness. He had to bite his cheek to avoid following after that look.

She asked you the same questions––why you were there, how you'd come across the troupe, and how you met your companion. You answered to the fullest extent till Khawa leaned in, her tone sobering further as distant conversation muttered in the wind.

"Have you met Aganu's family?" She asked.

"No," you said. "He has not seen my family, too."

She stared at you, seemingly gauging your expression.

"Is he... violent?"

"Not as I have seen," you said, shaking your head.

"And his friends? Have you met them?"

"Yes, they are... full of money, but good people," you said.

Another moment of silence passed before she relented with, "alright. We can go now."

When you returned, you sat back down next to Ahk, earning his attentive worry.

"Did she rattle you?" He asked, scanning you much like you'd scanned him when he came back.

"No, I am good," you chuckled, gently pushing away his tight-gripped hands.

"What did she ask you?"

"Please do not talk about your interviews with each other," Khawa said in a stern but low voice, looking up from the wooden pipe in her hands.

"Sorry," you said instinctively.

"What've you got there?" Ahk asked, squinting as he tried to make out the pipe's intricate details marking up and down the pipe.

"Azullu," she said, pinching more of an herb from an antelope-skin bag, and stuffing it into the bowl end of the pipe, where a crescent moon was carved.

"What is it?" You asked as Ahk shuffled forward on his knees.

He peeked into the small, drawstring bag, to where ground leaves had been dried and turned into a green herb. With a whiff, he easily recalled the scent.

"Hey, we've had this before," he said, nudging you without looking away from the bag.

"We have?"

"It does have many names," Khawa said, shrugging.

"Shemshemet, the, uh..."

"Ohh, the shemet!" You said with the biggest grin he'd seen all night and day.

"They say it is bhang, in Harappa," Makko informed you, glancing briefly away from his embroidery; a long, white sheet half in his lap and half in Eshai's, the both of them sewing tiny beads of faience to the silk fabric.

"You know about my home?" You asked, your excitement giving way for shock (albeit still excited shock). You were practically beaming, leaning closer to Makko who sat across from you in the small circle.

"A little," he said with a nod. "I learned about it while.. working in a library."

"You worked in a library?" Ahk asked.

"Well –"

"You can read, then?" You asked, your eyes growing wider as you expectantly awaited his answer.

"A little," he said again, this time more subdued.

"Alright, I would like some help starting a fire," Khawa stated suddenly as she stood, her pipe in hand.

"Why?" Caifas asked in almost a whine.

"It's already so hot," Eshai added quietly in the Akkadian language.

"Fine. You want to wait to have this?" She gestured to the pipe. "Then you can wait until the night."

She sat back down, her words bringing a dead stop to the conversation held in the circle of seven. In the middle of the silence Ahk's heart began to pound, overflowing with a sudden worry considering the sanity of Batnoam's methods. Food had been his main concern, but now that he thought of it, no one there had any access to water. At all. He dug his uncut nails into his palm, digging in deeper than he'd ever been able to with polished and clean nails.

"How long do you think Batnoam will keep us here?" He asked softly, staring at the ground and addressing no one in particular.

"I do not know," Khawa said in a strained voice.

"We are in a drought, aren't we? We probably aren't going to get more water until we reach Terqa," Ahk said with strained hands.

"I do not think Batnoam cares," you murmured, looking behind you.

Ahk followed your gaze to the distant form of Batnoam, towering over the tiny bushes growing in the somewhat moist area of the desert. He was searching through the tents and tarps, tearing apart beds and campfires in search of something, something which he could apparently not find.

"You are right," you said to him quietly. "We do need to travel alone."

"No, we just need to travel in smaller groups," he said, hoping his words would be of some comfort to you.

You didn't verbally respond, but you leant your head on his shoulder and sighed deeply. He revelled in that touch.

The morning passed into noon and into night, at which time Ahk realized he'd only taken two swallows of water throughout the whole day. His tongue could barely move from the roof of his mouth and he was rubbing his eyes incessantly, partially from the wind that blew burning sand into them, and partially because they were already dry to begin with. Batnoam made no progress, but the people who sat beneath his sword were growing antsy.

Perhaps the only good part of the day finally progressing into the evening was that the seven of them now had a good excuse to light a fire. One could not see the stars sitting beneath a tent, so with Batnoam's permission you went to gather bits of brush and sticks, bringing them back to Khawa's seat.

Once she was satisfied she began to light the fire, muttering incantations to herself in languages neither of you could understand. Instead of asking, you pulled Ahk back down to his own seat, and enjoyed the slow process of creating and taming fire. He moved to find Batnoam, but you pulled him down before he could stand and intertwined your hand with his. That kept him unbreakably near to you.

The fire easily burnt through bits of leaves and soft fibers, glowing just long enough to light the larger parts of wood on fire, as well. Soon the campfire was crackling away, lighting up the darkened tent and allowing Khawa to finally pull the packed pipe out from underneath her robes.

She stuck a thin stick in the fire, lighting the tip of it and bringing it into the bowl. By breathing in from the mouthpiece she inhaled the smoke, allowing it to pour out from her nose and mouth before she drew in again, assuring it would stay alight. Khawa then passed it to Eshai, who was sitting beside her.

Smoke from both the pipe and the campfire began to drift to the ceiling of the tent, pooling in the highest spot till a grey haze blurred out the more distant parties. The smell reached each corner, causing more than a few people to look their way, but none dared to say anything.

Shemshemet––or azullu, as Khawa called it––did wonders for relaxing the body in both physical and mental aspects. His grandfather had used it for the poisoning of the limbs, when his joints began to ache and creak with weary use. Now he called upon its' psychic properties, breathing in deep in hopes of an even deeper cleansing, ridding him of the less useful anxiety. You did the same, inhaling a massive cloud of smoke that billowed out from between your darkened lips.

"Wow," he said involuntarily after the last puffs of smoke left you. You giggled, your hand coming up to cover your mouth that remnants of the herb still left.

"Thank you," you said with a bow of your head in his direction that also left him laughing despite himself.

While desert days could roast an egg on a rock, the evenings were almost pleasant, chilled only by winds that called for yet more campfires to be started. Carpets, bags, and blankets were stuffed away in the corners of the open, white tent, making room for warmth that soon filled up the camp. Batnoam was still nowhere to be seen and had left Bahiti, a woman from Egypt, to survey the people.

No meat was cooked. No searing, no scents, only the burning bowl of shemshemet still drifting skyward. Everyone had unanimously, as well as silently, agreed that tonight would be a night of very little in hopes of preserving their food for the prolonged stay in the Shamiyah desert.

If Ahk stood, which apparently counted as 'suspicious' to Bahiti, he could find the edge of the land beyond the shallow dip in the dunes, towards distant mountains, still short but ragged with red rock. In the night it was little less than a silhouette, a darkened outline beneath the glowing horizon leading up into ink-black night. He had never been further from the Nile, and despite the less-than-suitable circumstances, he still enjoyed the mystery of a land he'd only ever heard about in his caretaker's stories as a child.

Since the bowl, and thus the herb, was shared, passed around by seven people, Ahkmen felt less of the effects than usual. No mind-blowing high or giddy behavior, but instead a vague calmness that helped compress the occurences of the last day and a half.

Abdhamon was dead. His nephew, Batnoam, had learned a fair amount from him, but Ahk correctly surmised he didn't know the desert quite as well as the elder did. That meant many of the stops along the way, many of the oasises, would be lost to the caravan, and water would be more scarce.

"Where do you zink he is?" Makko asked in a whisper, subtly looking out past Ahk's head.

"Batnoam?"

Makko nodded.

"I think he's searching our belongings," Ahk said, turning 180 to look as well before Makko reached panicked hands forward and pulled him back into place.

"Do not let him see you," he said with wide eyes.

"Calm down," Ahk chuckled. "He won't hurt us for no reason."

"He did threaten us with a sword," Khawa added quietly, a pointed argument that left both Ahkmen and Makko silent.

Ahk, who didn't have many hobbies outside studying astronomy and reading, managed to fit seventeen braids into your hair without you noticing. Tiny, woven strands now littered your head, a mark of someone who cares about you, though you wouldn't see them, at least not for a long while now.

You kept yourself busy for a while––helping Makko, Eshai, and Khawa embroider the silk cloth, or working on mending your own tattered clothes, but you soon tired of sewing. For the last hour you'd been doing nothing but playing with Sephys, and even she was growing sick of you.

"Yogasundari," he murmured, tapping your arm. You immediately turned to him. "Come lie down with me."

"You are going to sleep?" You asked, but still followed him as he lay on his back, trailing as though you were tied to him.

"No, I want to show you something."

As promised, Ahk couldn't quite get tired what with all the ruckus, and since the fires were going on their last embers, the sky would be clearer now than any other time.

Waiting.

A day and a half of waiting, and at last you were on your backs next to each other, staring up at the same stars. His shoulder brushed yours, but your hands remained folded neatly on your chest.

"Did you know the pyramids are the stars?" He asked, tilting his head to you.

".. how?" You asked in a soft, mystified voice.

"The entrance to Osiris' palace lies in the brightest star," he said as he raised his arm, pointing to Sirius. "Sirius, and then Orion."

"They are.. together?"

"Well the pyramids, the three large ones that I took you by, they are matching to the belt of Orion, and the great Sphynx of the city matches the great Lion of the sky," he said, shifting to point to the lion's constellation. "That is where the sun rises in the aftermath of creation."

"In the death?"

He nodded.

"And the belt of stars," he gestured to the ring of white stardust painting the middle of the sky, "is the Nile, on earth. With the living."

"So in death... the river is the stars," you said, turning from the stars to him.

"A little, yes," he chuckled, adoring the humored gleam in your eye.

"And the Pharaoh is the stars," you said.

"Yes, when Pharaohs die, they become the stars. Particularly over..." he scanned the sky for a moment, "there."

A cluster of bright stars remained hidden near the horizon.

"Ah," you whispered, nodding. "I am happy to see you are doing good with your... your promise."

"Which one?" He asked, recalling what you were talking about only after he'd asked.

"You will tell me what you know, remember?" You said as you met his eye expectantly. "I will give you all the beer you want."

"Don't worry about that," he said, sitting up with a tone of seriousness in his movements. "You don't need to make me anything or give me anything. I came with you willingly and I will share with you willingly."

You giggled, closing your eyes and turning away with reddened cheeks. Your knees propped up, hands coming to fall beside your head, even as you shook your head to yourself.

"What?" He asked with a grin.

"You will share with me?" You asked through your giggles.

"Everything," he answered.

"Everything?" You repeated, your brows quirking up.

You shot up, reaching a lightning-fast hand forward and snatching the scarf off his head. He let out a small, subdued shout from the suddenness of it.

"I do look good?" You asked, situating the scarf over your already existing hat, as well as over all the braids Ahk had managed to fit into your hair.

"Wonderful, as always," he chuckled.

"Then I will have your shirt too," you said, and before he could process what you said you were tugging at his shirt, undoing the tassels and buttons and practically ripping it off his body.

"Hey!" He said indignantly, his mouth falling open as he stared at you confused.

Somehow, you managed to fit his shirt over your clothes as well, now wearing double-hats and double-shirts while Ahk only had his pants and sandals left.

"Meanie," he said, plucking the scarf off your head and wrapping it around his bare waist.

"Here, you need this, for your head," you said, unable to stop giggles from pouring out of you as you set his shirt over his head. He laughed, his vision mostly blocked by the large piece of fabric.

"Mother Goddess," Makko interrupted, turning to both of you with a very strange look on his face. "How long have you two been married?"

"Honeymoon time," Caifas said quietly.

"Honey-what?" You asked, at the same time Ahk said –

"We're not married," said Ahkmen far too quickly. His eyes darted to you and back to the group at large.

Everyone fell silent as they gave him odd stares.

"What??" He asked again, and they dropped it.

"What is honeymoon?" You whispered, tugging at his arm.

"Nothing. Phase of moon," he mumbled.

Footsteps grinding against rock and brush interrupted the murmurs of conversation passing around the tent. Ahk turned to see Batnoam, black crescents beneath his eyes and a dagger in his hand as he approached the caravan. He pulled you into him, shielding you away as Batnoam passed by, headed towards the center to address those who stared at him.

"Nassor?" He called; the name of the Egyptian soldier.

Ahk could physically feel his will shrinking as Nassor stood, his tall, dark form sticking out amongst the light colored robes of his group. He stepped forward without flinching.

"You tossed this away," Batnoam said, practically growling the words as he pointed the bloodstained dagger directly at Nassor's neck. The man still didn't flinch. "I know you were carrying it while we were travelling. The hilt is quite recognizable."

"You have no proof," Nassor stated flatly, crossing his arms.

"We're a thousand spans from any government, Nassor," he spat. "I don't need evidence to do in with you."

"You w-"

Nassor's word stopped with the gushing of blood, his own dagger thrust into his throat. You gasped sharply, backing up into Ahk as you once more covered your mouth, wide eyes burning with fear.

With a harsh pull, Batnoam leased the blade from Nassor's neck, allowing the soon-to-be corpse to fall to his knees. Shouts and claims of insanity began to come from the crowd, something Ahk should've expected sooner than he did.

"Quiet! All of you," he barked above the noise, pointing the dagger covered in two men's blood to the crowd, causing drops of it to fall upon them. "Bahiti says there's another. Someone who told Nassor what to do."

Ahk glanced to those surrounding him both near and far, a sudden agitation building in his veins.

He's going insane, he thought, his eyes darkening.

"That person, or persons, is going to step forward," he met each listener's eye, "or I'm going to start killing till I find the right one."

You gave Ahk a look that screamed, 'what the fuck'.

"You can't do that!" Someone cried, but was quickly hushed by a hand over their mouth. Others voiced such things in wavering tones.

Batnoam reached into the crowd, dragging out one of the men from Cyprus by his hair. Ahkmen hadn't met the man before, but he had a short stature, long hair, and was clawing at Batnoam's hands in an attempt to release them. His woman companion leased a cry of his name; Aegeus. At the sight of this you dug into your bag, searching frantically for some sort of potion that would be of use in such a situation.

Before you could find anything befitting, Makko suddenly shot up from his spot beside Ahk, yelling something he couldn't process till the whole of the tent turned dead silent.

"It's me," he'd said, a proclamation both you and Ahk had a visceral reaction to.

"What?" Ahk said astounded.

"I'm –" his voice cracked, "I did not kill anyone, but I'm probably ze reason your uncle is dead."

Batnoam, who was still holding the man by his hair with a knife to his throat, paused to listen with dead eyes. Attention fell to Makko, who began to shake with the many eyes pointed towards him.

"My father's wife hired men to do away vith me. I had to leave my home, but I am sure those hunters would chase me even here," he said, growing quieter as he finished.

"Why has she done that?" You asked.

"Mostly to legitimize her son's claim to the throne," he mumbled.

"The throne?" Batnoam repeated, seemingly in the same state of disbelief and shock as everyone else. He released the man, who scrambled back to his wife.

Ahkmen, sensing an opportunity, decided to look out across the faces. Most had open mouths, others wide eyes, but all paying ardent attention, except two men sitting close to each other, who only looked up sparingly to glare at Makko.

"It's them," he said suddenly, interrupting Makko's next sentence as he pointed a finger to the two men. He stood and continued with, "they're the only ones not surprised by what you're saying."

All eyes turned to the two men, one of which began to look rather frightened, while the other turned to anger.

"Just because we're not paying attention doesn't mean we know what you're talking about," one of them said with a glare.

"It's hardly evidence," the other said.

"Haven't we been over this?" Ahk asked, empowered for the first time in days to tease. He tapped his chin as though he was thinking it over. "Oh, right. We're weeks away from civilization. No law requires proper evidence... it's only what we know."

One of the stranger's faces paled, while the other hardened, glaring at Ahkmen.

Batnoam motioned to Aegeus––the short, stocky man with the terrified wife––who steeled his expression, grabbed the two men, and threw them forward to land in front of Batnoam, their faces scratched and scuffed with dust. Stress still remained knotted into his features, shifty eyes switching between the members of his own group and Batnoam.

"How did you say you were from? How you got here?" Batnoam demanded, now pointing the blade to the men knelt before him.

"Theodore said he was from mainland Greece," Aegeus answered for him, his voice broken and cracking. "But Mopsus travelled recently from the Persian Gulf. Elam, I believe."

"Elam, they have made much grief with Assyrians," Batnoam said, eyes flickering between the two men. "Someone must've payed you off, and you killed my uncle to cover your tracks, just in case anyone knew who Makko is."

He leaned in, pressing the dagger up against Mopsus' neck, drawing a thin sliver of crimson blood.

"I live for killing filth like you," he spat.

With that, he shot the blade in a straight line, slicing open his throat. Mopsus let out garbled sounds as bubbling blood poured from him, filled his mouth so as to make him choke on his own lifeline. Ahk curled you into his chest, hiding your face from view as he fell from his knees, thumping onto the carpet floor. He could feel you flinch at each sound, and the panicked breathing that followed.

Another body thumped to the ground before Batnoam stood, straightening his back as he gazed down upon the mangled bodies still bleeding out onto the carpets.

"Alright," he breathed out, tossing the dagger to the side. "Let's get the hell out of this desert."

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek #rami malek character #ahkmenrah x male reader #ahkmenrah x female reader

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starswornoaths · 3 years

Text

On the Rocks

Commission for @anorptron! Thank you so much for your patronage! :D

Set during early 4.0, the Warrior of Light ventures to his home after suffering a recent defeat. In search of a balm for his wounds, he finds an opportunistic noble yielding proverbial salt instead.

Fortunate, then, that his family had thought of that.

Word count: 4,743

~*~

Despite the defeat that dogged every step traveled back to Ishgard, there was a strange, tentative sort of merriment in the air of Manor de Fortemps. The High House had been scheduled to host an event marking progress in the Houses of the Lords and Commons— to say that the Alliance’s defeat in Rhalgr’s Reach had been poorly timed would be a gross understatement.

It didn't matter how many times Edmont and his brothers reassured him otherwise, Sage felt responsible for how thin the margin for political error had become in the span of days. Even as much as he tried to detach himself from the minutiae of the politicking that came with the day to day of government— and the Alliance’s military coordination, no less— it was impossible for him to not be acutely aware of how easily this initial loss could be used to twist the Ishgardian public against the war effort— and, by proxy, all of the progress they had bled and lost for.

A lurching churned Sage’s gut. His throat tightened in that warning sort of way that came with nausea. Before it could fully clench around his neck, he swallowed the feeling down with a drink from his glass. Though there was nothing in it to burn away the mauldin thoughts clouding his head, the sweetness of the fruit nectar was still enjoyable all the same.

Sage almost wished he was permitted to drink tonight. He didn’t even necessarily like the stuff, mind; Edmont hadn’t brought out his good stock of sweet liquor, after all. He’d known the company he’d be hosting tonight was largely unpleasant, bless the man, and instead saved what few alcoholic drinks Sage actually liked for another gathering. He instead tried to focus on the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel; whatever nonsense he might have to endure at this party would be worth it, to spend time with those he was closest to— with much better drinks in hand.

In truth, while Sage was still far from enthused about alcohol, it was hard not to look forward to those after parties, at least a little: once all but Aymeric and himself had been seen out for the night, they’d all sequester themselves in the lounge, to keep out of the staff’s hair, while they all unwound with, “the good bottles.” It had been a tradition among the Fortemps men—one Edmont had insisted kept his sanity—for years, long before Sage had met them. But Sage was promptly folded into those nightcap conversations, and Aymeric not far behind him, once Edmont had finally managed to catch him on his way out the door to last Starlight’s service in the Congregation, and would brook no refusals of his offer.

And that had been that: whenever House Fortemps was host for a formal event, regardless of scale, everyone managed to plaster on pleasant smiles and fashion themselves the very perfect picture of politicians and patriots alike, bearing the brunt of snide comments and would-be detractors attempting to smear their good names with grace and stoicism.

These days, it was one of the few pleasures Sage allowed himself, to have his newfound family all gather in the lounge to decompress. It was its own sort of happiness, expressing himself among others, who were themselves letting down their own masks.

Aymeric liked to play bartender, likely out of a need to earn his drinks, and Sage cherished seeing them all unwind and listening to them say all the impolite things that they couldn’t at the time. It solidified them as family, seeing this authentic version of themselves, and sharing it with one another.

And then they would unwind and vent about it to each other later, laughing and making merry all the while. It made moments such as these worth a damn.

Edmont must not have liked hardly anyone that had to attend this particular soiree; Sage recognized the bottles being carried by the servants as the same label that he himself had taken from the bottom shelf, back when he knew how to pick alcohol about as well as he knew how to ask for comfort. The former, he was abstaining from, on doctor’s orders, instead enjoying fresh fruit nectar Edmont had ensured was stocked for him, as something sweet to still sip at the gathering. The latter, he was working on, now.

As much as he felt he deserved, at least, with his most recent, catastrophic failure.

Holed up in Manor Fortemps, sheltered from the cold, Sage could almost think the loss at Rhalgr’s Reach distant. Far removed from him. In a literal sense, he supposed that tracked, though despite the malms and the days that separated him from his defeat, it was as if he could yet feel Zenos’ overwhelming presence bearing down on him.

Despite the warmth suffused throughout the manor, it felt like his limbs would never know that feeling ever again. The chirurgeons had reassured him that it would improve, as it was a result of the blood loss from his wounds.

That was hardly anything new for Sage, mind; it wasn’t so long ago that he was so battered and bloodied, that he was bedbound not ten malms from where he stood now— and even that was but the worst of a long history of grievous wounds. It was just that, even in his most agonized recoveries— ones that were far worse than this one, admittedly, he had been able to rest, at least a little, knowing he was resting in victory. He’d broken himself upon the battlefield, and it was for something. He’d done enough.

But this...

He felt low. Uncharacteristically small, despite how he towered over the crowd, even here. If he wasn’t absolutely certain that it would bring undue stress upon his family, he would be somewhere quieter, darker, to be with his thoughts alone and stew in his defeat. Never before had he such an itch to sink into old habits, as he did standing there, feeling like his skin was pulled too tight across his bones, displaced from himself.

Alas, rather than sink into his own solitude, Sage instead had to contend with nobility, and all the demands that came with it. For instance: mingling. After so many incidents with such gatherings, he had learned to pick up on the signs that someone, not far from his vicinity, was about to interrupt his thoughts. For instance, there was someone worming their way through the crowd, removing any doubt that they were aiming directly for the Warrior of Light, for how intently they made their way over. Just as well; Sage settled on being grateful that he at least had some warning, this time.

“Warrior of Light! Why, Halone must have blessed me, personally, that I might run into you here!”

Unable to entirely stop himself from cringing, Sage managed to let it pass over his face into something more neutral before he swallowed the sip of nectar he’d pulled a moment before. His effort was nearly for naught when he locked eyes with the noble that had hailed him in question: he knew this man, in a sense, from how vocally –and frequently—he would protest declarations in the Houses of the Lords and Commons.

“My lord,” Sage greeted, inclining his head politely. “You flatter me.”

In all honesty, he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d maneuver his way through an entire conversation with the man, if that was what he was after. Gods knew his brothers were oft times formal to a fault, but even Artoirel and Aymeric hadn’t been immune from venting their vexations with the man. Sage could so clearly recall the young Lord Fortemps storming about the foyer snarling about attempts to sway votes, or demands to recall a vote on a technicality, pausing only long enough to thank whichever family member it was that refilled his wine glass for him that time.

As Aymeric once put it: “His disagreement would be far more tolerable, had he ever any alternative suggestions to accompany it.”

Already, Sage could feel his temples threaten to pulse with a migraine as he forced his face into a pleasant smile. It was faint, for all his effort, but it was there.

If naught else, he at least had excuse enough to be less than perfectly pleasant; the wounds he walked away from Rhalgr’s Reach with were only just on the mend, after all. They were at least fully closed, and had been treated; a marked improvement from how he had handled previous injuries.

But the noble lord was speaking again, pulling Sage from his thoughts.

“Why, I speak only the truth! I had been hoping to speak with you even before the conclusion of the Dragonsong War, but alas! It seems as if you’re always on the move!”

“No rest for the righteous, and all that.” He muttered, half into his flute of nectar.

“For the wicked have all the fun!” The noble said, throwing his head back and laughing at his own joke.

When he leaned back, into his laugh, he lightly tapped the backs of his knuckles to Sage’s coat. Another wince pinched the corners of his eyes; he could smell the wine off of the noble’s breath; not necessarily drunk, but certainly enough to be loose tongued.

Sage pretended to take another sip to hide his lack of enthusiasm. Already, he wanted this conversation to be done.

“Oh, but I jest, I jest.” Said the lush lord, once he’d caught his breath on a delighted sigh. “I do beg your pardon, the wine brings it out of me.”

Sage tracked the overarticulated sweep of a bejeweled hand, as it reached up to wipe away a nonexistent tear from the corner of the noble’s eye.

“You certainly seem to be in good spirits, my lord.” Sage noted, not knowing what else to say.

“I have every reason to be! The Houses of the Lords and Commons were in unison this session, for a change, and with Starlight not far off, the festivities have been plentiful!”

“I see.” Sage replied, and prayed that would be the end of the conversation.

When it was clear that the Bard wasn’t going to offer a more verbose response, the noble cut off what would have been an obviously much more judicious pull from his glass, as if the thought of being left to lapse in silence for even a moment was considered some grievous slight. Maybe it was. Sage was in no mood to care.

“Ah, I forgot! Your reputation for stoic silence precedes you!” The noble said, hastily blotting at the corner of his mouth with a kerchief.

“It’s one of my strengths.” Sage drained his glass of juice, and turned away to set it on the tray of a passing servant with a murmur of thanks.

“A damn shame, then, to know that such strength fled you, at the battle in Rhalgr’s Reach.”

In an instant, what warmth Sage had managed to glean from the manor’s well tended hearths guttered out. Icy dread struck him at the base of his spine, freezing him in place, hand still outstretched from handing off his glass—in the best of circumstances, he was hardly one for conversation, but this was very clearly bait for him to blunder into, a verbal trap that was doubtless intended to damage his reputation—and, by extension, that of House Fortemps.

Perhaps even Aymeric, too: as Lord Commander, he’d been overseeing Ishgard’s involvement in the Gyr Abanian theatre of war, this excursion included, after all. If ever there was a time for an opportunistic noble to try and undo all the hard work they had all put in, here and abroad, over one loss in a larger scale conflict abroad, it was now.

“What,” Sage managed to rasp, words dragged across the sandpaper in his throat, as he turned back toward the man. “Do you mean?”

“Oh come now, there’s no sense in dancing about the subject.” Said the noble, through a toothy, cruel upturn of his lips. “This was Ishgard’s debut into the Eorzean Alliance, was it not? Were we not counting on you to lead us into victory?”

Indignation warred with nausea-inducing dread in the pit of his ribcage. The former, for how dare this man who had known no struggle remotely like Sage’s, speak on how war and its games were played. The latter, because how dare he echo the same thoughts Sage had been so keen on ignoring tonight?

To keep his hands from fidgeting, he stood at parade rest, and half wished he still had a glass in his hand to keep himself looking less stiff and affected. He knew this man would vex him until he cracked, if this was where he was already needling.

When he managed to find his voice, Sage tried again, “I did what I could—”

“Which was, somehow, not enough.” The noble swiftly rebuked. “Not enough, despite your victory over Nidhogg. A curiosity.” The noble sneered with a haughty twitch of his nose.

The chill that had clung to Sage’s limbs crept ever closer, brushing dangerously to his heart. As if he truly were freezing over, his breathing thinned out, and he felt his hands shaking at his sides, ever so faintly.

“By all accounts, ‘twas Sage’s strength that prevented an even greater loss for the Alliance.” Came the voice of one of his brothers.

“One of those reports was mine own—and yes, we would have lost so much more, were it not for the Warrior of Light’s presence.” Added the voice of another.

Relief flooded him hearing Aymeric, then Artoirel, speak upon their unexpected appearance, flanking Sage on both sides. A united front was the best defense from such grave offense, after all. It was all Sage could do, to keep from slouching his ramrod stiff posture, as he remembered how to breathe again. Even without either of them coming into physical contact with him, he felt their warmth seep into skin and scale, bolstering him. Squaring his shoulders as much as his wounds would allow, he tipped his chin up, to hold himself proudly. Just like their Da had encouraged him—he’d earned that pride, paid for in blood, sweat, and tears.

The offending lord seemed only momentarily cowed, flinching his glass subtly closer to his chest as he recoiled from the unexpected intrusion to his personal belligerence against the hero. When it was clear, with a furtive glance around, that none of them were interested in backing down, he pulled himself upright and cleared his throat.

“The fact remains: a loss is a loss.” He pressed.

“Spoken like one who has never written condolence letters.” Aymeric replied almost instantly, the smoothness of his voice a whetstone for his lance-sharp words, poised to cut off this conversation at the pass. “Even one less family in mourning, is a victory in itself, my lord.”

It was faint—in particular, compared to the low din of the rest of the gathering, but the group of elites that had congregated and circled around themselves not far from where Sage had been standing, began to murmur between themselves about the conversation they were overhearing. Had Sage not been so keenly aware of his surroundings, over the roaring of blood in his ears, he might not have understood why the noble’s face turned ashen, then, when those words reached his ears. Aymeric and Artoirel had, in effect, struck far truer than anticipated, redirecting the very gossip that the nefarious noble had tried to weaponize.

“We wouldn’t be sending them at all, were we not engaging in conflicts that we had no business meddling in.” The noble replied, though it was clear by the way the pads of his fingers paled against the stem of his wine glass, that he was most certainly rattled. “Business, I will remind you, that we have made ours solely on debt to a singular champion! How can we condone it, as proud Ishgardian citizens, when our creditor cannot guarantee our victory?”

Were the man not gunning to undo everything that they had fought and sacrificed for and then some, Sage might feel some semblance of sympathy for him. As it was, it was at least a little morbidly gratifying, watching him squirm when challenged.

Aymeric seemed to expect the question. In truth, he had likely had to field it many times; he seemed almost bored with it.

“We did not commit ourselves to one war on the coattails of another solely because the Warrior of Light bade we do so.” He began in a low tone. One that gave a warning he put no words to, and did not have to. “On the contrary: as with the Dragonsong War, he only opened our eyes to the truth of the matter: that we were always involved in this war. We were always going to be involved in this war, whether we willed it or not.”

“Such fatalistic talk, from such a lauded, romantic politician!” The man jeered.

“Ishgard’s best defense has always been a proactive offense,” he explained patiently, in a tone that reminded Sage of one he’d used on Alphinaud, upon their first meeting in the Falling Snows. “The winds suggest but one course upon which the Empire has been set: total conquest. We cannot afford to watch, idle and indolent, while Garlemald marches right to our gates, afore we are moved to action.”

“This was never our affair!” Cried the exasperated nobleman, perhaps a bit more inebriated than Sage might have initially thought.

Clearly, more than, as when the man made to jab an accusatory finger in the Lord Commander’s direction, he seemingly forgot that he was still holding a half-full wine glass. It sloshed enough to splash, faintly upon the chest of the Lord Commander’s coat.

For a blessing, the fabric was dark enough that blotting at it with a kerchief was sufficient to keep the light colored champagne from damaging it, but the impropriety of the action was far from lost on even the inebriated offender.

With a singular, prim tug on his own lapel, Aymeric tucked the folded, soiled kerchief away with a barely repressed snort of indignation. “‘Twas ever Eorzea’s affair— and we have been Eorzeans for far longer than we have not, in our history. Garlemald is committed to making this the affair of every living soul on this star, to be conquered, until someone stops them. If every nation clung to their borders and insisted that it was not our affair, then we would simply be picked off, one by one—”

“Garlemald cannot invade us through the weather, and our neighbors besides—”

“Then they would lay siege to us, and our home would become our tomb.” Said a voice from the crowd that had begun to try to not listen to the growing ruckus.

That same crowd parted, and revealed Lord Edmont, honorable father of this evening’s host, looking every bit as graceful and dignified as ever. Striding purposefully, he stopped only when he was beside his fellow noble, and took his measure with an even, steely gaze. “I know I need remind no one here of what happened to the Stone and Dusk Vigils, following the Calamity. Would you inflict that upon our families, for turning away from the plights beyond our gates?”

It was clearly a future that the noble had not considered— in fairness, a future few would want to consider.

In war, such wants do not matter: it is a path of death, and must be walked with both eyes open, or not at all.

Seeing the noble thoroughly cowed, Edmont eased that hardened stare, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“But come! Such logistics are not for us retired folk to fret over any longer—”

“Edmont, you have surely heard your boy on the forum floor, debating that we meddle in—”

“And what right have we to criticize our children, when they protect a tomorrow that our inaction stole from them?” Edmont asked, not unkindly.

He might as well have struck the noble, for how he recoiled at the rebuttal. If there was a deeper, personal meaning for the noble, Sage did not know it, and did not care: he knew exactly who Edmont was thinking of, when he spoke so.

Edmont’s hand on his shoulder squeezed, comfortingly, as he led him away, speaking of happier things. There seemed to be an understanding between the two that Sage could only begin to fathom, but could readily identify: it was the look of a father that had to bury their child. It wasn’t enough for the dread and ire that the man inspired in Sage to completely vanish, but it was tempered with the understanding that, as he had learned is often the case with Ishgardians, his anger came from immense, generational tragedy.

It was a distant revelation, a balm on a wound, but it was nothing to the panacea that was watching how his family had managed to pull him back from the brink of panic, to cover his blindspots, to be his shield. It was an otherwise unfamiliar feeling, this sense of protection that settled over his shoulders and calmed his tumultuous heart.

So distracted with awe for how swiftly his family closed in ranks around him, Sage had nearly forgotten to feel the sting of his injuries, until he’d shifted his weight and bit back a curse at the sudden jolt of fire that shot up his spine. When he flinched and his legs faltered, he felt two hands at his back— one of Artiorel and Aymeric both, bracing him.

“Forgive us for leaving you to the wolves, as it were.” Aymeric spoke up, gently startling him out of his thoughts. When he’d straightened and looked over at the Lord Commander, he was given a wincing smile. “No one wanted to smother you, mind, though we all attempted to keep the worst of them occupied.”

“Wh—“ Sage stopped himself from asking the obvious; even if he didn’t believe himself worthy of it, he could no longer deny he was their family, truly and utterly.

With a fond smile and a shake of his head, he instead chose to say, “I know better than to simper in the face of family, so, put simply: thank you.” When Sage smiled, it felt less like it resembled broken glass than it had since he’d left Gyr Abania—certainly less than it had all night. “I don’t know what I would do without you all.”

“And we would say much the same of you, Sage.” Artoirel reassured, clasping a hand comfortingly on Sage’s uninjured forearm.

“Which we have, on more than one occasion,” Aymeric added brightly. “And will keep doing so.”

“Artoirel might not fess up to just how much of that effusive praise comes from him, old sport, but I would be most glad to!” Chimed in the last of their brothers, who had otherwise been shockingly scarce all evening.

Artoirel harrumphed at Emmanellain’s delighted chirping, and crossed his arms. “Given you’ve the leisure to prod me for a reaction, I take it you’ve done your job?”

“Always business, with you!” Emmanellain’s expression momentarily scrunched. “But yes. Frankly, it’s almost boring, how easy it is to redirect the rumor mill. I do hope you’re not too terribly offended that the current affair-of-the-hour among noble lady circles is more stimulating gossip than whatever that lord’s quarrel with you is; he really is an offensively boring man, as politics go.”

Sage didn’t know what to say in response, and his surprise must have been evident on his face, as Emmanellain nudged his good shoulder and winked.

“What, not expecting me to pull my weight? I might not be half the knight my brothers are,” he said around an easy smile. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t still protect you, old sport.”

“I’m not sure they make shields tall enough for that.” Sage blurted before he could think better of it.

Practiced politicians they may have been, all the etiquette in the world couldn’t stop Artoirel and Aymeric from hiding their laughter behind their hands at Emmanellain’s gawping.

“Were you joking, just then? Why, Sage! I would almost think you liked me, or something!” Emmanellain gasped, a hand pressed over his heart, the very picture of mock horror.

This levity, this, this warmth, that permeated him, being surrounded by his family…it would not heal him. Sage knew that, deep down. But when he laughed, it came easily. The smile that followed, even easier. And that, that was what helped. What reminded him of his convictions.

“You’re my brother.” Sage said, his tone serious despite the smile still quirking his lips. “Stands to reason I like you.”

Emmanellain paused for a moment, his theatrics softening into something genuine. When he laughed the sort that had him holding his stomach and drying his eyes, it reminded Sage of Haurchefant.

“And you have good taste besides, don’t you forget that, old sport.” Emmanellain said, eyes crinkling for the width and breadth of his smile.

“And you discredit yourself.” Sage replied. “I see more and more of our brothers in you every day.”

It seemed Sage’s comment overwhelmed his little brother; he spun and plucked a flute of champagne from one of the wait staff passing by, and poorly tried to hide his flush behind its rim.

“Yes, well, I certainly have no shortage of examples to lead me.” Emmanellain half muttered into his drink, just before tossing his head back to tip the glass as far back as he could, and he drained it in one fluid gulp. “You included.”

He seemed not to know what to do with the quiet that came after emotional declarations, as, with a twist to set his empty glass on another tray being taken the opposite direction of the first, he used that momentum to turn back into the crowd, back into the mingling crowds that were resuming their previous low din of chatter.

Watching him fade into the crowd made Sage’s gaze wander through the faces in all the merrymaking that had resumed. On that passing glance, he caught Edmont through the crowd, having brought that offending noble into a group of other people Sage distantly recognized as some of the elder generations of the High Houses. It was only a moment, but it was enough to see exactly where the Fortemps propensity for warmth and good cheer came from, as much as their sense of duty had.

“Me included, then?” Sage asked, half to himself.

“Absolutely.” Artoirel said, with a surprising amount of conviction. “Our family has a reputation of housing the most upstanding knights in all of Ishgard. That has never been more true, than it is where you are concerned.”

Perhaps the alcohol did make Artoirel more verbose; Sage was unaccustomed to such declarations in abundance from the newest head of House Fortemps. For a certainty, it was the reason why it overwhelmed him, enough so that he was reminded of the burning shame of his most recent defeat.

“I was defeated—”

“And that should deplete you of your worth?” Aymeric countered at his other side. “Even the greatest people in history knew countless defeats— many of which were costly. Yet, they are not remembered as great because of their losses, but because they persevered despite them.” He gave a single, decisive nod. “I can think of no greater quality that could exemplify the knights of House Fortemps— you among the most exemplary.”

That overwhelmed feeling looped back around into a pleasant sort of warmth; it didn’t entirely absolve him of his guilt; none present expected it to. It weighed as it should— and no heavier.

Grateful that his family was ever his shield, ever stopping him from pressing his burdens down harder on his own shoulders than he needed to, he could only lower his gaze, smile wider, and reply with, “I hope to be worthy of that.”

“You always were.” Artoirel and Aymeric replied automatically, voices nearly overlapping in perfect sync for their immediate timing.

With a surprised glance between the three of them, they dissolved into half-covered laughter, and that pressure on Sage’s chest settled, alongside his thoughts. It wasn’t enough to make the world okay. It wasn’t enough to make Sage strong enough to free Ala Mhigo and come home, not on its own.

But it was enough.

#ffxiv #commissioned writing #anorptron #Sage Bradley #Artoirel de Fortemps #Aymeric de Borel #Edmont de Fortemps #Emmanellain de Fortemps #4.0 spoilers #tagging just in case #thank you again for being patient and for your patronage as always!!!

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presumenothing · 3 years

Text

first: do no harm

(AO3)

Dr. Mensah’s attention zeroed in on me like a well-tuned surgery bot arm. “You have medical training.”

I was going to deny the hell out of that. I really was.

And then I said: “Not recently,” instead of no or even more accurately I frankly don’t think the company’s education modules count as training by your standards. (As far as I was concerned, the only thing worse than those modules was the one on breaking bad news, but what did I know. Maybe humans actually felt comforted by those tactics they described.) (No, I didn’t think that was likely, either.)

Which reminded me of a necessary addition. “The company won’t cover liabilities related to any non-security tasks you assign me to, if that’s what you’re intending.”

Mensah made a sound that was both grim and viciously annoyed at once, which I immediately saved for further analysis and replication. “Then we’ll just have to not make any mistakes, won’t we?”

–

I hadn’t exactly been thrilled with getting assigned to this mission. Not that mining installations were much of a walk in the park, but this was just asking to turn up memories that were better off buried (preferably forever) in my organic parts.

I don’t usually pay attention to mission briefs, as you may have noticed, and I wouldn’t have this time either except that my half-assed scan turned up the fact that the team weren’t science-doctors on a survey like I’d initially assumed, but medical-doctors. On a medical mission.

Of course they were.

(I wanted to say that someone had allocated me to this on purpose, but realistically speaking the company didn’t give enough of a shit, and the universe disliked me enough that this could totally be pure chance.)

Considering all that, the mission so far had been… much less worse than it could’ve been. Though the bar for that was admittedly very, very low. Possibly somewhere in the negatives.

Anyway. Up until the whole thing with Bharadwaj and Volescu getting almost-but-not-eaten, the task of making sure no one died had mostly been the clients’ job for once, which was a nice change since they were actually competent at it.

I still didn’t care enough to read their background info, but it was pretty clear just from observing that these doctors had experience with working in less-than-great conditions, even if Ratthi did sometimes sigh wistfully about equipment they couldn’t have in field hospitals. It meant that my job had pretty much amounted to patrolling, lurking visibly around the supplies storage in case anyone got ideas about that, and helping to fetch various medical items when I happened to be there and it wasn’t Gurathin asking.

It wasn’t terrible. I’d even got some media-watching time in.

(There might have been the vague thought that things could’ve gone much better if I’d been deployed with a team like this instead of Corporation Rim fuckery that literally bled payment from patients, but part of the reason medical-use constructs had been developed in the first place was so that hospitals could draw up forty-hour shifts and other assorted fun without worrying about doctor and surgeon unions, which told you everything you needed to know about our existence.

Also, the thought was inherently depressing and I already had enough of that in my head, thank you very much.)

The contract was more than halfway through. All I had needed to do to avoid awkward questions was continue making sure no one noticed that I was weirdly well-versed in all this, which wasn’t difficult since they only seemed to have theoretical knowledge about SecUnits at best.

Then the fauna happened, and poof went my cover.

Now all of PresAux knew I was – whatever the hell you called a catastrophically failed MedUnit who got turned loose onto security, because at least if I screwed up here the press wouldn’t be as bad. And that wasn’t even getting into the hacked governor module.

Even constructs didn’t have a term for all that.

–

Of course, none of that stopped this from being a Very Bad Idea. Even if apparently no one except Gurathin (ugh) seemed to agree.

“I’m a SecUnit, Dr. Mensah. I scare people. Patients are harder to assess when they’re running away.” I thought basic logistics might work here.

“You had better bedside manner with Bharadwaj and Volescu than many doctors I’ve seen. Human ones, might I add, and not actively injured themselves at the time.” Mensah’s tone was brisk as her pace – which wasn’t difficult to keep up with either, given my vertical advantage, but impressive nonetheless. “And no one wants to be around Pin-Lee when she’s holding a scalpel. That’s what the sedation is for.”

It’s because SecUnit hasn’t seen her in court yet. Trust me, it’s much scarier, Ratthi chimed in over the feed, with the text signifier for “amusement” but not “joke”.

Pin-Lee just smiled.

It was terrifying. I wasn’t even looking directly at her.

“I don’t have a valid license.” That’d been a part of the legal fallout from the disaster on RaviHyral, though no one had actually bothered with adding malpractice charges or barring me from ever doing medicine again. (Just another side effect of being considered as equipment – I doubted the company would’ve even secured licenses for constructs if not for their paranoia about covering their asses on all fronts.)

But it was a last resort argument, and I knew it.

Mensah knew it, too. “There’s special dispensations for that, especially under the current circumstances, as long as a fully-licensed doctor is in the vicinity at all times. It’s not like any of us can actually get out of each other’s hair in this base anyway.”

Mensah had stopped in a less-chaotic corner and turned to me, not that she could see anything behind the faceplate. I fixed my gaze a generous distance to the left and let my drones do the looking.

“I’m not going to make you agree. You perform a valuable function as our security – far more than I had initially expected, to be honest, and we would all be grateful if you kept doing that. But with Bharadwaj down for the count and Volescu still recovering, we could do with the help.” Her expression was still steady as ever, even though she probably knew better than I did the risks of continuing to operate shorthanded like this. “It’s your decision, SecUnit.”

Right, just the very thing I didn’t need to hear.

I kept most of my sigh internal. “Triage and first-aid only, between patrols. No procedures, and I won’t be responsible if any patients freak out.”

Mensah nodded. “Of course. Gurathin’s on receiving duty today, how about you work out a roster with him?”

I knew it. This was a bad idea.

–––––

You’d be my guardian.

Yes. The education opportunities – most of us were trained on Preservation, if you’re interested in learning and getting your license properly this time. Or not. You can do anything you want.

–––––

ART barged its way into my feed. You’re exhibiting a mildly elevated temperature and respiration rate. Though it could of course merely be a sign of inferior processors rather than emotional distress.

Do you talk to your clients like that?

Do you? ART retorted right back, but obligingly brought up the documentation for its MedSystem before I finished the query for it.

I ignored ART’s attention (with some difficulty) as I flicked quickly through the top few files, taking in the glaring disparities from my existing data. The notable lack of suggesting costly procedures that no-one actually needed, for starters. I’m assuming some of these are your improvements on standard procedure?

I am the cutting edge of medical research, ART proclaimed. You couldn’t accuse it of humility if you tried.

I still wasn’t sure what I wanted, and I still didn’t want anyone to decide it for me. But moving towards the one thing I did want (at least in the short term) had ended up with me running into what was very possibly the most advanced and opinionated diagnosis-treatment AI currently in existence, because that was just the kind of luck I had.

I didn’t have a medium-duty surgical suite in my arms anymore, since that was the entire point of modular Unit construction, but neither did Mensah.

And I didn’t think I wanted to stop doing security, anyway, since it turned out I might not be completely terrible at it; having actual medical knowledge that was MedSystem-malfunction-proof couldn’t hurt.

Plus, overwriting those shitty education modules seemed like a pretty great fuck-you to the company. I was always interested in that.

I tagged some of the more emergency-related files, then added a bunch of the weirder injuries I’d seen on contracts, and prodded ART. Tell me about these?

#the murderbot diaries #murderbot #murderbot fic #tmbd #fanfiction #mine #long post #me staring at the wordcount in disbelief: okay then #????

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elriel-oblivion · 3 years

Text

WHO'S READY FOR SOME HARDCORE NSFW 🔥😈

Ashes from the Deep

Part IV

Just kidding! 😅

Lol, sorrynotsorry for that fake intro haha, but here's part four for real 😅 Thanks to everyone who read/liked/commented on/reblogged the last part, I really do appreciate all your support 😊🥰🥰

Shoutout to @julesherondalex again for finding one of my fave paragraphs ☺️☺️ I think I only have one fave line this time 😅 And thanks to all who comment their own faves!! I really like seeing what you like in each piece - and it def helps me gauge what kinda writing/literary techniques work and engage people the most 😊😊

I hope nobody's disappointed by this part lol, I really enjoyed writing it in tandem with the previous one 😅

Word count: 4.1K. Lemme know if you'd like to be tagged/removed

I've also finally posted all four parts to AO3 if anyone prefers to read there 😊

Ashes from the Deep

Part IV

The water falling from the jug to Azriel’s head was the only sound in the bathroom. His hair absorbed the water, darkening to a midnight gleam. A thin breeze entered the room, and now without a blanket, Elain's exposed arms prickled with goosebumps.

Elain plunged a hand into his hair, breaking the mud between her fingertips. A quiet breath passed through his mouth and the corners of her lips rose.

She rubbed his scalp, coaxing as much dirt to the surface as she could before guiding another jug of water through his hair. Some of the mud drained away, some clods of sediment sticking to the basin. She poured over a final jug and stained water trickled into the drain. The warmth of the water tickled through her skin, replacing the cold from outside.

‘Is that nice?’ she asked, brushing the water through his hair with both hands.

His body seemed to relax, one foot sliding forward a little. ‘It is,’ he said thickly. He cleared his throat.

Her fingers continued to gently work at his head, and when sure his hair was completely wet, she ran the bar of soap under the tap. Soft lavender entered her nose and she inhaled deeply. That calm scent loosened her own muscles; this could be as much a session of serenity for her as she hoped it'd be for Azriel.

So long as she held taut the chain on her heart.

Soap foaming, she immersed her hands back into his thick hair, forming a lather. The lavender smell intensified, a wave of tranquility sweeping over her. She blinked slowly, as though her mind were wading through water.

Another sigh from him drew her attention back to his head. She needed to focus on this task; for Azriel, she could stay awake a little longer, especially since she’d already started.

Her fingertips massaged his skull, pressing a little deeper at the base where knots had a tendency to form. Elain moved her own neck, a sharp stab sparking at the top of her spine.

She hadn’t mentioned it to anybody yet – didn’t even know if she would – but her visions had been so feverish the past fortnight. Sleep felt like a luxury as she tossed and turned with psychedelic madness flashing behind her eyes. A turquoise expanse of sparkling ocean, birds shaped from sunset, glittering gowns in every shade, and a too-wide smile with pointed teeth were just a few of the recurring images attacking her every night.

Bathing before bed wasn't helpful. She'd hoped the calming scents of the herbs she'd found would be enough to pacify her mind and lull her to sleep. So far, there was no positive result beyond a loosening of her muscles. At least some of those herbs relieved the intensity of the dark circles round her eyes.

Mellow darkness, however, was a true reprieve, one which she found in her garden in those quiet evening hours, when the sky, having bled through its saturated sunset, was awash with deep muted blues.

As if she’d summoned it, a similar darkness manifested around Azriel’s body, swirling thickest about his head like a black cloud. His shadows rose like vapour, tendrils reaching out and twining about him.

Elain’s hands were hidden among those dark whorls, and they whispered on her skin in cool caresses. She leaned over his head and said, ‘Azriel?’

His eyes flicked open. ‘Huh?’

There was something boyish and confused in the way he blinked and she laughed lightly. ‘Your shadows are sort of hiding your head.’

He turned his head an inch or two. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and those shadows began sweeping over each other, wisps kissing her as Azriel pulled them in.

Elain’s hands were stationary until those shadows were completely reeled in, a faint frown on Azriel’s face. Sorrow lurked there, perhaps that he couldn’t be cocooned in that safe space.

Guilt coated the chain around her heart.

‘Don’t be,’ she murmured. Did he hear the shame in her voice? She hoped not; he should be resting, not worrying about Elain’s feelings. ‘You can close your eyes again.’

He did, but not before she caught a shadow lingering behind his eyes. Were they a glimpse into the shadows he leashed within himself, or were they a reflection of something darker, more sinister, perhaps?

That guilt began to cut into her heart now, icy claws digging. Cold squeezed her chest, a cold unrelated to the outside breeze breathing over her skin. How could she think Azriel was sinister? After the countless times he’d reached out to comfort her, be with her, listen to her – and the sincere light she saw in his eyes. Even the hope Rhysand had spoken of that day of the last battle in the war. The hope whose meaning he'd learnt from Azriel, learnt to experience from Azriel.

No, it was absurd. Yes, Azriel was a warrior and yes, he’d killed people. Possibly worse, she didn’t know. But those shadows she knew with certainty weren’t formed from the darkness of nightmares and malevolence and all things wicked.

They were a darkness of safety and security, of nights spent in a loved one’s arms. When a child sought their parent; when an adult sought their partner. They were the darkness found deep underground, where the earth was pure and things grew. Where life grew.

And just like his shadows, he too was not crafted from unholiness. There was unrelenting virtue glowing in him, burning whatever taint touched his darkness. She’d seen it in his eyes when he’d found her at the Hybern camp, when he alone had armed her with his own dagger at that later battle – and then run straight into the thick of it without Truth-Teller.

She didn’t know what she would’ve done if he hadn’t survived while she held his blade.

So when his shadows leaked out again, wrapping him in twining vines and wisps, she said nothing. Simply continued to work in that lovely lavender soap, giving as much care as she could. He deserved it.

She poured jug after jug of warm water over his head, wading her fingers through his locks to wash out the soap. Within a minute or two, the water was running clear. She yawned and dried her hands on a fresh towel.

‘Az, you can lift your head now.’

The guilt relented a little, icy claws releasing. A cold still filled the space left behind. But before the warmth of his presence, his existence, could balm her heart as it often did, she froze. His shadows parted to reveal a tear slipping from his eye. Just a single tear but so abrupt it was jarring on the shadowsinger’s face.

‘Azriel?’

He was unresponsive. His breathing was regular, body relaxed in a state of sleep. Except for that tear. What was he dreaming of?

She raised her hand to his face but let it hover in the air. Would this wake him? Would he even be fine knowing Elain had seen him cry?

She touched the tear anyway, placed a knuckle right beneath it. The tear slipped onto her hand and she wiped off the trace left on his face.

Azriel stirred, voice raw as he said, ‘Mother?’

Mother – was she what, who he dreamt of? There was such a childlike insecurity in his tone that Elain’s heart squeezed. She moved her hand back a little when her own voice sounded wispy. ‘No, it’s Elain.’

His eyes opened, gaze darting around the room. There was a small crease in his brow as he blinked away whatever haze remained from his dreams. The shadows dissipated.

Confusion limned his features in the few seconds it took him to fully awaken. Did he know he cried? That she’d wiped off his tear? No, that wouldn’t be okay. Elain had to distract him, if that were even possible for a spymaster.

Sometimes his title overwhelmed her. Sometimes she found security in it; did he see things he didn’t want to on his travels? Did he have access to a wealth of information he didn’t initially understand, just as Elain didn’t comprehend her visions without further probing?

‘I asked you to lift your head but you’d fallen asleep,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to wake you, but we should dry your hair before you really go to sleep. Especially if you’ll be going outside again. Although I would ask you to consider taking a guest room.’

That frown deepened for a second before he smoothed out his face. ‘Right.’ He sat straight, and Elain set a hand under his head as he stiffly pulled it up. He rotated his neck a bit, water dripping off his sodden hair, sliding down his face.

She placed the towel over his head, patting it across his scalp. Some strands escaped to hang over his forehead, so she pulled them back, ruffling the towel through his hair. All the while, he watched her, but she busied herself with the water that glistened on his neck. Anything to avoid his eyes.

Then he dropped his head – from tiredness or something else, she didn’t know – so she took the opportunity to dry the back more. Drying his hair took more effort than washing, he just had so much hair. The small towel quickly became damp so she continued with the one round his neck, and a short while later, deemed his hair dry enough. Still wet but not sodden, so she combed her fingers through it, smoothing out the tips that stuck out. She left both towels on her bathtub, touching a knuckle to one of the trailing plants sitting on a stool nearby.

She heard the chair scrape across the floor, Azriel rising, so she laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait. I want to clean your face, too.’

The idea of having to look at his face for however long it took to clean sent a thrill through her and she woke a little more. The chain on her heart slipped from her control a little and she leashed it back. Her chest tightened as she grabbed a cloth and ran it under the tap. She knelt next to him, honing in on that giant gash on his cheekbone. She touched the cloth to his face.

He winced and her hand stilled. ‘Sorry.’

A small smile graced his face, and he said, ‘Don’t be.’

She recognised the words from earlier and breathed a laugh. ‘That cut does look very bad, though. I think I’ll have to clean it with alcohol too.’

‘Let’s crack open that wine then.’

Something sultry laced his voice, the chain in her chest slipping again. The metal warmed and Elain fiddled with her grip. She let out a shaky laugh. ‘Not tonight, Azriel.’

Goodness. A late night wine session with Azriel. There was heat in her cheeks and she didn’t know how to tone it down. It was even worse with his face so near hers. He’d see it all. Her face warmed further, and it was only the dirt and blood on his that reminded her he was in no position to be drinking the night away. Not with fatigue so clear on his features and in his posture.

And not with Elain. That toed a line she didn't deserve to cross.

So she gave focus only to his skin, wiping the cloth across his face. Once most of the mud and blood was off, she rinsed the cloth, then wiped him down again. He turned his head and as his eyes fixed squarely on her, the chain heated further. She tried to grip it elsewhere, but every link was as hot. It wasn’t uncomfortable – quite pleasant, actually – but she was sure it would be soon enough if she didn’t move now. The cool air sweeping into the bathroom did nothing to help. If he would just stop looking into her –

Elain abruptly stood and on a whim went to close the window. Maybe he'd think she was cold, though she'd regret trapping the air when it was stifling here soon.

She moved to the cupboard by the door, her back to him. She took a deep breath, taking her time to pull out a bottle of alcohol, in pouring a few drops of it onto a clean cloth. The distance between them was refreshing. The chain didn’t cool, not with Azriel still so close in the same room, but at least it didn’t warm any more. Elain took a moment to readjust her grasp and pull it again.

She composed herself and knelt beside him. The alcohol’s scent permeated the air and her own nerves bristled. ‘This’ll hurt.’

His smile was slight. ‘It’s all right.’

She bit the inside of her cheek and touched the cloth to the wound. His jaw clamped like a vice and she lightened her touch, the cloth barely kissing his skin.

This wasn’t the right way. She needed to clean that wound, regardless of what pain it’d inflict. It'd be temporary, the sting. So she pressed the cloth harder, dabbing it across his cheekbone.

His features were stonelike at the contact. Did pain ever become easier to bear? Would the prick of a thorn be less painful in a decade than it was now?

If Azriel’s face was anything to go by, she guessed no. Perhaps some pain couldn’t be learnt; perhaps the body never fully digested pain.

Perhaps she'd never fully recover from the desolation in the Cauldron.

‘Are you all right, Azriel?’ Her voice was so quiet, like she didn’t want to flare the hurt any further.

‘I’m all right. Are you all right, Elain?’

‘I’m fine.’

He wasn’t all right and nor was she, but neither was willing to broach that right now. There was so much to him she didn’t yet know. What was it that shadowed his eyes so often? What darkness clouded his mind before he fell asleep? In due time, she’d learn, but that human impatience, the sense that there was never enough time, threatened to run her tongue.

Time stretched out before her. She’d learn. He was her friend, she just needed to give him time to teach her the workings of his soul. And in return, she would bare hers too.

Neither said a word as she pressed the alcohol into every wound, cleaning his cheekbone and temple, a scratch across his jaw. She stared at the graze there for a few seconds. She’d ask Madja for some calendula oil later; that would speed the healing process.

She sighed as she washed the cloth. Something had loosened the chain, but it wasn’t a sudden unravelling. It’d just been gradual and she hadn’t noticed, one link falling back at a time. Her heart expanded. There was torment in Azriel’s posture, on his face, and it hurt. It hurt that Elain couldn’t do anything for him besides give basic medicines for his body.

But he was more than just a physical form. He had a heart and a soul, both so tight with whatever misery lurked in his past, and she couldn’t do anything about that. For all the light she saw in the world, all the places of brightness, there was ten times as much darkness, ten times as many nooks and crannies where gloom and wretchedness dwelt. What good was the light if it didn’t burn away the shade over everyone’s souls?

She spent more time washing the cloth than necessary.

The chair creaked. ‘You can talk to me, Elain, whenever you need.’

The chain slipped again, Elain’s fingers grappling for those final links. It hurt so much that he was willing to give so much. Her smile was too bright as she turned and said, ‘I know.’

He stood. His gaze was so direct on her that she only held one chainlink now. Just one link remained in her hand, one link between her and the release of a beast she hadn't yet had the courage to face.

The link heated. Her muscles loosened and her hands fumbled with the tap, the cloth falling from limp fingers.

He would realise. He would know what she was thinking and feeling if she didn’t get a grip on herself, on that final chainlink. So she turned her body to face his and cleared her throat. ‘We should go downstairs to the fireplace. It’ll be warmer there.’ For his damp hair, of course.

No matter that whatever cool air remained in the room did nothing to tame her heat.

His hand was cold on her wrist, a shiver tracking her bones, and colder still were the shadows that swept them up and into the living room. Good, there was much more space here. Her feet hit the floor and she bent to place three logs in the hearth.

Moonlight glinted on the steel she struck against the flint but the metal didn’t spark the way she’d seen it do when everybody else lit a fire. She tried again, Azriel silent beside her. This was pitiful. She swiped the steel a couple more times, and a spark finally appeared.

It was too silent here. ‘Those shadows are quite convenient at times, aren’t they?’ she said.

He breathed a laugh. ‘They can be.’

She let the spark catch on the cloth resting on the hearth and threw it onto the logs, a blaze finally blooming. She doubted anybody else took that long to start a fire. Heat bathed her legs.

Elain didn’t know what to make of the lack of judgement she found on his face when she stood. Though, it was common with him, how honestly he looked at her. She shouldn’t be surprised. Save Nuala and Cerridwen, he was perhaps the only one who didn’t view her as a naive fool, a child. None of the others said it, but she saw it in their eyes, that patronising glimmer.

He was leaning against the mantelpiece with a forearm, one leg crossed over the other, the portrait of casual elegance. It wasn't often she got to see him looking so relaxed. Then again, he was tired.

Her eyes met his. ‘Just a few minutes now and we’ll be warm.’

His eyes were soft; he didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at her. Into her.

The air warmed. That was a quick few minutes.

Just the flames. Of course it was the flames. Anything else would be ridiculous.

The wound on his cheekbone was an angry red in the dim light. ‘I think you’ll need a bandage for that wound.’ Some herbs would be prudent too.

‘I’ll be fine without it,’ he said.

She pleaded for interference from something, anything. ‘It’s quite deep.’

‘Not a match for my Illyrian healing.’ The smirk that followed sent a hot spark down her skin. The chain now burned and she lost her grip on it completely, that leash uncoiling and slipping down, down, down into the abyss of her core. Her heart swelled like a dragon inhaling a mighty breath.

She needed a distraction from his achingly stunning face. The wings behind him were not a reprieve at all. Especially not after what she'd overheard about them. Certain people tended to forget she was in the room and had heightened hearing when they talked about the sensitivities of the Illyrian wings.

Her face heated and her heart throbbed against her chest. How improper these thoughts were. The air was stifling now. Perhaps they should've stayed in the bathroom. Even the weak chill of night air would be better than this. She wished she could have shadows to cool her down like Azriel did. Or to hide in. She'd seen him do that plenty of times.

His wings rustled and he straightened, coming off the mantelpiece. His eyes were glazed, somehow even more stunning than they were outside earlier. The fire highlighted the grey brown storm swirling in his gaze while streaks of emerald glistened like the veins on leaves in the height of summer.

It felt like the height of summer too in this heat.

He frowned. She cleared her throat of the pocket of air lodged there.

'Oh.' A bead of sweat glinted on his temple, right above the gash there. The sting that would ensue was an unnecessary pain, so she reached up to wipe it away.

As her finger touched his skin, above the crackle of the flames, a loud thudding beat entered her ears. Azriel caught her wrist and a small gasp left her lips.

His eyes smouldered, that thunderstorm churning in the dim light. His heartbeat. It was his heartbeat she heard. It ran and ran, crescendoeing like a drum before the climax of a song.

Was the shadowsinger feeling the same as she? Did his heart yearn to touch hers too?

It was unbearable, the alternative. Unbearable but probable.

Her voice was thick, with longing, with desire, with anguish all entangled when she spoke, 'I can hear your heartbeat.'

He said nothing. If he truly didn't reciprocate -

She almost couldn't continue but pushed out, 'And it's a beautiful sound.'

That song in his heartbeat finally climaxed, a thunder of sound pounding the air.

'You're beautiful, too,' he breathed.

Her own pulse throbbed, heartbeat echoing in her throat. Tears blurred her vision of him. She blinked them away; she wanted to truly see every inch of his wonderful face.

His breathing lightened.

As did hers.

He was a mirror, Azriel. He saw her; he saw what she hid from everyone else, clear as day. It was his eyes that told. His words, too, in that smooth voice, free of condescension.

And now no mouth had ever looked so inviting.

And maybe this was okay. This fondness, this attachment she'd developed for him. It wasn't a sudden spark - childish and unquestioned. This had been building for a while now. Months. Maybe even since the first year she'd met him. And maybe it was improper and she was a lady, but perhaps it went beyond expectation. If her sisters could give themselves wholly to their love, then so could she.

Love. It was exhilarating, liberating to open up that well inside her. To no longer have that chain leashing her heart.

And because she knew he'd not make another move, she whispered, 'Are you going to kiss me?'

The fire hissed as a log tumbled further into the hearth. Shadows smoked behind his eyes. 'Only if you want me to.'

Without a doubt, she wanted this. There was a certainty, a clarity in her bones that sang high and free. It whistled through her marrow and glided into her blood, awakening her soul. She was not a child. She could want this. She could have this.

'Yes.'

A frown marred his face and her heart dropped. His eyes were now a hurricane, darkened like night descended over them. Torment was etched in the line of his brows, in the flicker of his jaw as it ground together.

He was afraid. Of hurting her. Ruining her. She'd seen the way he always glimpsed his hands, glancing away with revulsion in his eyes. He thought he was a disgrace, a savage.

But how could that be? How could this male, this male of honour, loyalty and charm think so little of himself? He was better than any male she could've had the pleasure of knowing.

'I know what you're thinking,' she said, 'and I want you to know I trust you, Azriel. You will do me no harm. You couldn't.'

His eyes shuttered as he lowered them, brows still furrowed. He still held her wrist, so, pulling his arm with her, she reached out and stroked his brow with her thumb. She rubbed back and forth in gentle motions until that crease was gone, and he exhaled slowly.

'I trust you, Azriel. So kiss me.'

The moody veil of night lifted from his eyes, the tempest calming to a glistening haze. His heart still pounded, so wondrously loud as he leaned down, his free hand settling against her cheek. He was unhurried, tentative.

It was agonising. Worse still, he paused with an inch of space between their lips. His night-chilled air and cedar scent blended with the smoke and wood of the fire, seductive as it crept into her skin and twined around her bones like ribbons of mist round pillars.

With shadows flickering over his face, and the light so sultry beside them, his eyes were alluring. She'd never let herself notice that before. 'Kiss me,' she said faintly.

Elain didn't breathe as his lips touched hers.

Feedback's welcomed, thanks for reading 😊

@illyrian-lover-flower @julesherondalex @nooriee @mis-lil-red @verifiefangirl @tswaney17 @a-happybird @thewayshedreamed @sleeping-and-books @thefangirlofhp @januarystears @courtofjurdan @ladylochan

#elain archeron #Azriel #elriel #elain x azriel #acotar #azriel acotar #a court of thorns and roses

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hale-13 · 3 years

Text

Caliber

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 12 - Death

Peter grew up like most American kids running active shooter drills thinking (hoping) it would never happen to him.

Words: 2338, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Teen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones, Tony Stark, Various Midtown Students and Faculty

TW: TW: Gun Violence, Blood, Major Character Injury, Possible MCD (if you choose to interpret it that way)

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

Growing up, Peter spent his early childhood in lower level genetics labs with his parents. Part of this was simply because they worked some weird hours at OsCorp but the other part was definitely because they recognized his intelligence and talent early and would give him easy experiments to run while they worked. Safe? Eh, maybe not but Peter had fun.

Well, until they died that is.

After that Peter would spend his time in the hospital daycare or nurse’s break room or sitting at Ben’s desk in the bullpen at the precinct where he worked. Daycare and babysitters were expensive and Peter was having a little separation anxiety from becoming an orphan at six. Peter accredits this formative time in his life to why he has a healthy respect of first responders, why he goes out every night in spandex to help his neighborhood (even if the cops hate him).

After the funeral, after May and Ben went back to work and started taking Peter with them, Ben sat Peter down to go over basic gun safety with him. He can remember that initial conversation pretty vividly: Ben had sat Peter down on the couch and had pulled out his unloaded side arm and the small safe he stored it in. He told Peter just how dangerous weapons could be in untrained hands, how Peter could easily hurt himself or others if he ever touched it, how Ben would always have it locked up but, on the off chance it wasn’t, Peter was to never touch it.

Peter had readily agreed and had steered clear of Ben’s belt and the gun safe next to his side of the bed his whole childhood.

The officers that Ben worked with were, for the most part, super nice to Peter and always took time out of their days to talk to him, bring him snacks and (attempt) to help him with his homework and Peter grew to be the most comfortable in the loud bullpen or the adjacent break room. The summer before he started his freshman year at Midtown, Ben and some of the other officers had given Peter a crash course in gun safety – how to clean, care and shoot a weapon – and it only took one trip to dash Peter’s dreams of working in law enforcement; he never wanted to handle a gun again.

Holding his uncle’s body as he bled out a few months later from the massive hole left in his back by the .45 caliber handgun only solidified that decision.

Luckily, in his tenure as Spider-Man, Peter tended to run into more sub-Ultron and Chitauri fare than the classic handguns and rifles he was familiar with which suited him just fine. When he did come across a run of the mill mugger or rapist who was using a pistol or something similar, Peter took great pleasure in using his super strength to rip it into tiny pieces – destroyed beyond repair and off the streets for good.

This had resulted in some unfortunate bullet grazes and full-on holes in his body that had prompted his helicopter mentor (under the order of Aunt May of course) to force him through another gun safety lecture, complete with a practical portion where Colonel Rhodes assisted in teaching Peter how to properly disarm and disassemble a variety of different sidearms. It was definitely cool to spend time with Actual War Machine but Peter rushed through it as quickly and throughly as possible. He never wanted to have the easy comfort with weapons that Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes had – he preferred non-lethal disarmament when patrolling.

All this said – Peter probably had more experience and knowledge with various weapons (human and otherwise) than he had any right to.

All of this experience, all of his time as Spider-Man, everything he had been through did nothing to help keep him calm and collected when his principal came over the intercom while Peter was in gym class to announce a code red shelter in place order. Like most high schoolers in America, Peter had gone through numerous school safety drills so he, in theory, knew what to do in a emergency.

In practice? Not so much.

Coach Wilson had looked just as pale and stunned as the class but had recovered quickly enough to rush the doors. A few other students had also started moving to gather some of the wrestling mats to roll in front of the doors once Coach Wilson had gotten them closed and locked.

He, unfortunately, wasn’t quick enough.

Brian Anderson, a sophomore Peter recognized from the debate team, forced the door open, brandishing the small revolver in a shaky hand. His face was pale, eyes red rimmed with tears with such a desolate look it made Peter’s own heart clench in sympathy despite his rapid heart-rate.

“Back up,” he whispered, using the gun to gesture for the coach to step away and the man obliged; holding his hands up in surrender and slowly backing away from the door. Some of Peter’s classmates, including Ned who, for once, wasn’t right at Peter’s side in class but across the room from him, had started to cry. Michelle, looking stony faced but terrified underneath it all, was trying to shush Betty Brant who was in the middle of a full blown panic attack and trying not to draw attention to herself.

“Okay,” Coach Wilson said, motioning the class members closest to him to back up with one raised hand, his eyes never leaving the weapon. “You’re calling the shots here Brian.”

Brian sniffled, fresh tears spilling over his eyes and hand trembling as he surveyed the room, eventually moving the barrel to point at Mark Conley, one of Flash’s friends and a notorious online bully. Both boys had gone nearly ghost white and the class seemed to be holding its collective breath.

“Sorry Ben,” Peter thought. “Sorry Mr. Stark.”

“Brian,” he called out, voice sounding much more steady than he predicted it would since he was just Peter Parker right now and not Spider-Man. “You don’t want to do this man.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Brian spit out, anger over-ruling all of his other feelings and his eyes landing on Peter. “You don’t know what I want to do!”

“I promise you don’t want to do this,” Peter said calmly. “I know what they’re like. You think they treat me any better than you? You’ll regret this if you do it.”

Brian snorted out a dry laugh, not looking like he found anything remotely funny. “Then you should want me to do this.” He said, cherry picking Peter’s words.

“But I don’t,” Peter told him, edging closer to the other boy, making sure to put his body in front of Mark as he moved closer. “Do you know how my uncle died?” Brian, eyes locked with Peter’s, shook his head nearly imperceptibly. “He was shot by some guy robbing a bodega. He bled out in my arms before emergency services could arrive.” Peter said bluntly, doing the best to ignore how his heart clenched and his eyes burned.

The barrel of Brian’s gun dipped down to point more toward the floor and Peter took a few cautious steps forward, stopping when he was only about five feet away. “They won’t stop,” Brian whispered, the tears flowing heavier but his finger still in place over the trigger. “It just keeps getting worse and I can’t take it. I can’t do this anymore!”

“I know,” Peter said, voice soft, dropping his hands down to rest loosely at his sides. He really wishes he had his web-shooters, secret identity be damned. He was never taking them off again, no matter what May tried to tell him about work/life balance. “I know what its like and it sucks but they aren’t worth throwing your whole life away. It’s not worth hurting all the innocent people you’ll hurt. You don’t want to do that to your friends and family.”

“I don’t have any friends!” Brian said loudly, raising the gun back up to point at Peter but Peter didn’t move from his relaxed position even though he felt his heart speed up to a gallop. He faced possible injury and death at least once a week but that was always as Spider-Man… never as Peter Parker.

“I’m your friend,” Peter told him, a little desperate but honest. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” Brian gasped and let the pistol drop to his side in a loose grip. “Just hand me the gun Brian okay? And then we can talk about it, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Brian sniffed and rubbed his free hand over his face to wipe away the tears rolling down his cheeks. “Do you promise?”

“I promise,” Peter confirmed, holding out his hand. Brian nodded and lifted his hand to pass Peter the gun when everything went wrong. Betty, who had been hyperventilating through the entire exchange, finally passed out. MJ tried to catch her but the two of them hit the floor with a echoing bang that startled the whole class. Brian, gun lifted and finger still on the trigger, flinched and jerked to aim back at Mark, shooting.

Everything happened in slow motion for Peter and he grimaced at what he was about to do, saying mental apologies and throwing his body in the path of the bullet, jerking back at the feeling of it hitting him in the chest.

His breath knocked out and his consciousness already becoming more nebulous from the pain that was blooming in his lungs, Peter stumbled forward to yank the gun from Brian’s limp grasp, deftly unloading it with the last of his strength and with shaking hands before throwing the rounds to the opposite side of the gym; collapsing at the other boys feet.

“Oh god,” Brian whispered in horror. “Oh god Peter. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He tried to bend down next to Peter but was swiftly tackled by Abe and Jason where he was wrestled onto his front with them restraining his hands without a fight beyond his gulping sobs.

“You’re alright Parker,” Coach Wilson said soothingly as he rolled Peter onto his back and used his own hastily shed jacket to apply pressure to the steadily bleeding hole in Peter’s chest, causing him to grunt and squeeze his eyes shut in pain. “Thompson! Call 911 and tell them we have the shooter and we need emergency services in the gym. Conley run up to the office and tell Morita what happened!” Both boys jumped into action but Peter ignored it in favor of unsteadily pulling his own phone out of his pocket and sliding it to Ned who had joined the group along with a pale and teary Michelle.

“Call Tony,” Peter coughed out, blood staining his lips and leaked down the side of his face. “No hospital.”

Ned, shaking and crying worse than Peter had ever seen fumbled the phone with numb hands before giving up and pressing the panic button on the side of the phone. Feeling relieved that his mentor was on the way, Peter let his tired eyes close only to rip them open at the flick on his nose.

“It’s not nap time Tiger,” MJ told him, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t want to get detention again.”

“I think…” Peter gasped out, his lungs aching with the strain. “Think this… get me… a permanent… ‘get out of detention’… free card.”

Michelle ran soft fingers through his hair, helping him relax his clenching muscles. He could tell that Ned was on the phone and speaking in rapid, broken sentences. He could kind of hear the sirens approaching, the sound of the building evacuating, crying students. But nothing mattered as much as Michelle. “You just couldn’t help yourself huh?”

“You know… me,” Peter grunted, trying for a grin that didn’t show the tacky blood he was sure was staining his teeth. “No guts… no glory.”

“God you’re a disaster,” MJ said with a watery laugh, a single tear escaping to race down her cheek. Peter wanted nothing more than to reach out and wipe it away but his arms were made of lead.

Before Peter could work up the energy to respond, the doors of the gym were blown off the hinges by repulsers as Tony rushed the room, suited up in his full armor and clearly panicked. “Peter!” He shouted as he stumbled out of the suit, falling to his knees next to Peter and hastily began applying his prototype nanotech bandage to the hole in Peter’s chest before rolling him on his side to repeat the process with his back.

Peter gagged at the change in position, his eyesight fading out to a pinprick of light and his hearing glitching out. The voices around him became ever more harried but Peter couldn’t make out what they were trying to say – all he knew was he was really tired. More tired than he had ever been maybe. Surely no one would mind if he took a little nap?

“Stay with me buddy,” he heard Mr. Stark say as cold, hard arms gripped under his back and knees, lifting him and causing him to nearly black out again. “Just a quick little flight to the Tower Petey,” Tony said, voice wavering and not its usual strong timbre. “Just hang with me for a few more minutes and then you can nap okay kiddo?”

“Tired,” Peter gasped out, chest seizing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize!” Tony ordered, frantic and yelling over the wind buffeting them. When had they started flying? “Just stay awake.”

“Love May,” Peter whispered, his vision a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors that were rapidly fading. “Love you.”

“Peter!” Tony sounded so far away, Peter thought as his eyes closed against the colors and shapes and lights that were making him feel dizzy and sick.

Just a little nap.

No one would notice.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump12 #Prompt: Death #irondad #spider man #Summer of Whump

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felidaefighter · 3 years

Text

Keeping Promises To His Reflection

Sequel to Love You To The Point Of Violence; AKA Sapnap keeps his promise to Quackity and, by proxy, Dream

[cw: angst, character death]

It had been a long time since Sapnap had properly hunted anyone. It was invigorating, in a way, and almost reminded him of the good old days he’d spent sparring with Dream and George. Almost. Now, though, the fire that had initially fueled his passion and love burned with rage and resentment and spread into his sword, which sparked and flickered with heat and Flame. He was burning from the inside out in every way, and he intended to share this feeling with the unlucky person he was hunting via his blade.

Sapnap walked with the heavy, certain footsteps of the soldier he once was-- and in all honesty, still was-- forward, deliberate, and imbued with intent. He had never been known for mercy-- didn’t have any sort of track record for it in any of his wars-- but that didn’t mean he couldn’t love. Just meant he was careful with his love and loyal to his core. That loyalty came with the toll he was here to collect. The flames from his sword cast deep shadows from the spruce around him, and his eyes flickered through the trees, hoping to catch someone moving with the shadows.

“There’s no use in hiding,” Sapnap called in a sing-song voice that did little to mask his feelings, “And you can’t outrun me. If you have a horse I’ll just bow it down. I mean, you know me.” With a steadying exhale that immediately had Sapnap turning towards him, Quackity stepped out of the shadows. “Can we talk about this? I just want to talk. We can just talk, right?” Sapnap sighed, stepping towards his ex-fiance. “I mean... I don’t want to lie to you, Quackity.” Two strong-willed individuals staring eachother down. It would’ve been quite a sight, in any other circumstance. But only one of them was wearing netherite.

Standing less than a hair’s length away from one another, the two men could argue that the tension between them was solely a face-off of powerful people; but it would be a lie if they never acknowledged just how much of it came from their history. They could pretend, if they wanted, that their skin didn’t itch with the memory of embrace that would only burn with bitterness if they acted on nostalgia. Instead, Sapnap’s eyes bored into Quackity’s own, a relentless gaze that wouldn’t yield no matter the silver of Quackity’s tongue.

Sapnap still ached, in no small part, to run his rough and calloused warrior’s hand over the scar on Quackity’s face as he discussed it, but he couldn’t, not anymore. “I talked to Tubbo about the butcher army he ran,” Sapnap explained-- Quackity looked quizzical, having not yet figured out where he was leading. “Or rather, the butcher army you ran. It was your idea, your ‘hitlist’. And Dream was on there too.” Now Quackity knew. Despite the space between them, Sapnap could still feel Quackity’s breath hitch and heart race just a little faster. Creating a defense that both of them knew Sapnap wouldn’t buy.

“Sapnap, Tubbo was the president. He really said that to you? He’s just trying to absolve himself of any guilt so you don’t attack him! That should be obvious to you.” The resentment Sapnap felt that was still burning within him. Mostly, towards himself. “Is it really second nature for you to lie like that now? What happened to you Quackity?” He thought that having his brother be the prime example of where it all went wrong would make it easier to spot in anyone else, but apparently, it just made him less willing to acknowledge it in someone he loved. Fool me once type beat. More than anything, he felt used. He had been a soldier for Quackity and Dream both. He had been loyal to Quackity and Dream both.

Coals still burn white-hot and deadly long after the flames are gone, and that was more akin to what Sapnap was feeling than a heartache. He thought he had known Dream, until it became apparent that they had drifted so much farther apart than he’d realized, and it was no longer the truth. He had thought he’d known Quackity, too. But now, it was safe to say he had never known Quackity at all. That didn’t stop the embers of his love. Didn’t stop his loyalty. Didn’t-- Sapnap’s resolve and gaze hardened-- stop him from intending to keep his promise.

And Quackity, ever so smart, was beginning to realize the situation he had put himself in. Here in front of him stood a renowned warrior, an ex-lover, and someone whom he had betrayed the trust of-- with a fire in his heart, a sword in his hand, and little more than Quackity to lose. The open woods didn’t stop him from feeling cornered. The light coming from Sapnap did not quell his fears, as his ease nowadays came from the silence and lack of witness that was offered by the dark. Sapnap spoke, and Quackity bit his tongue to keep quiet, feeling blood like liquid silver from his mouth and run like poison down his throat.

“Y’know, I was angry at Dream for betraying George and I back when we were trying to get El Rapids up and running. I wanted to kill him. But I thought about it, and I realized something.” Quackity took a step back. Sapnap took a step forward. “You didn’t actually care. You saw George and I as an opportunity for you. Despite it all, Quackity, I still love Dream. And the only thing that hurts more than his betrayal right now is the fact that you used that for your own means.” There was too much irony in it all, and Sapnap was sick of it.

Quackity wanted to ask Sapnap why he still loved Dream. Wanted to blame Dream for everything, call him a monster, tell Sapnap he did it all for him. But they were well past that. They’d had that conversation and Quackity would spare them the indignity of having it again. So instead, he took a good and proper look at Sapnap’s face. He expected Sapnap to look angry. Or disgusted. Hell, he’d even take “contempt”. What he got instead was so much worse, and apprehension rocketed through his core. Something buried in the shards of his heart shook loose, and after running ice through his veins it gave him wide eyes, terror, and the tiny, desperate flame of love that he hadn’t quite managed to snuff out.

‘I love you, I have always loved you, I still love you, I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,’ written all over Sapnap’s face. A man who kept his promises to those he loved. The silver had bled out of Quackity’s words, and instead he was left with a quiet, desperate whisper, reminiscent of the man he used to be. “Sapnap, you’re not gonna kill me,” Quackity begged, and the man known being ruthless gently grabbed Quackity’s arm and stared into his eyes.

“You’ve hurt so many people,” Sapnap said, pained, his grip tightening slightly as Quackity attempted to shift away. “You’ve crossed too many lines. You’re worse than Dream ever was, and that’s saying something.” Quackity could feel the heat from the man’s skin, and it almost rivaled the temperature of the blade that was still radiating flames and forming something of a gate at the opposite side. “Sapnap, you know I’d never want to hurt you.” He tried appealing to the man’s romantic senses, tried pretending there was nothing left of his own. “All of this was only ever about what you wanted. You hurt Karl and I. You betrayed our trust.”

So close now, Quackity could almost forget he was afraid. There was no point in backing up. The silver had been drained from his tongue; his only true claim to power. He had no horses in the race anymore. No more cards to put on the table and no ace up his sleeve. Just the love of the man who was keeping him from running away. “You’re not gonna kill me,” he tried again, and Sapnap looked sorry for him. Not in a way that meant pity, though. That was good. Pity was something Quackity loathed.

“Quackity, you can still trust me. I made you a promise.” And it hurts, for Quackity, that he shares a promise with Dream. He feels regret stab through his heart, feels the heat of his true emotions and the blood soak into his shirt and the burn of his feelings and the blade that slides through him like he was no more than fragile glass. Quackity is burning. Anger and resentment, love and passion, regret for the things he couldn’t do. Regret for the things he did-- maybe. Not really, if he’s being honest. He coughs up blood as Sapnap holds him, steady as always.

He pulls his sword out of Quackity’s chest and smoke pours out of the wound as freely as blood. It smells terrible, of course, but neither of them have the mind to point that out. Quackity’s lungs feel charred and wet at the same time. He speaks in a broken voice. “I’m pissed about this,” he confesses, “But I’m glad that after everything, I can still trust you. You never let me down when you make a promise.” They crouch down, though for Quackity it’s more like collapsing. Sapnap is still holding onto him, keeping him upright, and Quackity finds himself holding onto Sapnap right back. He tells himself he has no attachments. He’s too good at lying now; he can even do it to himself.

The ashes of their relationship make no phoenix. There is no rebirth in this, no reconciliation. There on the needle bedding of pine there is only a man who went too far and a man who keeps his promises. Neither is free of sin, but neither do they feel regret. Do what has to be done, and love enough to see it through. It’s too hot on the smoldering earth for tears to stay, if there were any at all. Quackity exhales smoke and doesn’t inhale again after that. Sapnap sees two faces in the lifeless eyes, neither of which he could save-- except for this one, only in death.

Karl won’t understand. He doesn’t have to. He only needs to accept and move on. The man he thought he loved-- the man they both thought they loved-- should have been mourned when he truly died, long before their engagement. Sapnap absently touches his ring finger, before letting out a furious scream of anguish and burying his sword in the earth in an act more primal than he would let himself feel earlier. Flames eat at the forest bedding and flicker around him and the body he holds, but Sapnap knows fire and if he’s honest, he doesn’t care about anything else right now. Let the forest burn-- he’s done worse. The man born from fire takes his former lover home.

#mcyt fanfic #sapnap #quackity #mcyt fanfiction #they write #PROUD OF THIS ONE LET'S GO BOIIISSSSS

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imaginejamesandsirius · 3 years

Note

hi! I can't stop sending you prompts. I hope you don't mind :") "Severus hits James with the "Sectumsempra" spell and leaves him in this state." thank you and have a nice day!

((A/N: The prompt sort of leans in a hurt/comfort direction, but I didn’t do that. This is more ‘Sirius has Anger Issues and James doesn’t like it’))

"What the hell happened?" Sirius asked. James looked a little fragile, so instead of squeezing his hand until it hurt, Sirius's fingers were knotted together in his lap where he was sat on the edge of the hospital bed. He'd tried to sit in the chair next to the bed, but James had rolled his eyes and told him that if he didn't get up there, then James would go to him.

James kicked his lips before answering. "Spell accident."

"Accident," Sirius repeated. He didn't want to think that James was lying to him, but really- an accident?

"You know how it is with new spells. Sometimes it's exactly what you want, and sometimes they blow up in your face."

"What the hell were you thinking trying a new spell by yourself?"

"Well I didn't think that was going to happen. Why get back-up for something I thought couldn't possibly go wrong?"

"You're the one that gave me that lecture! Like, a month ago. 'Don't go practising anything experimental, Sirius. You might get a hangnail and then I'll have to panic for forty minutes.' Remember that?"

"I didn't say it like that."

"Believe me, it was the gist. You're absolutely ridiculous."

James stuck out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. "I'm injured! Be nice to me."

"I'll be nice to you when you stop being an idiot."

"That'll never happen," James whined. "I want you to be nice to me now."

"Keep on dreaming." Besides, maybe this would remind him not to go off on his own and experiment! What kind of spell could it have been to land him in the Hospital Wing? Singed eyebrows, sure, but Madam Pomfrey hadn't even healed him and then let him go. Whatever it was that had gone wrong, it was having lasting effects.

"Where's Moony and Wormtail?"

"Revising. You said it was nothing, so I told them not to worry about it." The only reason James had told Sirius was because he knew better than to try and hide something like that. They both agreed to tell the other about any injury, no matter how small, and they got on a lot better for it. "If I'd known you were lying, they'd be here."

"I didn't lie. I said I was fine, and I am."

That was when Madam Pomfrey walked up to them with a tray of potions in hand, and she raised an eyebrow at James. "Anyone who loses that much blood is not fine. You're lucky Professor Dumbledore happened upon you when he did, or you might've bled to death right there."

"What?" Sirius yelped, turning to James accusingly. "That's not sodding fine!"

"I'm heartened that you agree with me, Mister Black. Perhaps he will actually listen when I say that he should stay here overnight."

"Aww, c'mon," James said. "Nothing's going to happen to me back at the dormitory. You already said it would just be for observation."

"No way," Sirius said immediately, shaking his head. "You're staying here so we can be sure there aren't any lingering effects."

"There aren't."

"You don't know that for sure."

There was a hesitance to James's expression before he said, "Yeah, but I'm pretty sure."

"Pretty sure isn't enough to bet your life on." He heard Madam Pomfrey move on to the next patient, leaving them alone again. "Come on," Sirius said, lowering his voice. "I wouldn't be able to get any sleep if I knew you might get hurt in the middle of the night. If you're here, at least we'll all know that you're as safe as you can be."

"Bloody hell, you're becoming more like Mum with every passing day."

"Your mother is a lovely woman."

"Yeah, but she hovers," he said, wrinkling his nose.

"You like my hovering," Sirius said. He managed to untense his fingers so that he could put one hand on the bed and lean forward to give James a quick kiss.

"Merlin help me, I do," he whispered.

"So you'll stay here, tonight?"

"I will, but I still think you're overreacting. Nothing's going to happen."

"That's what I thought this morning too, and look at where that led us."

James rolled his eyes.

Sirius thought about it more as he went back to the dormitory. He couldn't manage to think about anything else. James's answer had almost made sense, but something about how he'd said it all... It had soothed Sirius at the time, but now that he had some space, it struck him as odd. It's like James had been trying to get him not to focus on how it happened. If it had been a simple spell accident from a new one, then he would've complained about the spell itself; he would've talked about how he was so sure he'd gotten the right phrasing for it this time, and he'd worked so hard on trying to get it perfect before he ever raised his wand.

He hadn't done any of that.

James and Sirius didn't have to have talked about it first to know that Sirius was going to sneak in that night to visit him. Since he was actually hurt, Sirius didn't plan on staying for very long.

He was going to get to the Hospital Wing, ask James what had actually happened, kiss him once (maybe twice, for good measure), then leave. Nice and quick. He'd be back at Gryffindor Tower in time to catch enough sleep that he wouldn't pass out at his classes tomorrow.

It was a good plan, he thought. The only problem was that James didn't seem to know the script.

He was awake when Sirius got there. That much, at least, they were on the same page for. Sirius cast a silencing spell around them, then carefully sat on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"

"No worse than before," he said with a tired smile. It was hard to say if he was tired purely from staying up a little late or if that was an effect of being injured. "I still think you're overreacting a bit. I'm fine, and I know that nothing's going to happen."

"How?"

"What?"

"How do you know that nothing worse is going to happen?" Sirius elaborated.

"Trust me on this one, love. The initial," he waved his hand lazily, "thing happened, and I get that it scared you, but everything's fine now. It's not going to spontaneously reappear; it's not like that."

Sirius stared at him for a long moment. If he hadn't been looking for it, he would've accepted that answer. James was not only dodging the question, but he was doing it in a way that tried to ensure Sirius wouldn't think twice about it. James was lying, and he didn't know why. "This wasn't a spell accident," Sirius said flatly. "You know exactly what went wrong, but you're not telling me. Even if you were telling the truth about it being a spell accident, I'd need a better explanation for why you're so sure it's not going to have any lingering effects. But since you're lying about that, I figure you can just tell me the whole truth right now."

James's expression turned guilty, but no answer was forthcoming.

"What the hell is going on?"

He still didn't answer.

"Fine," Sirius said, getting to his feet. "If you're not going to talk to me, I'm going to leave."

"Wait," James said hurriedly, even though Sirius hadn't taken a step. "Don't- don't go."

Threatening him-- even with something so small as going back to bed-- made him sick to his stomach. "Are you going to tell me what really happened?"

James made a face.

"What the hell is going on? Since when do you not talk to me?"

"Since I know you'll freak out."

"Why would I freak out?"

"Because that's what you do when you get upset. For fuck's sake, you almost killed Snape last-"

"You said you forgave me for that," Sirius interrupted as his heart clenched. "Wait, did he do this to you?"

For a moment, James looked conflicted. Then he said, "Yes, but I don't think he really knew what the spell would do. He panicked when he saw all the blood."

"He left you there? Madam Pomfrey said that Dumbledore's the one who found you, so when he panicked, he just left you like that? I swear to Merlin, I'll sodding-"

"Stop!" James shouted. "You're not going to do anything."

"The hell I won't."

"This is why I didn't tell you. I hexed him first."

"Yeah, you hexed him; you didn't cut him open and leave him to die."

"You're not listening to me!"

"I'm listening just fine."

"No, you're not," James snarled, his face twisting with frustration. "You're just saying that you're going to kill him because he hurt me, and I'm telling you that that's utter shite."

"He'd deserve it."

In a flash, the anger was gone, replaced by shocked disbelief. "You'd really do it."

"He nearly killed you," Sirius hissed.

James swayed back slightly, like he couldn't handle being so close to Sirius's anger. "You told me last time that it was a mistake. One you regretted."

Sirius grit his teeth. "It was." Then, vindictively, "I never should've dragged Moony into it when I could've done it myself." He hadn't expected for the statement to do anything but make James more disappointed with him, but he looked scared now. The reaction almost had Sirius apologising-- it's not like he would ever hurt James, but the other man didn't look too certain of that.

"If anything happens to Snape, I'll tell Dumbledore that you're responsible."

"You wouldn't," Sirius said, narrowing his eyes.

"I definitely would if it'll stop you from hurting him. He made a stupid mistake, just like you'd done, and you're not going to punish him for it." James still looked scared of him. "If you hurt him again, Dumbledore will expel you. He was lenient last time, only Merlin knows why, but he won't do it again."

Sirius turned on his heel and left, angry enough that he wanted to start flinging spells at the stone until it crumbled before him.

He stomped back to the Tower. He wasn't careful or using the Map, but he somehow didn't get caught. That was good. He wasn't sure he would've held his tongue, even against a professor.

He woke up in the morning, feeling nauseous.

He skipped breakfast to go see James. Madam Pomfrey was releasing him when he got there, so he hovered awkwardly near the door for her to finish.

James had seen him when he entered. His eyes chased that direction when he saw the door open, then slid back to Madam Pomfrey as she spoke. Sirius leaned against the wall, feeling almost like he hadn't slept at all for how tired he was. He didn't know if James would listen to him, or if he wanted more space before talking. Hell, he might consider last night good grounds for breaking up with him, and what made it worse was that he wouldn't be wrong. If Sirius were James, that's what he'd do. He wouldn't be able to be with someone like him.

But when James walked to the door, he stopped at Sirius's side. "Hey," he said, subdued.

"Clean bill of health?" Sirius asked, looking at James's shoulder because it was easier than looking him in the eye.

"Yeah. Nothing happened during the night, so she said I should be fine. The usual lecture about being more careful in the future."

Sirius nodded. "Breakfast?" he suggested, pointing towards the door. The last thing he wanted was to sit in the Great Hall and try to force himself to eat.

"Sure."

They left, walking side by side. It was a tense silence until Sirius broke. "Can we talk?"

"Sure," James said again.

It was easy to find an empty corridor that was far enough away from the Great Hall that they didn't have to worry about being walked in on.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Sirius said quietly. He didn't think of himself as overly emotional, but he started to tear up the moment he opened his mouth. "Every time I get angry, it's like I don't care about anything. I always feel like myself, and then it passes, and I just want to be sick. I used to think it was my parents, you know? That I was so buggered up from living with them that feeling murderous was just part of who I was, but now I live with you and it's-" Sirius stopped, swallowing thickly. He blinked the tears away before they could bead together and fall. "I don't know how to be better."

James didn't say anything for a long moment. "Have you talked to anyone about this?"

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

"I meant, like, an adult. A real one. A good one, not your parents. Maybe Mum?"

"Why would talking to your mum help?"

"She's our mum," James corrected automatically, like he always did. "I dunno. She seems to know a lot. When I was going through some things, talking to her made me feel better. It can't hurt, right?"

"I guess," Sirius muttered. He'd do it because James thought it was a good idea, and he couldn't trust his own council about this. He just wasn't really sure if it would be better for him, and more than that, he didn't know how willing he was to say those things to Mrs. Potter. She always looked at him fondly and said that he was family. He didn't want for that to be tossed out the window because he said too much to her, but he couldn't stay like this. If James hadn't been scared of him last night, he probably would've done it. Maybe he wouldn't have killed Snape, but he wasn't sure-- and he definitely would've hurt him.

Sirius felt... fragile. Like he was a vase with cracks all along it.

"I'll write to her today," Sirius said. Since they agreed, he started to turn back to the main corridor, but James stopped him.

James stepped forward, wrapping his arms around him just like he always did. Not tighter, not less constraining. The same as always, like nothing had changed. "I'm glad you're okay," James whispered.

Stupidly, that was the thing that made Sirius start to cry-- that James touched him and talked to him like he was the same he'd always been. Like he still loved him.

#prongsfoot #marauders #james potter #sirius black #fanfic #filled #hogwarts time #established relationship #no voldemort au #siriuslystarbucks #Anonymous

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mariamermaid · 3 years

Text

The witches wrath (2/3)

Tommy Shelby X fem witch reader

Summary: You meet Thomas when you were just a little girl travelling as a gypsy…

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: mentions of blood, death, violence

Halloween Masterlist

“I love you, Y/N.” A sob escaped your lips again. “And I love you, Thomas Shelby and if you don´t come back, I´ll come and get you myself.”

Time was a funny thing, without time things were put out of perspective and eternal thinking turned to dust. As Tommy stepped back into his city, his home, he inhaled the scent deeply. Oh, how he missed the dirty ol´ city, but there was nothing he kept looking for more than you. The thought of being only minutes, hell only seconds away from you, send endorphins through his body and an exhilarating a thrill of anticipation. Things had changed, shops were closed, new ones opened, people died and people were born. It felt like ages since Tommy had wandered through the streets he knew so merely; he could tell them apart by the gravel on the ground. Finally, he turned the last corner and he braced for the sight of the small herb shop with the hand painted sign, but his smile just as the eagerness in his eyes, vanished. Your shop was gone.

Tommy furrowed his brows and with quick and hectic steps, he hurried to Shelby Company Limited. In the pit of his stomach, there was an unwell growling. On the way, he lit himself a cigarette and without knocking or ringing the bell, he entered through the backdoor. Arthur, who had gone to their home before, was sitting at the table in the kitchen. Polly, Ada and John gathered around and they all looked surprised and somehow anxious when Thomas practically stormed inside. “Where is she?”

“God fucking dammit!” Tommy let out another cursed as the horse just didn´t want it his way. He felt so out of place in his own home and even the animal in front of him, sensed his inner turmoil. When he managed to find his seat in the saddle, he pulled the reins closer. Polly, who had followed her nephew to the stables, sighed audible.

“Tommy, things changed and it wasn´t as easy as it might seem to you”, she explained with sadness in her voice. He was angry. Angry at her, angry at you and angry at him, but most importantly angry at war. If he hadn´t gone, things would be different, he knew it.

“She isn´t here, is she?” Tommy replied infuriated, starring down at Polly. Behind her eyes laid a dark filter, she knew what happened.

“She came back to see if you´d come home, but then she came less and less. She said she had a vision.” Tommy huffed, nonsense, it was all bullshit to him. But dear Thomas only looked at a fraction of the truth, intrigue and hatred grew its roots deeper than trees.

The horse was tall and strong as it made its way through the city and then over the roads. It was almost fifteen minutes later when he reached the junction Polly told him about. The road split, but right in front him he saw the faint hint of a trail into the woods. He was warned, that it wouldn´t be easy to find your cabin, to which you had moved about a year ago, but he was determined. While the horse continued to surge ahead, he started wondering what he was expecting. Would you fall into his arms, relieved to find him alive? Would you recognize him? Or would he recognize you? Nonsense, Tommy would always know you. At least that´s what he told himself…

It was almost another twenty minutes later, the horse had to slow down since the thicket seemed to be unbreakable and Tommy left the saddle to guide his companion. Your cabin laid on a small glade, even though it was a foggy day. A small river with ice cold water ran down the trail and a wooden table with tools was build outside. The horse became unsettled as Thomas noticed the two Doberman hounds as well. They didn’t have a leash and as he stepped closer, they quickly started growling and barking echoed through the forest. No light was on inside the cabin, but then he watched as you came running out of the woods, alarmed by the dogs. A long dark robe hiding your figure and face, a shotgun in your grip and you aimed it right at Tommy. Slowly you stepped closer, Thomas was frozen in place. He didn´t yield or hold up his hands, he just starred at you. You came closer, he realized you were limping with your left foot and when you were close enough to recognize him, he saw the face underneath the cape. A scar from your eyebrow down to your eye, skin pale and you had lost weight. You lowered the shotgun, starring thunderstruck at the dark-haired man in front of you.

“Tommy?” The dogs had lowered their howling and watched now as their owner seemed to know the unknown man. But Thomas had realized that they would listen perfectly at your command and he was truly scared. The woman in front of him wasn´t you, she had changed. Your voice was almost a whisper, so raspy, he wondered when the last time was, when you had talked.

Both of you just starred at each other, time passing; seconds and even minutes. You didn´t know how to move, your muscles didn´t react.

The was a longing to jump into his arms and there was pain holding you back. “What happened?” Tommy asked into the silence. The two Dobermans, who had settled next to you, looked back and forth, their ears pointed up. “Come in, I´ll make some tea.” You answered reluctant and made a head gesture for him to follow you. The Dobermans were first to enter the cabin, then you. Tommy tied the horse up, you didn´t even wait for him. He sensed you feared him, or at least his arrival.

As he entered the cabin, his eyes wandered around. It was completely built out of wood; he was sure you had built it yourself and a small fire was crackling. A string hung from one end to the other, herbs drying in the air. A bed, a small kitchen isle and a table, which you used more for writing then eating. Papers were spread across it, and a single shelve was filled with books. He recognized some of the symbols on the books from the gypsy, other were foreign to him. You avoided his glance, but you still felt it. You hastily put away the papers and the books on the table, by the handwriting Thomas knew they were written by yourself. You clearly didn´t want him to get a closer look. Placing the kettle from the fire on the table and taking two cups, you poured in steaming hot tea. As you finally sat down at the table as well, you pulled down the cape from your face. Your hair had gotten long, but it was beautifully braided and he eyed the scar, wondering how much luck you had, that you hadn´t become blind.

“It started out small, incidents I didn´t pay much attention to really.” It was your voice talking, yet Tommy knew nothing about the woman sitting at the table with him. But you knew that he wanted answers, it was his right.

“Comments and remarks about me and the shop.” You paused, your glance on the mug in front of you. “But it became quickly worse. About six months after you had left, they started boycotting the shop. Spreading word that I sold poison, painting the glass panel and driving away customers.” You swallowed, he felt how hard the story felt against your chest. But he didn´t push you. “One night, I had closed the shop early, knowing nobody would care at this point. I was attacked in a back alley. Luckily, John found me, anyway I would´ve bled to death.” A sharp pain in his stomach dropped as the words settled in Thomas, the image of you bleeding on the dirty ground in a dark alley with no one caring, anger grew like a bushfire in him. His jaw was tensed and his high cheekbones stiff. “I slept for an entire week, dreaming only of you, Thomas Shelby. Buried in a tunnel system with Arthur and your dad, with no air to breath. With no one searching for your body. I couldn´t stay afterwards.”

He didn´t know what to say; Thomas Shelby was speechless. For a long time, the two of you had sit at the table, time passing like leaves falling in autumn. Tommy opened his mouth, but you immediately shook your head. You knew what he would imply. “I´m not coming back with you. This town doesn´t want me and I don´t want it either.”

“What about our promise?”

“It didn´t change now, did it?” You asked instead and started tidying up the kitchen. “You´re back, I still love you.” His eyes shot up to you, he was angry.

“How can you just say that? Like it meant nothing!” The silence and the quiet that had settled before was gone, you spun around filled with hatred. Hatred that really just hid the fear in you. “They tried to kill me, purposely! I almost died and for what?!”

You never, not once, had yelled at him and he flinched in response, too numb suddenly to answer with any words. “Do you know what happens when I move back? With you? They´ll do the same with you, Tommy! With your family! The company!” Tears had started forming in your eyes, you felt so angry you were already shaking. Your two dogs, Apollo and Cerberus, cocked their ears, clearly interested in how the situation was involving. After their initial calmness when Tommy had entered your house, they now started growling at him again. Tommy on the other hand knew, that you wouldn´t release them on him, but what if the dogs decided on their own? They were loyal to you, only to you and as of right now, he was a risk in their eyes.

Suddenly he realized how the room had become warmer, hotter to be honest. He glanced to the fire, then back to you; was your anger awakening the fire? It couldn´t be! The cups in the cupboard had started clattering and he knew, that it was your power moving them. After all these years knowing you, he forgot that you were born into a witch´s family of gypsies. He had forgotten that there were things no one could explain and a terrible thought crossed his mind; what if the people were right to feel threatened by you?

He left after that.

He continued with life in Birmingham.

But there wasn´t a day, hour or even second, where he didn´t think about you.

It was two weeks after Tommy had come back, two weeks after your first encounter when he saw you again. The nights were truly the worst; either his sleep was filled with nightmares of being buried alive and screams from war, or he laid awoke with nothing but pictures of you wandering through his mind.

It was an early Sunday morning, half of Birmingham was trying to sleep off their hangover, the other one was enjoying the luxury of sleeping in before the work week was starting again. Like so often, Thomas was awakened by a nightmare, he starred at the clock; 5.37 a.m. He sighed annoyed and brushed away the sleep in his eyes while sitting up on the bed. The sun wasn´t out yet, but it wasn´t fully dark out either. He was just about to lit himself a cigarette, when he heard something from downstairs. Who else was awake? Or was it an intruder perhaps?

He threw an old shirt over his bare chest, and started slipping down the stairs, careful to not make any noise. He realized voices coming from the kitchen and for a second, he held in listening.

“Give him this tea, it helps with the sleep.”

“I don´t think he actually sleeps, or eats for any matter.”

The second voice was Polly´s. The first one yours.

The two of you looked up startled when Tommy entered the kitchen, eyes widened and mouth opened. You wore a dark coat, thick and with a big hood and a pair of pants. “There´s nothing in this house that Thomas won´t get wind of”, you sighed and threw the bag, which previously laid on the table, over your shoulder. Polly watched carefully, her eyes wandering back and forth between the two of you. The smallest hint of a smile was on her thin lips, she was a gypsy and she wasn´t dumb.

“I need to head out before the sun starts rising, there´s a full moon coming Polly. I feel it waxing.” Polly let out a chuckled while Tommy observed from the side. The conversation between the two of you was so smooth and he envied Polly for it. “You know the waxing moon brings healing and growth.” You patted Polly lightly on the shoulder. “I know.”

Then you left the kitchen with swift steps and Polly, who had her back turned to her nephew, rolled her eyes at Tommy. “Go after her if you want to talk to her and don´t stand around.”

He stepped outside with slippers on his bare feet and caught sight of you vanishing behind a corner. “Y/n.” He called out your name just before finally reaching you again. You didn´t turn to him and continued making your way out of the city. “Tommy.”

“Why didn´t you tell me?” “Tell you what?”

“That you´d come and visit.” “And how should I tell you that?” He sighed and grabbed your wrist to stop you from walking. “You have your ways, ravens or something.” You huffed.

“Yeah I´ll send a raven, maybe a dragon just to make sure you´ll get the message.”

“I missed your remarks.” Taken back by his honesty you stepped a little back to bring distance between the two of you.

“I missed you”, he continued quietly. Carefully, as if he was afraid, he raised his hand to caress your cheek. “Have I told you, that you´re still as beautiful as ever?” You swallowed the lump in your throat and grabbed his hand. “Tommy don´t.”

“What?” It was his time to play dumb.

“This won´t change anything.” “I know.”

And then he leaned forward and kissed you and everything felt in place again. It felt like in the old times, where you were young and stupid and so dearly in love with him, nothing mattered but him. For a few seconds, the world was okay and it didn´t feel lonely and cold around your heart.

“I´m sorry it has to be like this, I truly am”, you explained whispering when his lips left yours. He nodded. “Make sure you´ll get safely home, Apollo and Cerberus will watch out for you.”

You chuckled. “How do you know their names?”

“You always loved the Greek mythology.” He smiled as well. “And their names are on their bowls in your kitchen.”

It wasn´t a raven he received a few days later, it was a pigeon. Tommy sat in the office of the Shelby Company, late at night, calculating numbers, when the grey pigeon picked against the window. A smile immediately grew on his face, he took the letter from the pigeon and gave the bird some water.

“Dear Tommy,

I saw a wild horse this morning at sunrise, it was beautiful.

How are the nightmares? Does the tea help?

Be careful, there is a blood moon coming. Things tend to shift then.”

The letter was simple signed with your initials. But it was enough for now, it sparked something that had been in Thomas since he met you; hope.

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

tags: @octaviareina @theamuz

#tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder #tommy shelby fanfic #cilian murphy #mariamermaidimagine

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theshopkeepofremnant · 3 years

Link

Next up for JanuRWBY, my prediction (wish) for next chapter! Enjoy a fight scene and a dash of pining, because why not?

Yang bounced bodily across the ground; if you could call it that. The belly of the beast was somehow more unsettling for how artificial, how obviously designed it was, despite the pulsing pink and red and vaguely living passageways never allowing those foolish enough to venture inside forget that they were within a massive creature.

And venturing inside certainly was foolish, Yang reflected as she skidded to a stop, her shoulder a beacon of pain from the massive blow that she had barely blocked. They had slipped past the perimeter of Grimm easily enough, thanks to Ren, and the passageways had been empty otherwise. It had taken them a few minutes to locate Oscar, but they had. Even now, he was dangling mere feet from where Yang was gasping and struggling to her feet. So close, yet so impossibly far away. Between her and the limp form stood a raging giant: Hazel. He had been lurking in the corner of the room when they entered, and Ren’s semblance couldn't hide them from humans.

His attack had come so swiftly that Yang could hardly remember how it had started, or when he had slammed the dust into his arms. They had tried to talk to him, reason with him, but that had failed miserably.

Ren had even done that…thing he had done to the Ace Ops back in the Manta. Yang wasn’t sure what it was, but he had somehow looked into them. He had clearly seen something in Hazel as well, but when he called out his doubt, his anguish, and fear that he was on the wrong side, Hazel had become a blur of dust and muscle and rage, and Ren had been left in a heap on the floor. Yang stole a glance over at her fallen comrade as she forced herself to one knee. He was still crumpled in a ball in the corner, not moving save for a shallow rise and fall along his back. Not dead.

She breathed a sigh of relief that became a gasp as Jaune was sent flying past her. Yang rushed to his side, helping him to his feet as guilt twisted her stomach into knots. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grunted, twisting side to side and running his hand along his ribs. Probably checking for broken bones. “Just trying to come up with a plan.”

“Yeah…” Yang replied vaguely, but she could hardly hear him over the chorus of accusations in her head. That it was her fault they were there in the first place. Her fault for letting Oscar get captured, her fault for letting Ren get taken out of the fight when they so badly needed him. Gods, it was her fault they had split off from the group in the first place, the least she could do was keep them all safe, but she couldn’t even…

“Yang?” Jaune said, glancing between her and Hazel as he stalked forward.

“Sorry. What?” she said, snapping back to the present.

“I asked if you had any-“

But she was already striding forward, her mind made up. No one else was going to get hurt, not for her. “Hang back.”

“You can’t fight him alone.”

Yang cursed Jaune’s newfound backbone. It was a good thing, on the whole, but she didn’t need him to be brave right now. She needed him to be alive, needed all of them to get out. Whatever it took. He’d come a long way since his inauspicious first days at Beacon, but he wasn’t the one she needed right now. Ren may have been helpful if he'd been conscious, but what she really needed was seamless teamwork, someone who could practically read her mind. But that person was out of reach, for now, so Yang was more or less on her own. She shook her head. “No one else is getting hurt because of me.” She didn’t wait for him to protest, launching herself forward with a burst from Ember Celica instead.

Some part of her had hoped that she would catch the big man off guard with her sudden attack, but he was unreasonably fast for someone so big and strong. He blocked her initial salvo like so many mosquito bites. Still she advanced, using feints and misdirection, leaning into every ounce of training her father had put her through. She reminded herself of what he’d said, that fights weren’t decided by strength alone, but she really wished someone had told Hazel that.

It was clear that the man was quite skilled in his own right, though Yang had a suspicion that all things being equal she had better technique. He was just so strong. Worse, his natural power was multiplied by the dust flowing through his veins. With his semblance blocking out pain and a seemingly endless reserve of aura, he shrugged off her strikes in a way that made her seriously doubt her father’s wisdom.

Then he stumbled.

Yang looked past him, dumbfounded, to find Jaune grinning back at her. His sword was transformed into its more powerful two-handed mode, and he’d clearly just landed a full-bodied swing on Hazel’s leg.

The big man staggered back to his feet and turned with a roar to face Jaune, so Yang began laying into him again. Two dust rounds to the back and a kick across the temple drew his attention, but this time he decided to go on offense.

His attacks were big and wide and obvious, but so fast and continuous and with enough force behind them that it was all Yang could do to slip and weave the deadly blows. Her ribs began to ache with the force of her gasping breath, and she knew she was running out of time.

He stumbled again.

Yang grinned at the perfectly timed attack, but it was wiped from her face when Hazel whipped around in a blur and hit Jaune with a devastating backhand. With no shield and no time to dodge, Jaune was caught full in the chest, defenseless, and sent sailing across the eerie room. His flight was interrupted by the wall, and an agonized cry burst from his lips when he hit. Yang's breath caught when his aura flickered, but it held.

She wasn’t the only one watching; Hazel had also stopped to observe his handy work, a savage leer on his face as he watched Jaune slump to the floor. Yang felt her rage build, felt her semblance beg for release, but she held it in check. No doubt her eyes were red, but she could only control so much.

“Forget about me?” she growled as she coiled and unleashed in one fluid movement. She landed two punches that would have shattered rock directly on his chin, only to watch him shrug it off as she stepped back.

“No, I just don’t consider you much of a threat,” he rumbled. Yang fought a laugh. The effect of his nonchalant reply had been ruined somewhat by the glowing mines stuck to his face.

“Fuck you.” Not the most eloquent response, but Yang was out of eloquence. She detonated the mines. The blast obscured his face, but Yang had already measured the distance. Hazels hands clawed the air, trying in vain to stop the incoming assault. Yang ducked under them easily, crouching low to add power to her lunging uppercut, firing a dust round at the moment her hand landed on that granite chin, willing it to crack.

It didn’t.

He stood, brushing debris from his shoulder as though her attack had been but a minor inconvenience, and sneered. “You’re never going to beat me,” he growled. “You can't save him!” he roared.

“But why-?“

Yang never finished her question, couldn’t even remember what she’d hoped to learn as she dove frantically aside to avoid the massive overhand Hazel had launched so quickly she’d nearly missed it. It was unfair that he could swing so hard without ever seeming to tire; if anything, he seemed fresher now than he had at the beginning of the fight.

She ducked and dove and deflected what she could, focusing on limiting her aura use, maintaining her reserve, though she wasn’t even sure why anymore. This man was so big, so powerful, she felt like she was fighting a force of nature. A staring contest with the sun would have been more fruitful. Her limbs began to drag. It was only a matter of…

Yang never even saw the blow that caught her square in the ribs, but she heard the sickening crunch quite clearly. Her vision went white as she was thrown across the room, but she was still conscious enough to feel her impact with the wall. It was softer than concrete, but only just, and she nearly vomited as the wind was blown from her lungs by first the collision with the wall, then by her graceless collapse to the floor. She blinked her eyes open and found that she could only really see out of one; the other was awash in a river of her blood. She reached up and touched the cut over her eye, wincing but relieved that it felt superficial. Scalp wounds always bled like crazy, even minor ones, but it probably wasn’t great that she couldn’t remember getting hit in the head.

Something was wrong with her limbs. She tried to rise, once, twice, and on the third time let herself rest where she'd fallen. She was done. What little aura she had left couldn’t heal her wounds, and it certainly couldn’t fuel her semblance. She’d failed, and she’d let everyone down in the process. The worst part was that she was never going to get a chance to make up for it. To apologize to the little impromptu team that had formed and struggled and fought together, or to Ruby. Ruby…Yang hoped that she would know how sorry she was. Not just for the fight, but for leaving her to carry on this war without her.

Her mind, swimming with pain and grief and guilt, floated on to its favorite topic of late: Blake. There was still so much to say, so much to do, but Yang had always thought they would get to it, someday, when the moment was right. The battle won. Now she wished she hadn’t waited.

The sound of thudding feet filled her ears, and she snapped her head up just in time to see a monster shrouded in arcing electricity bearing down on her. She wanted to rise, wanted to meet him and her inevitable death head-on, but her legs were so wobbly, her arms so heavy. She was so, so tired…

A flash of purple dazzled Yang’s eyes, and her heart fluttered. It was Blake. Summoned by her thoughts as if by magic. A rush of relief and gratitude and something Yang refused to name washed over her. Blake was here to save her, or at least be with her for the end…

“Yang, get up!”

“Jaune?” she mumbled, blinking her eyes at the form standing guard over her. She shook her head. Of course it was Jaune, he was the only one here to swoop in and rescue her. “Thanks,” she said, forcing herself to her feet despite the protests of her aching limbs and the piercing pain in her side from every shallow breath. “Nice one,” she added, seeing that his gravity dust burst had thrown Hazel clear across the room. Not that it had stopped him, but he at least needed a moment to untangle his limbs after his failed rush. Jaune had saved her life. Yang looked at him, took in his determination and worry and strength, and realized that despite everything, she still underestimated him sometimes. She made a mental note to stop doing that.

“What do we do?” Jaune asked.

Yang was stunned. One thing she never doubted was his leadership. Jaune was the idea guy, and he was asking her? Now? After she had failed so spectacularly that he had needed to save her ass. She pushed that thought aside. They were out of time for guilt trips. They were also out of time for strategy. This was a brawl, and that was Yang’s home turf. Besides, she had an idea.

“How much aura do you have left?”

“Not much,” he replied, his face drawn as he glanced down at his scroll. “You aren’t looking any better.”

Yang swiveled her head from side to side, cracking her neck. She didn’t need to check her scroll to know how bad it was. Besides, with a semblance like hers, knowing her aura level had become a reflex. “How long will it take you to recharge?”

Jaune looked at her, then away as he did a mental calculation. She knew that he had been training his aura relentlessly before everything went to hell, and everyone knew he had one of the deepest natural reserves of aura around. Well, except for the giant that was dusting himself off and glaring at them, perhaps. “Thirty seconds, maybe a minute,” Jaune said, settling into a fighting stance as their opponent began to approach them, warily this time.

But Yang stepped in front of him, rolling her shoulders. “I’ll give you that time, don’t waste it.”

“But-“

“Jaune,” Yang said, giving him what she hoped was a confident grin over her shoulder. “I’ll give you the time, but I expect you to pay me back. I can’t beat him alone.” His eyes went wide, then he nodded. Yang turned back to face her massive opponent as she heard Jaune sheath his sword. She strode forward, adding every ounce of swagger that she could to her walk, swaying her hips and smiling up at the man who could kill her with an errant swipe of his fist. Something about her walk must have unnerved him, and she saw hesitation behind his bulging eyes.

“I was getting bored, so it’s just you and me now, big guy,” she taunted, coming to a stop just beyond his massive reach where she planted a hand on her hip and bared her teeth.

Suspicion turned to doubt and then amusement as the big man weighed her bluff. “We’ll see if you’re still so confident once I’ve broken you,” he rumbled, his eerie doubled voice sounding more demon than human.

“Yeah, we w-“ Yang began but was cut off as he lunged forward. His first swing was wild but blindingly fast, and it was all Yang could do to get her arm up to block it. The massive fist clanged to a halt on her metallic forearm, a fact that didn’t escape Hazel’s notice as he growled and swung with his free hand.

Yang was ready this time, and she easily weaved under the incoming blow, slipping deftly between the next two as well. He was fast, and his form wasn’t awful, but she was starting to see how his rage drove him into predictable patterns. Of course, predicting what was coming was one thing; dodging or responding was another. Her breath grew fast and ragged as she flowed through the rain of fists, her body racing toward its limit as she moved in the one direction that was safe: closer to the raging behemoth.

Inside his reach, she was in her element. She flowed into one of her favorite combos, using her defensive weaves to set up a series of hammer blows: hooks with her entire weight and the force of explosive dust rounds behind them. She made it through nearly seven straight before he cleared his vision enough to counterattack, but when he did, it was with horrible precision. She was moving too fast for him to hit her with his full power, but when his massive fist landed on her recently broken ribs, she let out a pained gasp and sank to her knees.

She might have been able to absorb more of that blow, but it would have broken what little aura she had left. Instead, she had doled out what she hoped was enough to protect her internal organs. Though based on how wet her breathing sounded, she worried she may have been a bit too stingy.

But what choice did she have? Her aura couldn't break. Not yet.

“Had enough?” gloated the monster, his breath heaving and his gaze manic.

Yang wanted to say yes. Wanted to cry and puke and beg for mercy. Instead, she played for time. “What’s your deal?” she said, clutching at her side. “Why serve Salem? Just want to help destroy the world?”

“I want to destroy everything that Ozpin has built. If the world must burn as well,” he snarled, glaring up at where Oscar hung limp. “Then so be it. Yield, and I’ll make your death quick. It’s over.”

“I didn’t hear a bell,” Yang shot back, spitting casually and trying to ignore the amount of blood mixed in with her saliva. She forced a smile onto her lips as she dragged herself to her feet and raised her hands, her screaming muscles only just managing the fighting stance that had been drilled into her for years. Time, she just needed time.

But Hazel wasn't in the mood to grant it to her. His assault was immediate and relentless, a rain of blows from above in quick succession. Any one would have been enough to crack her skull like an egg, aura or no. Only adrenaline kept her moving, dancing away just in time to see his massive fists slam impotently on the ground. The berserker howled in rage, the veins on his neck and face standing out in a grotesque display. Yang’s dazed mind idly wondered if he might give himself an aneurysm at that rate, but she was distracted as he wound up another attack.

She raised her arms, relieved to take another on her unwavering right, but it was a feint. He switched and came back with his own right, forcing her to catch it with her very human left. She managed, barely, but as she did, she heard a disconcerting creak that escalated to a crack, and then her left forearm was awash in a flame of agony.

“Yang, now!”

Jaune’s voice pierced her cloud of pain just in time for her to drop beneath Hazel’s follow-up attack. She thanked her years of training that she didn’t need to look around to find Jaune; she had kept a constant map of the battleground as she had fought for her life. Unfortunately, that map placed Jaune on the other side of her opponent.

But Hazel was a brawler, he rarely used his legs, preferring to swing with his big meaty arms, and Yang could see that his feet were wide. Almost wide enough to…

“Man,” she said, offering what was no doubt a bloody smile up at her opponent. “I thought we were fighting. If I had wanted to dance, I would have asked your-“

The response was a swing of such terrifying might that Yang never even considered blocking it, not that she had intended to anyway. His arm sailed overhead as she dove forward, rolling between his wide and shifting legs, leaving a mine just under his heel as she passed. She came up to her feet at a run, detonating the mine and sending Hazel pinwheeling forward. Yang reached the other side of the room before she even heard him hit the ground. Jaune greeted her by resting a hand on her weary shoulder, and a wave of soothing light washed over her.

“How are you doing?” he asked, looking at the sealing cut on her forehead.

Yang shook her head, closing her eyes to gather herself. “I’m fine, but it was close. Do you need to maintain contact to do your thing or…?”

“Nope,” Jaune replied, pulling his hand back and smiling as she opened her eyes. “I’ve been practicing. Should be able to reach you anywhere in the room.”

Yang shook her head, looking down at her hands as her aura flared to life with a sudden intensity. She grinned up at him. “Jaune, you’re the best. Keep it up.”

He nodded and reached for his sword, but she held out her hand. “Focus on doing your thing. I need space for this, and I need you to keep me alive while I do it.”

Jaune looked ready to protest, but the look on Yang’s face convinced him. He shook his head and nodded, and then took a deep breath. Yang felt the energy flowing through her redouble, and she let a laugh full of relief and rage and pain and excitement. It was a weird feeling, letting someone protect her, trusting them to keep her safe. Especially when that someone wasn’t Blake. But it felt good, and it meant she was free to do what needed to be done. Time to turn the tables.

She spun in time to see Hazel draw out two red dust crystals and drive them into his arms, next to the others. She didn’t wait for him to finish howling as the energy surged through his veins. She wanted to press the attack while her aura was flowing and her stamina seemingly limitless. It wasn’t, she knew, but the feeling was intoxicating, so she rode it. She poured on the attack, hitting Hazel with everything she had, forcing the raging beast of a man back under a barrage he clearly hadn’t anticipated from his worn-out foe.

Still it wasn’t enough, still he shrugged off her attacks, either shielding them with his massive arms or simply absorbing them with his face and body. None of it seemed to phase him, though more than once she saw a flicker as he was forced to use more and more aura to absorb her blows. If she had to wear him down, one punch at a time, she would. Whatever it took, she was going to put him down, protect her team. She would-

Her fist stopped so suddenly that her mind went blank. She had gotten sloppy, slipped into a pattern of her own, and Hazel had caught her hand in his. Yang cried out as he closed his fingers, the bones in her hand crackling under the slow and deliberate pressure. She swung wildly with her right, hoping to distract him, but he caught that as well. Yang snarled up at him, knowing she was out of options but refusing to give in. She needed to stop him before he did any permanent damage, and she could feel Jaune wavering as he poured aura into her to continuously heal her breaking bones. She snorted, breathing deep and collecting the blood that had started flowing from her nose at some point, then spat it directly into Hazel’s face. With no free hand to wipe it off, he blinked and snarled, rage filling his eyes as he looked down to find Yang grinning up at him. He reared back, roaring his fury as he snapped forward to deliver a devastating headbutt.

Again, the world went white, but this time there was little pain. Yang bounced across the floor, a disturbingly familiar feeling at this point, but the soothing flow of aura didn’t falter. Aches and pains throughout her body called out for its touch, but their cries fell on deaf ears. It wasn’t time for healing.

It was time for hurting.

Jaune must have read her thoughts. At that moment, another surge of power ran through her, and Yang smiled.

Then she burned.

Her semblance had always been flashy, always turned heads. Red eyes were one thing, but her mass of golden curls igniting like a flame was a sight to behold, a sign of impending doom for her opponents. But that fire was a candle, a guttering spark next to the inferno that she had become. Then she burned brighter still. Suddenly a staring contest with the sun seemed like a fine proposition, as did fighting the seemingly unstoppable force before her. The room was flooded with her light, and Hazel was forced to raise his hands to shield his eyes as Yang stalked toward him. He tried to blindly defend himself as she drew near, but the power of his own blows batted his arms aside like reeds standing against a hurricane.

Yang strode right up to him, no longer afraid of his power or fury. She glared up at him, enjoyed the way his eyes teared up at the mere sight of her. She wound up, slowly, deliberately, and punched him in the face the force of several of his blows. He took it, but the shuttering flicker of aura and the way he wobbled on his feet put a fierce smile on Yang's lips. She wound up again, this time landing a vicious blow to the stomach, doubling him over. She waited as he gasped and panted, waited for him to right himself. Then she pulled back, focusing all the hurt and fury and will she had into her hand before unleashing it on the wavering man. The blow hit like a meteorite pulled from orbit and sent him flying so hard into the wall that his aura exploded in a burst of twinkling lights before he slumped to the floor. For a moment the room was silent, the raging light fading as Jaune pulled back his aid and Yang’s aura ran out in a golden puff. She let out a trembling breath, her limbs feeling terribly weak after wielding so much power.

She froze when she heard shifting and moaning from the heap of a man on the floor. Hazel was conscious, against all odds, and he looked like he was struggling to his feet. Yang shook her head, terror clenching at her soul. After all that, what more could they do?

Hazel looked up at her, his teeth gritted, but she soon saw it wasn’t in anger. It was…pain?

Then he screamed, a terrible, animal expression of agony as he struggled with the dust in his arms. Jaune looked on in horror. “His semblance…it blocks out the pain of all the dust he shoved in his arms. When you broke his aura…”

Yang turned back to the hunched and howling figure, shocked at how much empathy she felt for the man. Part of her wanted to leave him, he was an enemy after all, but she knew she couldn’t. “Get Oscar,” she said, striding over to where Hazel writhed.

Jaune’s eyes went wide. “But-“

“Just do it,” Yang said, trying to reassure herself as much as him. She stopped several feet from Hazel and looked down at him warily.

She watched as he wrenched the dust out of his left arm, pulling it free with a horrible sucking noise and leaving two bloody holes behind. He gasped and snorted and fumbled with the dust in his right, managing to jiggle one crystal loose with his blood-slick fingers before falling back to his hands and knees.

He growled up at Yang as she continued her approach, but seemed in no shape to attack. Up close she could see him trembling from head to toe, muscles and tendons straining under his sweat-soaked skin. She stopped outside his reach, watching him.

“Why?” he rumbled through gritted teeth. “Why serve him?”

Yang spared a glance for Oscar, watching as Jaune lowered him to the floor and began checking his injuries. She looked back at Hazel, still panting on the floor, and shook her head. “I don’t,” she replied simply.

“But-“

“I’m a huntress,” she said, unconsciously standing straighter at the title she had once misunderstood so thoroughly. “I serve the people of Remnant. Just like my mother did. Just like my friend, Pyrrha, did. Just like your sister did.” Hazel’s head snapped up at the mention of his sister, and Yang didn’t need any fancy powers to see the raging torrent of emotion there, but it did little to soften her heart. “Yeah, I heard your story. Grow up. You’re not the only one who’s lost someone in this war, but you are the only one I’ve ever met who used that as an excuse to join the enemy.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

Yang leaned in. “Anything but that. I’ve chosen to honor those I’ve lost by fighting on in their stead, and by protecting the ones I have left.” She looked at the unlikely crew she’d risked everything for, meeting Jaune’s smile with one of her own. “Just as they fight to protect me.” She looked back down at Hazel. “Do you really think Gretchen would be proud of the atrocities you’ve carried out in her name?” She flung a weary arm toward Oscar’s limp form. “Do you think she would be happy to know that you tortured a child for her?”

Hazel’s head drooped, his lips moving impotently for a moment. Finally, he found his voice. “Please,” he gasped. “End it. Kill me. Please.”

Pity surged in Yang’s chest as she saw the anguish and shame dance across his square face, but she banished it. He deserved no pity, and he would receive none from her. She hardened her eyes and her heart as she stepped forward and reached out with her metallic fingers to grasp his square jaw, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“No.”

Her free hand lashed out, grabbing the last dust crystal still lodged in his arm and wrenching it free. Hazel let out one more gasp of agony, then collapsed forward onto the ground, where he finally lay still. Yang looked down at him, rage and pity still battling within her as she tossed the bloody crystal aside.

Jaune nodded to her, clearly agreeing with her decision as he leaned over Oscar. He lifted his hand, intending to boost the battered boy’s aura, but Yang strode over and stopped him. “Wait,” she said, reaching down and feeling for a pulse. “He’s just unconscious, and you need to save your aura for Ren. He’s our ticket out of here.”

Jaune hesitated, then nodded again. “Right,” he agreed, his face grim. “You take Oscar.”

Yang nodded and accepted the small form, grimacing as she took in his wounds. Oscar suddenly seemed so small, so frail, so in need of protection that she’d failed to provide. Yang felt an extra pang of guilt as she slung him over her shoulder. She wished she could be more gentle, but she still needed a free hand if they were going to get out of there.

She looked over as Jaune went to work on Ren. There were a few guttering flickers of pink around the prone figure, but he didn’t stir. Jaune gritted his teeth as his hands began to shimmer with his efforts, and before Yang could warn him to pace himself, she watched his aura shattered. Jaune sat back on his heels, gasping as though he’d just sprinted a mile but smiling as Ren moaned and sat up, holding one hand to his head and looking around in confusion.

The pair helped each other stand, but that was all they managed before Yang’s scroll started to buzz. She pulled the device from her pocket and read the display. “It’s Winter,” she explained before she answered, “Hello?”

“Finally. Did you find Oscar?”

“We did, but…”

“Good. We are en route with the bomb. You need to get out, assuming you haven’t already. The timer has already been set.”

“Fuck. How long?”

“Not long. I’ll send it to you so you can monitor it yourself. Don’t tarry.”

“We won’t. Thanks, Winter.”

“Don’t thank me, just get out. Good luck.”

“You too-“

But the line was already dead. Yang looked down at the flashing alert on her scroll. She let out a dark laugh, then gently set Oscar on the ground and slid down to sit next to him.

Jaune cocked his head. “Yang, what are you doing? We have to go.”

She let out another hollow laugh, then held up her scroll so he could see the timer as it counted down past five and a half minutes. “Our auras are broken and we have five minutes to get past an army of Grimm. Sometimes you have to be realistic, Jaune.”

She could almost see the gears turning as he fought valiantly to come up with something, anything. “Ren?” he asked with more than a little desperation in his voice.

Ren shook his head and leaned back against the wall. “I couldn’t even cloak myself long enough to get out, let alone all of us.”

“So we just give up?” Jaune was pleading now, not ready to accept the reality.

Yang was trying not to beat herself up for every wrong choice that she’d ever made, trying not to think about how all of her efforts were too little, too late. The least she could do would be to give them some hope. “No,” she lied. “We’re not giving up. We have one minute to recoup as much as possible, then we’ll make a run for it. At least then we might have a few scraps of aura between the three of us.”

Jaune looked at her, his narrowed eyes trying to parse out if she believed what she was saying. Whatever he decided, he didn’t call her out, and instead sat down and closed his eyes, meditating. “Okay,” he breathed. “One minute.”

“Yeah,” Yang said vaguely, contemplating how she wanted to spend her last peaceful minute alive. Sadly, Blake was too far away for what she really wanted, but then again…

Yang smiled when she looked down, Winter hadn’t called her on a tight beam, it had gone through the tower. That meant she had a signal. She punched in the number for the voice she so desperately wanted to hear right now, then listened as it rang once, twice, three times.

“Yang?”

Yang’s heart skipped a beat at the raw emotion conveyed in that single syllable. She completely forgot that she needed to reply.

“Yang, are you there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”

“Are you hurt? Yang, where are you?”

“I’m okay, and I’m…kind of inside the giant whale Grimm.”

“You’re what?!”

Yang cursed herself, there wasn’t time to explain. “Look, I can’t talk long. I just had something I needed to tell you, in case-“

Blake cut her off with a voice like cold steel. “Stop.”

“What?”

“Whatever you need to say, you can say it to my face. When you come back. Do you hear me?”

“I,” Yang’s throat clenched. This had gone much differently in her mind. She found a smile, a genuine one, creeping onto her face. Damn but Blake understood her. “I do. We’ll, uh, we’ll talk soon then, yeah?”

“Very soon.”

Yang closed her eyes. She was still smiling, but she couldn’t stop a single tear from escaping the corner of her eye. “Good. I’d like that.”

There was a subtle sound on the other end, and Yang hoped that Blake wasn’t crying. Suspected she was. When she came back, her voice was strained. “Do you want to talk to Ruby?”

“Yeah, I…yeah. That would be good. Goodbye, Blake.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

There was a brief exchange that Yang couldn’t make out, then her sister’s voice was in her ear, sounding older and more full of worry than she’d thought possible. “Yang?”

“Hey, sis.”

“Yang, do you need help? We can-“

“No, no. We got this. Listen, I’m so, so sorry for…well, everything,” Yang blew out a breath. “I never should have doubted you. You’ve been put in an impossible position and done such an incredible job of leading us all through it.”

“But-“

“No ‘buts.’ You’re an amazing leader, never doubt that.” Yang bit her lip, but pushed forward. “I love you, Ruby.”

“I love you too.”

“And I am so, so proud of you.” Jaune was standing and looking at her meaningfully, so Yang gritted her teeth and climbed to her feet. “Okay, Ruby. I’ve got to go.” Ruby failed miserably to hide her sob, but Yang forced herself to be strong for her. One last time. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you soon,” she said with a confidence that she in no way felt. “Until then.”

“Until then,” Ruby parroted, her voice wavering.

Yang keyed off her scroll, then took a deep breath and nodded to Jaune. “Alright,” she said, “Time to go.” She noticed Ren staring at his own scroll, so she caught his eye. "Everything okay?"

"Nora isn't picking up."

Jaune glanced at Yang, then forced a smile. "I'm sure she's fine. You know Nora."

Ren was silent, then put his scroll away with a sigh. “Right. I’ll…mask us,” he said, wincing and clutching at his side.

“Okay,” Yang agreed, “but take it easy.“

Before the words could leave her lips, the door to the chamber opened. Yang stepped forward, preparing herself to fight, but there was no one there. She looked at the empty doorway in confusion, pulling back when it snapped shut again.

“Don’t attack,” came a familiar voice.

Then the air in front of the door shimmered, and a figure appeared.

“Emerald,” Yang snarled, raising her clenched fists.

“I said don’t attack!” Emerald said, her empty hands raised.

“Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t,” Jaune challenged. Yang was pleased to see that he had drawn his sword in a flash and was currently pointing it directly at their newest guest. Not that he could do much if she used her mind trick, but still.

“Because I’m the only one who can get you out of here,” Emerald shot back.

There was a shocked silence, and Jaune shook his head when he saw the look in Yang’s eyes. “No, it’s a trap.”

Ren cocked his head, the weird look returning to his eyes as he stared at Emerald. His aura shattered again after a few moments, but he didn’t seem to notice. “She’s…sincere,” he said, surprised at his own assessment.

Jaune wasn’t buying it. “Ren, how can you be sure? She could be using her semblance to-”

“I’m with Ren,” Yang chimed in. “Besides, there’s no plan B. Maybe it is a trap, but we’re dead either way.” She looked Emerald up and down. No doubt the girl was a consummate liar, but something about her seemed so…earnest. It didn’t take a semblance to see that. “Think you can get us out of here in,” Yang said, looking at her scroll. “Four minutes?”

Emerald’s eyes went wide, then she nodded. “Yes, but we have to hurry.”

Yang shrugged and scooped up Oscar, then looked at Ren and Jaune. When neither protested she stepped forward. “Lead on.”

#janurwby #rwby fanfiction #yang xiao long #bumbleby #jaune arc #lie ren

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