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soft--dragon · 3 years

Text

You'll Smile Again

Word Count: 2,699

Warnings: Beginnings of a panic attack, anxiety, and facial dysmorphia mention (stay safe guys <3)

All interactions are platonic, don't you dare start shipping

This is a SFW tickle fic, if you don’t like that then don’t read :)

It was going to be a bad day.

Ranboo knew the second he woke up, it was gonna be bad. His head was swimming and his body felt numb and cold despite the blankets thrown over him. The silence was suffocating, too loud and too quiet at the same time. He curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his middle tightly. It somewhat helped his building nausea, but it was fruitless in an attempt to recreate the feeling of a comforting hug. One sounded nice round about now.

He dreaded the idea of having to get up and being forced to look at a reflective surface, so he stayed on the couch, curled tight and wishing he could fall back asleep and wake up tomorrow. Sleeping away the day until he felt like he could stand and wouldn't keel over. Unfortunately, his mind was far too aware of the morning light streaming through the windows and the hunger rumbling through his stomach. Ranboo let out a pained sound, squeezing his eyes shut and shoved down the need to cry.

It was fine. It was fine. He...he was fine…he...

He wanted Tubbo.

Ranboo swallowed back a sob and blindly scrabbled at the cushions for his phone. His Luca wallpaper greeted him in a painful sear of light. He squeezed his eyes shut against the brightness and quickly opened his phone with his finger print. His contact list had come up before he realized what he was doing, clicking on Tubbo’s name and soon enough, the dialing sound met his ear. Instead of hearing the ringtone through their shared home like he was used to, it remained horribly quiet.

“Boo?” Tubbo’s voice suddenly came through the speaker. “Hey, I was about to call you actually, I was thinking about the vlog Tommy’s wanting to do and I wanted to get your opinions on some stuff-”

“Tubbo- w-where are you?”

There was a long pause on the other line, Ranboo’s slightly keyed up voice catching the older boy’s attention immediately.

“On my way to Nottingham big man...remember?”

Ranboo’s heart sank and he wanted to kick himself for being such an idiot. Tubbo had warned him last night he was leaving early in the morning, saying he may be gone by the time Ranboo woke up. “O-Oh...right…”

There was a rustling noise, no doubt Tubbo sitting up in his seat. “Are you okay? Do you need me to come back?”

“N-No, no” Ranboo quickly replied, wishing he’d had enough sense to think before calling his best friend, now he was inconveniencing him with his stupid problems. He squeezed his eyes shut and released a breath before attempting to speak again. “I’m okay- and anyway, Tommy’s been planning this meet up for weeks, he’d be gutted if you cancelled, he spent so much time making your schedules line up, and you’re probably already there-”

“Ranboo.”

Tubbo’s firm, unwavering voice made Ranboo’s ramblings catch in his throat, he shut his mouth with a sharp click of his jaw, hand gripping the phone shaking slightly.

“Y-Yeah?” He mumbled.

Tubbo sighed, worried but fond. “You know I’d drop anything to make sure you’re okay, right? And Tommy would understand, he knows about your anxiety and facial dysmorphia.”

The need to cry returned hard and fast, Ranboo just managed to catch himself before releasing a whine. “I’ll be okay Tubbo,” he whispered, “promise, I’m...I just need to…”

He was silent for too long, Tubbo waiting worriedly on the other side. “Boo?”

“Don’t cancel on Tommy, I’ll just take a rest day” Ranboo answered, fighting to keep his voice level. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Ran-”

“Toby.”

The use of Tubbo’s real name made the older teen fall silent. Ranboo practically never said it.

“I said I’ll be okay.” Ranboo knew it was ironic to say that while on the verge of breaking down but he couldn’t do this to Tubbo, not today. “Just go enjoy your time with Tommy, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Tubbo was quiet. It made Ranboo’s stomach roll uncomfortably the longer the silence stretched out. Then there was a sigh.

“The second you feel worse, I want you to call me. And I don’t care-” Tubbo cut him off before he could even protest, “-if you’re worried about disrupting me, call me, got it?”

How on earth Tubbo could be a chaotic gremlin to a sincere steady presence on the go was still a mystery to the tall teen. Ranboo let out a long, shuddering sigh as he pressed himself close to the couch.

“Okay” he agreed quietly.

“Okay” Tubbo repeated, quiet and kind. “Do you want me to stay on the call for a bit boss man?”

His thoughts immediately hissed at him, heart clenching at the thought of Tubbo having to listen to his pathetic whining-

“Ranboo.”

Tubbo’s voice cut through the haze of his toxic thoughts like a knife, yanking him back to the present. He had to clear his throat, shaking himself to properly answer. “Y-Yeah?”

“Did you hear me?”

Ranboo hugged his middle tighter with his free arm and hummed non committedly.

Tubbo softened his voice again. “I can stay if you want me to, I’m still half an hour from Nottingham.”

Ranboo squeezed his eyes shut. “Please?”

Tubbo immediately started talking, switching the subject to something more light hearted, a story about the time he hung out with Tommy and Wilbur. It got a few smiles and even a soft laugh out of Ranboo which Tubbo silently counted as a victory. He kept up the stream of chatter, allowing Ranboo to relax further and further into the couch, the tight constrictions in his chest easing up a bit. Tubbo never ran out of stories to tell, keeping his voice quiet but not without the same level of excitement that kept Ranboo immersed. He could almost pretend Tubbo was sitting on the floor beside the couch like he always did when Ranboo was having a bad day, keeping his mind distracted and heart light.

It seemed cruel when Ranboo faintly heard a whistle blow in the background of Tubbo’s end.

“Oh, I’m here” Tubbo’s voice was surprised.

Ranboo’s stomach rolled at his words, brow creasing as he knew that meant Tubbo had to leave. Still, he steeled his voice and tried to sound as calm as possible. “Better go then huh?”

Tubbo made a soft noise. “It’s not too late to cancel you know? I can still come home Boo, I don’t mind.”

Ranboo wanted to say yes, he wanted to say yes but he couldn’t do that. No. He refused to let himself ruin this meet up when Tommy and Tubbo seemed so excited to plan it out. “I’ll be fine.”

Tubbo didn’t sound convinced. “You sure?”

Ranboo huffed an exasperatedly fond laugh. “Yeah, I’ll be good Tubs.”

It was quiet again, dragging out until Tubbo sighed heavily. “Alright, I’ll stop hover parenting, just remember what I said okay?”

“I’ll call you” Ranboo murmured.

“You better” Tubbo growled but it wasn’t mean, instead sounding protective. “I mean it boo.”

Ranboo let a small smile lift his lips. “I know you do, I promise.”

There was more shuffling then Tubbo sighed, grumbling about a bag being too heavy or something. “Okay good, I am gonna be texting you to check in just so you know, and I’ll call later if you feel up to it. Um, I’ll let my parents know it’s a bad day and not bother you unless you text them- wait they’re out, so is Lani and Teagan, okay uh- Rocky is home, you need a hug, get him, he’s good at comforting people-”

Ranboo chuckled despite himself. “What was that about not hover parenting anymore?”

“Oh shut up” Tubbo laughed, only making Ranboo’s grin widen. “I’m just looking out for one of my best mates.”

It was how easily he said it that made Ranboo feel warm from the platonic affection. “I know...thank you.”

There was a fond huff. “Anytime at all Ranboo.”

After another moment of silence, Ranboo sighed with a small smile. “Go, the gremlin child is waiting.”

“Yeah yeah, I know, I’ll talk to you later Boo, try not to let your head mess with you too bad, okay?”

“I can try.”

“Love you.”

Ranboo smiled, his heart warming at the words. “Love you too.”

The call ended, blanketing the warm room in a cold silence again. Ranboo dragged a hand over his face with a deep sigh. Tubbo really was good at making him feel better-

His stomach growled.

Ah right, breakfast was a thing.

Ranboo pointedly ignored looking at anything that could show him his face. Tubbo had managed to yank him out and over the hurdle this morning, so he was determined not to let the boy’s efforts go to waste. He grabbed what he needed from the kitchen before retreating back to the couch and crashing onto the plush surface. He had meant to stay and do work on his new video for YouTube and plan out a new stream idea, but with his current state, he decided to take on that rest day he promised Tubbo. He threw on Luca, finding it was quickly becoming one of his comfort films and chewed slowly on his breakfast, wrapped up in the blanket again and becoming one with the couch. He tried to ignore the quiet loneliness despite the film, he was used to hearing chaotic laughter and batshit ramblings throughout the house. He shoved down the need to call Tubbo, he was fine. He...he didn’t need his friend... not yet at least.

He could handle being alone for a few hours.

Luca and Alberto were testing out their Vespa when an old, grouchy meow came through the house. Ranboo lifted his head from where he was now lying on the couch to see Rocky, Tubbo’s family cat, sauntering over.

“Hey Rocks” Ranboo smiled at the feline.

With a greeting “mrrp”, Rocky leapt gracefully onto the couch, stepping onto his chest and immediately slammed his face directly into Ranboo’s. It startled a laugh from the teen as the cat continued to smudge against him happily, purrs rumbling from his throat. He had avoided touching his face that morning the best he could, the sudden affection towards it was surprising, but not unwelcome.

“Hi buhud” Ranboo tried to lean away but Rocky persisted, clearly attention starved after not seeing anyone for a few hours. His whiskers skimmed across Ranboo’s cheeks softly, making him giggle and try to turn his head away. However, Rocky was determined to give Ranboo affection and instead rubbed under his jaw, his ginger fur dragging under his chin.

“Ohoho noho- Rohocks!” Ranboo squealed, quickly turning his head down to keep his chin pressed to his chest, trying to block the cat from brushing against the area.

Rocky gave a happy meow and pressed his forehead into Ranboo’s own, purring deeply now that he had access to his full face again. Ranboo giggled quietly, basking in the affection.The soft fur and loving touches on his face was comforting in its own way. It also tickled a bit, he didn’t even know his face was ticklish but apparently Rocky seemed determined to show him it was.

“Rohocky h-hahang ohon” Ranboo squeaked as the cat rubbed against his cheek, his whiskers just tracing his ear and nose. He melted further into the couch, the light sensations made him want to squirm but he couldn’t move without jostling Rocky, and the last thing he wanted to do was upset the cat. His hands were confined to the inside of the blanket, making him unable to fend off the ticklish touches even if he wanted to. He simply lay there, shifting his head around a little but enjoying the affection nonetheless. It was a nice change from the cold loneliness that had settled over the room before.

Eventually, Rocky seemed satisfied with his work on Ranboo’s face and brought his head back, not without giving Ranboo’s nose a small lick. It made Ranboo snort, grinning up at the ginger cat that almost looked smug.

“You done?” Ranboo chuckled.

Rocky meowed, probably saying ‘yes’, then moved down Ranboo’s torso, sitting on his stomach. He sniffed the blanket then started pawing at it, rearranging the folds carefully. Unfortunately, with where he was sitting, Rocky was massaging into Ranboo’s stomach and ribs gently.

It caused the teen to melt into the cushions, pressing his cheek into the back of the couch and giggling wildly into the plush material. “Nohoho Rohocks- ehehehehe!”

Rocky dug his claws softly into Ranboo’s side, massaging his sides in a kneading motion. Ranboo squeezed his eyes shut, happy giggles spilling free. Laughing felt so nice after wallowing in misery for the whole day, the tickling soft and while unintentional, was still nice.

Ranboo suddenly squealed, curling in on himself slightly as one of Rocky’s paws lightly brushed over his lower belly. The cat paused, ears flicking as Ranboo broke into a fit of breathy titters. He then purred and focused on his lower belly, taking the laughter for a sound of joy.

Ranboo managed to wrench a hand free of the blankets, pressing it to the back of his mouth to muffle his squeaky giggles. “Rohohockehehey! Ohoho gohohosh- whihihiy?”

The cat only responded with a pleased meow, shifting his paws to the sides of Ranboo’s stomach. Ranboo’s hand suddenly dropped from his pink cheeks to gently cup Rocky’s back in an attempt to bear the sensations. His plan was flawed however, as Rocky turned his head and rubbed his cheek against Ranboo’s thumb, his whiskers dragging over the back of it and making Ranboo squeak in laughter. All the while, still kneading the blanket.

“Noho- cohohome ohohon Rohohocks-” Ranboo whined but his soft laughter was happy and Rocky seemed to understand that as he purred gaily.

Rocky’s paws went to knead at his lower ribs, slow and methodical and keeping Ranboo in a state of giggly hysteria. He squirmed lightly from the sensations, trying not to jostle Rocky too much. He was surprised at his own resolve to stay still, the most extreme reaction so far being lightly kicking his feet when Rocky stayed in a sensitive area for too long. Rocky was almost too good at pulling reactions from him though, listening to when he giggled quietly or loudly, what made him move more and what made him melt. It wasn’t long before Rocky was keeping his pawing at the middle of his stomach, slow and gentle, keeping Ranboo laughing softly, not uncontrollably.

A few minutes of the gentle massaging made Ranboo sleepy and warm, relaxing into the touch and releasing breathy giggles. He still craved a hug, he’d ask Tubbo when he got back, but Rocky’s repetitive, and slightly ticklish touch had soothed him into a blissful peace. It was so much better than the toxic battle in his head that kept him feeling weighed down. Cats were pog, what more needed to be said?

Rocky then slowed to a stop, sniffing at Ranboo’s hoodie for a moment before nuzzling the material adoringly. The feline waddled back up Ranboo’s chest and lay down, tucking his paws underneath his body. He then lowered his head and shoved it underneath Ranboo’s chin, purring happily. Ranboo giggled as the cat’s whiskers brushed across his neck and jaw again, finding himself relaxing into the affectionate touch easily. Tubbo was right, Rocky was good at comforting people. He owed the cat a lot of treats and hours of cuddles.

He gently pressed his chin into Rocky’s head affectionately. “Thanks Rocks” he murmured.

The feline gave a quiet ‘mrrp’, making Ranboo giggle again. He let his eyes slip closed, melting into the couch and sighing in contentment. The audio of Luca, and Rocky’s rhythmic purring made his drowsiness catch up to him, his sleep schedule was gonna be messed up tonight but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt lighter than he had that morning, and Rocky was warm and grounding, made him feel loved.

Ranboo fell asleep with a smile on his face.

#my fanfic #fanfic #lee!ranboo #ler!rocky #that's a tag now #ranboo #rocky #mcyt tickle #dsmp tickle #mcyt #dsmp

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littlenahsstuff · 3 years

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Sally Mckenna x Reader

A/n, geez this took me forever to actually get out. Not reread so I'm sorry but hope you still like it. Also I don't know how to do the friggan read more thing so... sorry again.

WARNINGS: implied death, implied abuse, sally being possessive, unhealthy relationships, sexual reference. Uhhh yeah plz read at ur own risk.

It's a wonder to many how Sally ended up with a girl like you. Sally was a wrecked soul made of ash and fire and the gasoline lighting it and tears and pained laughs. You were a hopeful wanderer made of soft kisses and poems and snowflakes and pretty fragile flower petals and innocence. Or maybe sweetness. Even though, you were a rabbit and Sally, a fox. Possessive and cunning over her prey.

You met when you went to the Cortez to get away from your past, from the people who hurt you, from her. Truth was you were terrified of anyone and everyone and... well she said she could protect you. You believed her too.

***<>***<>***<>***

"Hey babydoll, why ya crying without a drink in your hand? After all, your at the bar and clearly because you don't want to be alone in your room," she spoke husky and blunt. You were awfully shy and you spooked easily.

"Oh I just, I'm not usually one to drink. It makes you do things," you whispered, still not meeting the ladies face. Your twiddling thumbs were looking awfully nice to you right now.

The truth was she was right, you didn't want to be alone. Not after the year of being alone with her. Though, the alcohol only served to remind you of her more, it was the only place you could go with people who you don't know. With people.

"Aw, that's okay. But c'mon I'll keep you some company, only if you let me buy you at least a little liquid courage. We can't have you being this shy with me the whole night," she ended her bargain with a deep chuckle. It was startling how quickly you agreed to her.

So making your decision you let out an okay and decided you should know what this person looks like at least.

Upon your scan of her you figured out 5 important things. 1. This woman was crying earlier and you knew because her eyeliner smudged and dripped in tracks. 2. She was wild. This was given by her frizzy blonde hair that looked as dead as her, yet so alive. 3. She had an odd sense of fashion that complimented her too perfectly. Her leopard print coat and older dress told you this one. 4. She holds more emotion in her brown eyes than in anyone else as a whole that you've ever seen. The fact that even with the immense amount of depth in them, you could still see a twinkle in the depth of them, shocked you. 5. She was and still is the most beautiful person you've ever seen and she's trouble.

"Okay, sure. Thanks," you exhaled. And thus you two were forever in each other's debts. For you both were never alone after that day.

***<>***<>***<>***

"Hey sweets," you called out into room 64, "I brought you something!" You always felt bad for leaving her so you ended up getting her things that reminded you of her. This time it was a new guitar. Sure it was a little expensive but you didn't mind, you practically lived at the Cortez now and for almost free.

You, of course, know that Sally is a ghost and that she can never roam farther than a few steps out of the Cortez. It breaks your heart that you can't take her with you to explore the world you couldn't before but you just have to. Your ex never let you, so having a job and getting to actually do things was something you thought you would never be able to again. Yet here you are.

One problem, Sally doesn't like it either. It doesn't matter how many gifts you give, she just wants you. Her approaches aren't nearly as rough as your ex when she wants you to stay and she would never be too harsh with you. Or so you believe.

Sally had been plotting this night forever, she was gonna ask you to die tonight and stay with her forever. She needed you here. She needed you to stop leaving her.

Of course you were her precious angel and she understood that you loved exploring, but she could never shake the sense that you were too eager and would get yourself hurt or worse, killed. Then she would be alone forever again. She couldn't be alone and she had to make sure you stayed with her. So even if you didn't know better and wanted to still go out despite the danger, she had precautions in place to keep you safe.

So, this night had to be special and romantic. She had made your favorite meal, despite not being a master chef. She had set up a romantic scene in your room and it. Was. Perfect.

How could you say no after this?

"Hi babydoll. I made you dinner, your favorite Y/N," she appeared next to you. You made a slight jump, but collected yourself when you saw it.

"It's gorgeous," you gasped. Your eyes marveled at the candlelight, neat placement of the silverware, and your absolute fav dish on the table.

"The best for my babydoll," Sally smirked, kissing you on the cheek. You twiddle with your thumbs again.

"I'm sorry," you suddenly spoke, eyes downcast. Fear shot through your spine and your thoughts raced. Did I forget something important?!

"Hey, Y/N, look at me. I know that look what's wrong?" Sally's tone was soft and she added some comforting rubbing on your back to ease you.

"I- Did I forget something? I know your birthday's not today or our anniversary or-did we make plans? I can't remember. I'm so sorry, I promise I can do better," You said meekly and decidedly.

"Oh," Sally's heart broke. She hated when you got like this. So stiff and afraid if herself and all because of her. "Babydoll, I just wanted to do something special for you. Dont worry everything's gonna be just fine."

"Well..." you paused, relief had worked itself through you, "Thank you so much, this is so lovely. I love you so much Sally. I um, got you this," you handed her the new guitar.

It was light weighted and had a darker wood, practically perfect to Sally. At least... that was until she gazed upon the not so delicate etching in the side. Sally & Y/n 4ever. A message not long forgotten to her. You meant it too.

You made a deal that when you were ready, you would kill yourself to be with her at the Cortez. Till death do we not part, you had joked. It would be a day when you would at least be no younger than 30, you were 24 now.

So today was not that day. Or rather tonight.

But it didn't make the phrase any less emotional for Sally. Despite the agreement. So with shaky hands she reached out for the instrument.

"I love it baby," she whispered from her messily painted lips. Her fingers brushed across each copper string. They plucked one by one at it, each ringing out with the vibration. It was out of tune but surely nothing she couldn't fix. You must have gotten it at a pawn shop. Usually ones elsewhere come pretuned.

Relief flooded over you as you saw the smirk snake upon the ghost's lips. She did like it, good.

"Well as much as I would like to play this baby. I think you might be a little hungry, it is 10. Can't have my meal without her having hers first Y/n." Sally smirked at the way your cheeks went aflame.

"Okay," you whispered, looking at the table and sitting down. The ghost followed suit.

With a click, warmth was made from Sally's cig lighter.

Candlelight brightened the both of yours faces, adding a yellowish tint. This tint was especially viable upon Sally's pale face and the shadows stood in stark contrast, formed from her chiseled cheekbones.

They could cut you.

Knowing that Sally is impatient at times and was highly receptive to others actions and expressions, told you that briskly, you should tuck in. Boy did you tuck in.

The first bite was pure bliss. Enough so that a moan was let out and you craved more from the first touch to a tastebud.

Sally watched as pleased as can be. You liked her food, it was praise that came from your reaction and because of that she's happy.

The second bite happened after of course and this one tasted oddly different. Not bad, but as if it was bitter.

Then Sally ate, she chewed with a hum. Of course eating wasn't necessary, but anybody except some anorexics can appreciate the taste.

She then sputtered a giggle, "Too much parsley, oops." It explained it, it's why it was so bitter.

Then silence as food was enjoyed. The atmosphere was tense with a question wafting through.

Fortunately, Sally exudes so much emotion in that slim frame of hers that you didn't have to wait long to be asked it.

"Will you stay with me?" She asks. Oh dear. Again? Is this why she made me this?

"Of course, I would never leave you for someone else." It's stated firmly but calmly. She needed nothing else.

"No, I mean stay with me, forever... as a ghost babydoll. Tonight?" She clarifies with hesitation. Breathing gets harder a bit, not too terribly but enough to feel as if something's stuck in you esophagus.

"I, but I thought you wanted me to experience stuff?" You croaked. You wanted to cry, because you thought there was more time.

"You have, but I think that now you know life without that much pain, you can stay here. It's not a safe world out there, just like it was with them. I wanted to have you see that. You just haven't," she explains. You think.

If this is what she really wants...

"And besides we can live together. It's not like there isn't anything here. I always moan and groan about it but I could be stuck somewhere worse and with you here it would be p-"

"O-okay," you decide. You sound like a mouse and the tears have only been growing.

Sally stops, not expecting that. She thought you would have said no. She made a grave mistake.

"Really?" She asks dumfoundedly.

You nod slow and with a slight twitch as a sob wrecks you silently. "Yes, but only the way I want. I want to be killed by myself. It's my decision. It's my death. I don't want anybody taking it away, not even you Sally."

Sally really messed up now.

"Oh god." You mistake her statement as happiness that she doesn't know how to deal with. So you take it as agreement to your terms.

Thus you move upward out of your seat to hug her and that niggle in your throat itches, getting worse. The headache brewing ever since eating is tenfold what it was. Bile is a sickly fiend approaching up way your throat.

Pain seeps through your innards to your mind. Pain wracked your bones and breaks your heart. Pain.

The table you gripped was no longer there, causing clenching on nothing but wind while you tumbled down onto the floor, your foot snagging on the chair leg as well.

"Oh Babydoll no," Sally wails, making sure you can't see her, but can feel her presence and hear her voice. She's ashamed and you realized she did this.

That wasn't parsley that tasted bitter.

She's smarter than she looks but blind as well. You would die for her at this hotel and she couldn't see it.

So she had to make sure you would regardless.

You layed there with sorrow and betrayal. She took the one thing you never got, freedom of choice. It was never about protecting you that you held onto. It was that she would honor you. What they didn't do.

She broke fine china, already so fragile and yet handled with improper care still despite it's value.

The etching on the guitar served to mock.

Sally & Y/n 4ever

#sarah paulson x reader #sally mckenna #sally mckenna x reader

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fndmxreader · 3 years

Text

fandom: harry potter. pairing: snape x reader undertones. summary: a completely self indulgent series where the reader is a slytherin muggle born witch working alongside the teachers at hogwarts. note: this is going to bounce around a lot when it comes to ships & stuff, there isn’t going to be a formula to this but will still take situations from the movies. pov: she/her pronouns.

there were several emotions that you were feeling right now : excitement, a smudge of regret, and the most prominent emotion, good old anxiety that wouldn’t budge no matter how much you practically skipped behind dumbledore in an attempt to shake it off : who of which, at the moment, was cracking jokes to try and ease your mood by pointing out where everything is and which classrooms were where. considering you had left the school a mere five years ago, the directions really weren’t needed, after all it was hard to forget a place like hogwarts - you still remember first walking through the doors, still remember the sensation of the hat on your head as it proudly announced that you were slytherin. some days were filled with nothing but torment from some pure bloods, but you still met some life long friends who you still spoke to, and the days were held closed to heart no matter what sort of thing you were subjected to.

“ and now, we slowly inch towards the forbidden door, one you most certainly aren’t familiar with - “ you can’t help the small giggle in response, eyes rolling as you found yourself in the same hallway as the staff room. your arms folding tightly against your chest as nails dug into your arms lightly, once again an attempt to fight off the ever growing feeling of wanting to puke on the floor. the fact that you haven’t is actually something you’re secretly celebrating.

“ finally, my long winded plan has worked. i’m here only for this, then i’m taking my leave” dumbledore grinned, placing an arm over your shoulder and offering a comforting squeeze as you got closer towards the room. damn, your palms were sweating, not helping but shrinking into his side like a child. this wasn’t like you, but it had been a long time - even being back in the wizarding world was a strange sensation, it had been a good couple of years outside of magic bars with childhood friends.

“ relax, y/n. it’s wonderful to have you back, i will admit, i was worried i’d said goodbye to you forever. “ the words warmed your heart, a shyness emitting from your aura “ you were my favourite slytherin, after all. you still are - “

“ first, of cause im your favourite slytherin, i’m me ” there’s the y/n everyone has grown to love, you beamed brightly up at him, eyes glowing a little “ second, i tried to stay away, but the muggle world just isn’t for me anymore. i still have friends there that i’ll visit, but - i dunno, this turned into my home at some point “ a shrug, walking into the staff room, tone kinda drawling off as you shrunk a little by dumbledores side.

“ greetings, everyone ! “ the headmaster announced, leaving your side to get everyones attention; leaving you stood there in the middle of the room feeling awkward and extremely exposed, the smile faltering a little but still tugging at the corner of lips, eyes glancing across the room at the familiar faces, and some... not so familiar. there had been a small change in staffing, you note, but you relax the minute you see your old head of house, professor snape; familiarity washes over you as you offer him a smile, no matter how grumpy he looks; you knew he liked you “ we have a new teaching assistant with us, now some of you already know young y/n here, some of you not - but i know she’s going to make a fine addition to our staffing, her job will be to help whoever needs her at the time, so i hope you start making dibs while her schedule is free - “

“ the muggle world got sick of me, so i’m here to make myself you guys’ problem, so i really wouldn’t dibs if you want to continue liking your jobs “ you finger gun at everyone, amusement crossing faces across the room. you hadn’t changed much, gotten a little older perhaps, mentality changed to some degree; but still the awkward, sharp tongued joker remained. after poor ice breaker, everyone practically dragged you from one side of the room to another, questioning where you had been and what you had done, you had no idea what you were worried about; you knew the anxiety would peak back up in the classroom, that was going to take a long time to get used to, but when it came to feeling at home among not only your previous teachers, but people who you will now know on a level to call them friends ? the road ahead was exciting.

“ y/n, i didn’t expect to see you back here “ snape finally got hold of you after fifteen minutes or so of bonding with the rest of the staff, a faint blush covers your cheeks as you pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, rocking slightly on your heels.

“ disappointed ? “ you joked, head tilting at the tease that came effortlessly, though at his face remained neutral. as the quietness that you both shared began to grow longer and truthfully, a little painful, you continued “ me neither, but i finished my muggle studies and i realised out there isn’t where i wanted to be. “

“ be that as it may, i do recall you saying how teaching is the last thing on your list due to how annoying children were - “

“ you, of all people are not saying that to me ! “ it’s playful, tone spiking up as your can’t help the laugh that passes your lips. you see the faint twitch of his lips at your response, noticing clear as day the glimmer in his eyes “ you are the last person to comment on the hatred of children, because i recall roommates coming back from class whining about how their head hurt where you smacked it with the back of a text book !“

“ i always hit with paperbacks, y/n. and would i be correct in assuming you liked those people ? “ you knew right off the bat that he was being snarky, tongue rolling across bottom lip as your eyes rolled once more.

“ no you wouldn’t and that is beside the point here ! “ your foot playfully stomping on the floor at his attitude. meanwhile the other teachers were looking on in amusement, shaking their heads and smiles spreading on faces at the bubbly change in the atmosphere that you brought. you really were a one in a million, and the teachers were happy to get to know you on a more personal level.

also they noticed how snapes posture faltered into a more relaxed stance, anything to make him like life a little more and not be such a stick in the mud like he usually is. everyone was excited for the staffing change, and dumbledore took all the credit.

#snape x reader #severus snape x reader #harry potter x reader #hp x reader #harry potter corner.#< - this is a perfect tag to store all these up coming fics odishfoisdh #teacher!reader series.

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dustofbrokenheart · 3 years

Text

The Covenant: Sweet Dreams

Part One | Part Two

Chase Collins x Reader

Word Count: 1,931

Warning: contains physical intimacy and some mature language

Summary: You’ve been away for weeks and Chase has no problems Using to prove just how much he misses you.

It was cold and snowy outside, but the bed was cozy, the comforter wrapped around you thick. Added with a mattress with the right level of firmness and fluffy hotel pillows, and sleep came easy.

In one moment, you were curled on your side, drowsily watching the occasional flash of headlights that filtered in through the blinds. In the next, everything went black. The black was absolute, but not frightening. It was the kind of black that made you feel safe, like when you closed your eyes after a long day and shut everything else out.

Suddenly, you felt another presence in the dark and knew you were no longer alone. A crooning voice whispered in your ear. “Open those eyes for me, pet… there you go… that’s it.”

It took considerable effort but you manage to flutter your lids open like the sweet voice prompted. Something in that voice made it impossible to resist listening to it and you sighed in relief when you felt the voice’s fingers stroke your scalp in reward.

Gathering more strength now that your eyes were open, you turned your head toward the presence and saw that the fingers and the voice belonged to the same person. One that you knew. Knew very well, actually, seeing as how he was your boyfriend.

“Chase, what are you doing here?”

He smiled that signature smile of his. The one that always seemed so sweet at first glance, but masked the edge he normally tried to hide. “What? A guy can’t visit the love of his life?”

His words had you fully awake and you sat up, the darkness transitioning into the familiar view of your bedroom. “Wait. Are you real?” You peered around, your eyesight quickly adjusting. Saw your alarm clock on the nightstand. The piles of clothes that needed to be put away sitting on top of your desk.

He merely laid back on the bed and crossed his arms behind his head. “Well, not physically. But that doesn’t mean it’s not really me.”

You looked again and noticed how the edges of the room looked blurry, like someone had smudged the lines of the ceiling and floor. But everything else appeared perfect and you had definitely felt Chase touching you just now…

“So it’s a dream then,” you concluded. You smacked his chest with the back of your hand after a moment. “You promised to stop being so reckless with your powers, you idiot.”

“This isn’t reckless. I haven’t seen you in two weeks. That qualifies this dreamscape as an emergency in my book.”

He was right about that part. It had been weeks since you’d last seen one another. You had been traveling for research related to your master’s degree program and wouldn’t be flying home for another few days. In hind sight, that fact alone should’ve been enough for you to realize this was taking place in a dream space.

“As much as I love hearing that you miss me, this doesn’t count as an emergency, Chase.” He pouted, resting his head on your lap so he could rub his face into your thighs. “But since you’ve already went and done it… I happy you’re here.”

“Good. That means I can move to the next phase of my plan,” he murmured under his breath as if accidently thinking out loud. Which was a lie, of course. Chase was so self-aware that he never said anything by accident. If he said it out loud, it was because he wanted you to you hear him.

“Next phase?” you asked, playing along with his game.

“Well, you see—I think best if I just show you.” He picked up his head to press a kiss to your covered thigh, making sure to make eye contact with you. There was no mistaking the heat in his eyes.

His kisses moved upward to your hip. To your stomach. To your ribs. To your neck. Until he finally reached your mouth. He kept it very chaste, opting to press a fleeting closed-lip kiss to the side of your mouth. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach and you shivered.

He pulled back, holding your face securely in his hands. “What do you say, hmn? Shall we continue?”

Before you could consciously think about it, your head was nodding up and down. The mood instantly changed from sweet touches to hungry intent. Black started leeching from the pupil to completely cover both of Chase’s eyes and you knew you were in for it.

You saw was the flash of his fire rimmed eyes and suddenly you were laid flat out on your back. The sheets were cool against your naked skin, bared completely nude for Chase’s own viewing pleasure. A blindfold took away your vision, leaving you in darkness once again. Unlike when you were trying to fall asleep, you were now hyper-alert for any sounds or touches in order to compensate for the loss.

Next, your arms were pulled up above your head. A quick test proved that your wrists were wrapped in sooth silk, likely conjured by your boyfriend, and bound to your headboard; your arms wouldn’t be moving until Chase allowed it. Your heart was already hammering in your chest and nothing had even happened yet.

He parted your legs so that he could position himself in between them. He spread them into a wide ‘v’ and spanked one of your thighs. “Keep them open, okay? Otherwise they get tied up too.”

He moved up your body to hover over your chest and you made sure not to move your legs. Chase demanded obedience and he was petty enough to leave you tied up, and untouched, if you didn’t follow the rules.

He leaned down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, his warm breath raising goosebumps around the area. The touch seemed even more sensual now that you couldn’t see it coming. He alternated between strong sucks and playful flicks of his tongue. Not wanting to leave the other out, his hand crept up to grasp the bud with his fingers, stroking it masterfully until it hardened into a peak.

You sighed in bliss, the thread connecting your sensitive nipples to your sex lighting up. He wasn’t satisfied though.

“I know you’re louder than that. Come on, let me hear you,” he said pinching your nipple. The pinch made you squirm and he followed it with a drawn-out lick to ease the pain.

The familiar duality of hard-soft treatment got you to release your first moan of the night and even though you couldn’t confirm it, you just knew that Chase had a smug grin on his face. “Louder,” he insisted darkly. The rumble of his voice combined with his sinful touches had you mewling, your back arching to keep his mouth on you.

“That’s more like it,” he purred.

With a parting lick, he detached himself completely and you had no idea what he would do next—your hearing no help since your heavy moaning drowned out every other sound. He left you in suspense for a few minutes, your body wound tight, and it wasn’t until you shifted your legs that he made his move.

“Uh uh uh,” he tsked in a sing-song voice. “What did I say? And I thought you were going to be good for me.”

“I do,” you breathed. “I promise I want to be good!”

His nails dug in to the flesh of your thighs, forcefully, his fingers gripping tight enough to leave marks. More silk wrapped around your ankles and it yanked so that you were forced into a split. It wasn’t the max limit of your flexibility, but it was enough to feel a stretching sensation in your muscles.

Without warning, he cupped you in his hand which had you bucking your hips. You were already slick and he coated his fingers, running them over you to make you even more slick while you trembled. Once he was content, he pulled away again and you grunted, restless on the bed.

“Patience, pet. I’m thinking.”

His gaze was laser focused on your sex as he stroked near your groin. He wasn’t sure whether to continue using his hands or if he should switch to his mouth. He was watering for a taste of you, but you really hadn’t earned that treat…

Oh well, he sighed. It couldn’t be helped. You needed to be taught a lesson. Besides, he knew you would look even better once you were a writhing mess.

He curled his fingers and pumped you once. Caught by surprise, you moaned lewdly, your hips canting to follow his movements.

“Here’s what’s going to happen—you’re going count every pump I give you until you get to fifteen. Then, if I want, I’ll use my mouth. Deal?”

It sounded like a trap. There was no way it wasn’t. Being stroked instead of spanked? Chase was a text book definition of a smooth talker who could sell ice to Eskimos. As good as the offer sounded, you knew it couldn’t be as easy as it seemed. Having no choice but to accept, you nodded.

He pumped again, slowly and with a tantalizing stroke at the end that had you straining against the silk bonds. And then he pressed his thumb down on a sensitive spot of nerves and made harsh, tight circles.

“One,” you gasped, lightning streaking through you. If it was that good after only one, there was no way you were get to fifteen without cumming. And that would be all the excuse he needed to deliver a harder punishment. You were definitely in trouble.

He went to touch you again when you were interrupted by a distant knock. Chase went deadly still and you turned towards the sound, still blindfolded. Another knock sounded, louder than the first time.

The restraints holding your limbs disappeared, followed quickly by the blindfold. All around, your bedroom was slipping away piece by piece and faster every second until just the bed remained. Confused, you faced Chase only to see him trembling in fury.

“Dammit,” he snarled. Then it all went blank.

Blinking your eyes, you found yourself back in the hotel room. A bit disoriented, you were awake enough to hear more knocking coming from down the hall. You heard a door open and a heated flurry of hushed whispers as the person knocking was presumably admitted into their room. The door slammed shut and then all was quiet again.

You picked up the clock from the bedside table and groaned in disappointment when it read 2:46 AM. Unfortunately, it would be while before you were able to fall back asleep now that you were wide awake. Down sides of being a particular sleeper.

And not only would you be unable to go back to sleep immediately, you were now left turned on with no boyfriend to finish you off. Your only consolation was that Chase was just as frustrated as you. Perhaps even more so.

It wasn’t often he wore his emotions clearly, especially in the bedroom, but his expletive more than gave him away, his parting snarl still echoing in your ears. He was pissed at being denied. Served him right for using his powers irresponsibly like that.

You amused yourself by imagining that he’d get so worked up, he’d call to finish what he started. A highly unlikely, but very intriguing fantasy. But then your phone lit up from where it peeked out under the covers to announce an incoming call.

You smirked in the darkness.

Looked like your fantasy might not be as unlikely as you thought.

_______________

My first time writing for Chase! Was it alright? Thanks to @dhampiravidi for agreeing that he’s a kinky one. And thanks to anyone who reads!

#the covenant #chase collins #chase collins x reader #imagines #sebastian stan #rated m for mature

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batgurl1989 · 3 years

Text

His Solace

Summary: August sneaks into the apartment after being away for months

Word Count: 1600

Warnings: Kissing... If that needs to be warned (?)

A/N: If you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :) This has not been beta-ed, all mistakes are mine.

Taglist: @rmtndew @princesssterek @henrynerdfan @cynic-spirit

He moved silently through the apartment after quietly closing and locking the door. He stopped by the kitchen, the hood fan light bathing the room in a dim light, seeing dishes from dinner still stacked in the sink unwashed. One plate. One wine glass. The last sip of red wine pooled in the bottom, a smudge of lipstick on the rim. A clean place setting sat beside the sink, not yet put away.

He knew this was what you did every night, but it still left a stain on his soul every time he saw it. You were waiting for him, never sure if that night was going to be the night he would come home. Unfortunately, he could never offer you more than a vague guess of how long he would be away each time. He rarely turned on his personal phone until he landed safely back on home soil, and most of the time, he didn’t do it until he was in the parking lot of your apartment building. What greeted him this time was a couple of voicemails, each one sounding more desperate than the last. He knew you tried to keep how much you hurt because of his absence from him, but he was trained to hear the strain in people’s voices when they lied. And you had never been very good at lying. Another unfortunate thing was that he was great at it. Which worked well for his job, but not so much for having a relationship.

Setting his bag down carefully on one of the kitchen chairs, he moved further into the apartment. The hall floor had a few squeaks in it, but he avoided those deftly. For being considered “a hammer” by his job, he could move as silently as a cat when he wanted to.

The bedroom was open a crack, giving him a view of the bed, the covers hanging off half of it. Easing the door open, he took in your sleeping figure, one leg kicked out from under the covers, hugging the bundled mess to your body. The sheets were rumpled, and he decided that you had been fighting to find some shred of comfort in the empty bed. Another stain on his soul.

He stepped up to the side of the bed, careful not to trip on the comforter, his face softening as he looked down at you. Your hair was a mess of bedhead curls, and he noticed your face was tucked into the pillow he normally would have used. Reaching down, he carefully fingered one of your curls, a part of his heart he kept locked away while away for work expanding at its softness. August Walker didn’t believe in much, but since meeting you, you had become his church. His solace. His safe harbour in the storm that was his work life.

Regretfully letting go of your curl, he eased back out of the room. There was no way he would crawl into bed with you while wearing the ghosts of his last mission. He didn’t want to stain your soul with the things he had seen and definitely not with the things he had done. His shower was quick as he spent no time luxuriating in the hot pressurized water. There was time for that tomorrow.

He slid into bed behind you, careful not to jostle the mattress too much and wake you up. Even in your sleep, turned mostly away from him, he could see the dark smudges under your eyes. Most likely put there by him. Ignoring the new stain on his soul, he carefully pulled your sleeping form to his body. You turned to him in your sleep, drawn by the heat his body offered in the otherwise cold bed. He would never not be surprised by how trusting you were. In his line of work, trust didn’t come easy. There was always a price. But even in sleep, you offered it to him freely. It awed him.

He pressed a gentle kiss into the mass of tangled curls that made up your hair as you buried your face in his chest. Your hands flattened on his muscular pecks, delving into his chest hair. He knew the second you woke up because your body stiffened and you had a sharp intake of breath.

You lifted your head away from his warm chest to look up him, the sadness he could see swirling in your eyes settling as you took in his face. The fog of sleep lifted, letting your body and mind fully realize that he was indeed in bed with you. This wasn’t a cruel trick your mind was playing on you, though it wouldn’t have been the first one. It had been a long 4 months.

Neither of you spoke, just staring at each other, mentally reacquainting yourselves. Your fingers tentatively stroked his face, the merest whisper of fingertips on his stubble covered cheek. The hand on your back stroked slow calming circles on your skin after lifting your shirt out of the way. Tears pricked your eyes as all the pain you had felt the last couple of weeks bubbled to the surface. August pressed a soft kiss to your forehead as you closed your eyes against the tide swelling inside. He lingered there until he knew you were calm again.

You reached up, teasing the wet curl that hung over his forehead. He didn’t usually let his hair get this long, but you had to admit you loved when his curls came out. You locked eyes again as you slowly lowered your hands back down to his chest, trailing them along his neck. You couldn’t help constantly touching him, memorizing again all the lines and dips of his body. The body of the man you missed with every ounce of your soul, who was having a hard time shedding the edginess work always gave him.

You ran your fingers through his chest hair, as though stroking the bear would bring August back to himself. You learned early on not to ask him about work—he couldn’t give you any answers anyway—but you knew he must see some pretty horrific stuff if he came back to you like this almost every time.

Slowly, as though neither of you wanted to startle the other, your lips met. Immediately you fell into the kiss, as though a piece of the puzzle had just clicked in place on your heart. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you tighter to his body. His tongue tentatively ran along the seam of your lips, and you opened for him immediately. Your heart pounded inside your chest, tattooing your rib cage with its erratic beat. Your hands were caught between your bodies, so you reverently ran them up from his chest to hold the sides of his neck, deepening the kiss.

The moan that escaped him was all the encouragement you needed as your tongue met his in a soul-searing dance of two lovers who have been separated for too long. His fingers tangled in the hair on the back of your head, holding you immobile as he delved passionately deeper. The world and its problems melted away as he surrounded you with himself, his scent, his warmth, his passion, his body. You moaned helplessly as he continued to take from you well past your need to breath.

He tugged gently on your hair, tilting your head back as his lips left yours to trail a hot line down your throat to your collarbone, his moustache tickling you in a way that sent shivers out to all your extremities. He didn’t leave your lips long though, and he nipped and kissed a trail back up to them. He poured all his anger and regret at having to leave you into his kiss. All the pain he caused you, he was trying to erase it using his lips. You felt like you were going to have whiplash from the emotional slingshot his kisses seemed to have.

Slowly, August eased out of the kiss. He let go your hair, once again cupping the back of your head. He slowed down the fiery passion to more of a slow burn, savouring each move of your lips against his. He was no longer simply taking; he was offering in return. Eventually he was giving you sweet chaste pecks before finally easing away.

His blue eyes searched yours when you slowly opened them, searching. If you had to guess, he was probably worried he had taken things too far with what started out as a simple kiss. You shook your head, cupping his cheek again, trying to reassure him. The dark cloud in his eyes eased, and he kissed your forehead once more.

You tucked your head into his chest again. Sleep that was usually hard to find seemed to be chasing you now that he was home. August’s hand resumed the patterns it had been drawing on your back, settling you further into the peaceful sleep you finally found.

Sleep was a far away thought for him. He stared into the darkness, his brow furrowing as worries began to eat away at him. He hadn’t meant to pour so much of his stained soul into that kiss. He never wanted to take you from your light, forcing you into the darkness he lived in. He would sacrifice the world to make sure that wouldn’t happen. And he would have no qualms about doing it. That’s what made him the villain, not the hero you thought him to be. You were his solace, and he would do anything to protect you.

#august walker fanfic #August Walker x reader #Henry Cavill Fanfic #Henry Cavill Fanfiction #Mission Impossible Fallout fanfic

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philliamwrites · 3 years

Text

The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.5]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 5.4k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 4 | Chapter 6

Chapter 05: Born to Trouble

Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.

[Hiob 5:7]

A breeze picks up loose leaves and carries them over a steep hill. The sun, directly above your heads, emits no blazing head and still, wearing light armour and carrying weapons leaves a layer of perspiration on your forehead. Every minute marching towards where the Eagle House students and their astute professor are waiting builds worry and the desire to turn around and put as much distance as possible between you and them but the rope tying you to the task called obligation makes it impossible to sate it.

A slight pull makes you pause and scratch the thin skin under your eye, the feeling so strange as if someone is tugging your mind in the complete opposite direction. Now that is a new sensation, and you’re careful to remember that when answering the onslaught of questions Hanneman will surely prepare once he’s back. Feeling no pain, you write it off as exhaustion for now, already looking forward to relax in the sauna later and wind down.

“Is something the matter, Herald?” Dimitri asks. Save for a few scratches and a smudged cheek, he looks fine and appears to be in great spirits. You want to lick your thumb and wipe off the dirt but smearing spit on the heir of a kingdom might not be a great idea in front of his future subjects.

“Everything is fine,” you, the Liar, say with as much conviction as your conscience allows, which is surprisingly easy. Maybe you were a performer before your amnesia, acting on a stage for an audience that celebrated you switching roles with an ease like changing clothes. Dimitri as well trusts your words, though he could as well be playing the role just to lessen your worry.

The last possibility to stall the unavoidable confrontation vanishes. They are waiting for you near the stronghold just beyond the forest from which you emerge after another painful, tense march. The remaining Black Eagle students are positioned in a triangle around Byleth. At its tip stands Edelgard, strong and tall, her axe ready to strike whoever stands between her and victory. Flanking her are ever-brooding Hubert and—

“Linhardt?” you gasp, freezing on the spot which makes everyone sticking to your heels walk right into you. Sylvain only saves himself from falling because he quickly holds onto Dedue who tolerates it like a friendly bear allowing a little bird to sit on his back.

“Is he doing something?” he asks, tiptoeing to get a better look. “What’s going on?”

You point a finger at the Black Eagle student. “No one told me it was allowed to bring students back from the sidelines.”

“Because it isn’t,” Dimitri says, patiently pulling a twig out of his hair. “Those who have lost cannot re-enter the mock battle.”

You stare at everyone separately, hoping it carries enough weight for them to understand your problem—rather why is no one questioning the obvious? They consider you with as much confusion though, at least something you have in common.

“Then why is Linhardt participating again?”

They share worried glances.

“Herald, what are you talking about?” asks Dimitri with a crease between his eyebrows.

It is enough to make your next protest come out more desperate. “An hour ago, Felix and I dealt with Ferdinand and Linhardt. I told you!”

“But—” Sylvain’s face goes blank with surprise. “Didn’t you say you guys got Ferdinand and Dorothea?”

“Dorothea?” You didn’t even know she participated. “No, I swear, we— Why would I claim something different?” They lack the answer to that just as you and any minute pondering it longer is stolen by a vicious MiasmaΔ that splits a tree behind you in two.

“Hey!” Sylvain shakes a fist at Hubert. “Use magic only in moderation!”

His answer is another MiasmaΔ that nearly knocks Sylvain off his feet. Before you can form words, Edelgard takes a swing at you. The hit would have undoubtedly leave you with a concussion were it not for Dimitri’s quick intervention. He deflects her blow though his lance gives a worrying crack.

“Dimitri.” Edelgard’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s time. We can finally settle the question of who’s stronger.”

“Very well.” Dimitri’s stance doesn’t falter even as sweat gathers at his temples. “I accept your challenge. With you as my opponent, I won’t hold anything back.”

Edelgard’s mouth twitches. Dimitri demands with a sharp jut of his chin for you to get out of the way. You don’t argue. Not with the rest from the Eagle house approaching. Dedue, reading your mind, or rather the frantic look in your eyes, charges towards Byleth, leaving Linhardt and Hubert to Sylvain and you.

You focus on Linhardt, mouth burning to question, “What spell did you use to switch places with Dorothea?”

He is so baffled by that, you move without thinking—a swift strike, the sword turned midway so the blunt end smashes into his nose. He stumbles back with a sharp cry, a hand flying up to stop the blood running in rivers down his uniform. There is no time feeling bad for catching him off guard like that. A picture flashes before your eyes. You throw yourself to the ground and feel the lance swipe over your head not a second too soon. You roll back up on your feet, glaring at Hubert. He simply raises a brow in challenge. Sure, you accept, fully aware there is only one way to win against him.

“Edelgard!” you gasp in horror. Hubert’s head twitches but he doesn’t fall for your scheme.

“Really, Herald? I know Her Highness can take care of herself. You need a better trick than that.”

“Really? Then how about this trick?”

This time, Hubert whirls around and is greeted by Sylvain’s fist to his jaw. Combined with your MiasmaΔ, he doesn’t stand a chance. That victory is only short lived though. Out of nowhere, Byleth appears and knocks Sylvain out, not batting an eyelash. She towers like a vengeful spirit, arriving to seek retribution. Trying to move around her, you don’t leave her out of sight for once, your mouth dry and your heart beating so fast your ribcage hurts. The tension is thick enough your swords could cut right through it. It is so tense, in fact, you only manage a dry, “Hey.”

Byleth raises her sword. “Hello.”

“Great day to … you know.” You mirror her movement. “Clobber each other with wooden swords.”

“Less talking, more fighting.” Byleth charges.

You turn and run away.

She immediately pursues like a wolf chasing after a deer. If you weren’t so focused on moving your legs as if your life depended on it and not tripping over something, you could swear someone from the sidelines is cheering for you. Someone sounding like Claude.

“Herald, try a surprise attack! She’ll never expect you to stop and swing your sword at her!”

No, no, no, he can come down here himself if he has a death wish. But another chance emerges before you, one waiting in the lush thicket that you disappear into in hope to lose her. That hope is quickly vanquished when twigs and dry leaves break right behind you shortly after you breach the edge of the forest. In your panic, you grab onto a branch and pull it with you until you’re sure the blow will at least make Byleth stagger to catch her breath. When you let go, she already knows what you’re up to. With a vicious blow, she breaks the branch and throws her sword at you when you try to run past her back to the field. The pain is unlike anything you’ve felt during training. It brings you to your knees, the stronghold in sight and yet so far away from the forest’s borders. The impact knocks all breath out of your lungs, making you unable to call out for help.

Byleth stands before you, her sword back in her hand and risen to deliver righteous punishment—until it isn’t Byleth, it is a man, but you can’t see his face, his features hidden by dark shadows.

Don’t, you think but your mouth forms “You don’t have it in you” instead and before you know it, you speak those words out loud. The picture disappears in a flash so bright, a paper bursting into flames, pain explodes in your head before everything zooms back into painfully sharp focus.

Something changes in Byleth’s eyes, her hesitation a surprise immediately costing her gravely for Dimitri appears by your side, facing her and a desperate sound of relief escapes you because that means Edelgard is out of the game. It is only a battle of stamina at this point, the battle blurring as you stumble to your feet and help Dimitri to overpower Byleth even though your back is a medley of pain. Judging from how her reacting slower, you get a picture of who from the Black Eagles was fighting the most up until this point.

Everything happens too fast. It takes one turn, one swipe of Dimitri’s lance, incredible luck that Byleth starts to get exhausted, and a second later, her knee gives in and she’s on the ground, a wooden edge to her throat. The silence is only disturbed by the second roar of trumpets signalling the end of the mock battle.

You gasp.

Dimitri gasps.

Byleth blows a strand of hair out of her face, her face a blank slate.

Screams and shouts erupt from where everyone else is waiting for you, drowning Jeralt declaring the Blue Lion’s win.

“Herald.” Dimitri’s smile dazzles you more than the sun’s light, radiant and handsome. “We did it. We did it thanks to you.”

“No, it was you—” A wave of fatigue washes over you from overusing your power. Exhaustion smothers you, so suddenly that your vision blurs around the edges. Your limbs are leaden; you feel as though you are sinking into mud. Before you hit the ground, Dimitri catches your arm and steadies you.

It is the unpredictable comedic sort of timing were the cosmos decides it is the right timing for the rest of the students to catch up.

Sylvain lets out a loud, suggestive whistle, appearing way too chipper for someone just brought back to consciousness thanks to white magic. “Who knew His Highness would decide to court someone wide out in the open like that? Did you invite our dear Herald to dinner first?”

Ingrid pushes him hard. “His Highness isn’t like you,” she says at the same time Dimitri asks, “But I do plan to invite our Herald to dinner.” All eyes are on him. It is suddenly really hot even though his gauntlets around your arm are cold. “We all are invited to celebrate our victory with a feast in the dining hall.”

“Aww, goddess help him,” Sylvain sighs, looking like he’s about to facepalm his hand through his forehead.

Any response on your part is delayed by Rhea and Seteth reaching your group after congratulating each student who participated on their work.

“Congratulations on winning the mock battle, Herald,” Rhea says, looking incredibly pleased. From the very beginning she’s probably expected nothing less and you wonder if her smile were as content had you failed. “You showed great leadership and trust in your students, who all did exceptionally well.” She’s smiling at every one of them like a proud mother. It leaves a warm, fuzzy feeling inside your chest, her contentment a beacon that banishes the last shadows of doubt in your heart. You could get addicted to this feeling.

“Now, please return to the monastery,” Seteth advises the students. “We have a few matters to discuss with the faculty members.”

As the students disperse, Dimitri quickly ducks his head in your direction. “We will speak more later.” He trails after his friends, falling into step with Dedue.

“Look at them, being so excited. How adorable.” Manuela smiles, not showing any signs of anger about losing the fight or exhaustion flicking the students back together. “Good job leading them, Herald.”

“And yet, I must advise you to participate more actively in the battle itself next time.” Seteth crosses his arms in front of his broad chest, not sharing Rhea’s idea on how a good job looks. “Professor Byleth showed great assistance and fighting spirit. You would do well to learn from her.”

Byleth gives a little shrug when you glance at her. She doesn’t seem to care much for that.

“Don’t be so stern, Seteth,” Rhea chastises him fondly. “There is still so much room to grow for all of them, our dear Herald, Professor Byleth and the students. For now, let us return and allow them a moment of respite. Their first real mission awaits them at the end of next month.”

Seteth pulls a face as if he bit into a lemon but doesn’t object.

“I have one concern myself,” you quickly throw in before tracking back, wondering how no one else mentions it. “When Linhardt and Dorothea—”

“I would like a word,” Byleth suddenly says, grasping your wrist lightly in such an easy, familiar way you immediately shut up. They leave you two to it as you follow them a couple hundred feet behind, both silent though the voice in your mind doesn’t shut up about the dozen of questions bouncing back and forth. After what feels like hours, Byleth finally says, “You noticed it, didn’t you?”

You stare at the road, a yawning void in your head where just a second ago a cacophony of questions caused a headache, unable to put two and two together. When it finally clicks, you wipe your head so fast in her direction it pops in your neck. “It was you? How did you do it?”

Byleth doesn’t answer immediately. Her gaze drifts over the treetops, calmly swaying from left to right. The battle has concluded half an hour ago, but it already feels like a lifetime has passed and the peace and quiet of nature around you is like a completely different world. The land surrounding the monastery is exceptionally beautiful, luscious and overgrown with flora that covers the ground in a colourful patchwork rug. How the rest of Fódlan must look like…

“When we first met, you asked how I could trust you. It will sound strange but you and I, we are connected.” She’s still looking up ahead, now at the towering spires of the monastery piercing the sky.

Your mouth is dry. “Connected how?”

She stops now. When she turns and looks at you, again the thread that ties you two together strums in an ancient tune. You stop breathing for that second.

“You control the flow of the future, and I control the flow of the past.”

You still don’t understand. Byleth reads as much from your lack of response. “What I mean to say is, I rewind time. When you defeated Linhardt, I turned back time’s hands to have Dorothea walk his path instead to keep my healer. I just never expected anyone would notice. And no one did. Except you.”

It’s like those words don’t reach you. They recoil from a waterfall that rushes through your ears, distorting the words. When your brain finally finishes freaking out about it, only one thing appears of importance. “You cheated!”

Byleth wears an expression that clearly states, That’s rich coming from you.

“I— That—” How can she remain so calm? This information tilts your world, turning every hour you spent lying awake at night in your chambers wondering if you’re the only one with a power like that into a painful memory. “Does that mean you have a Crest as well? If our powers are alike, surely there must be an answer to why we have it. If we talk to Hanneman about it—”

“You won’t,” Byleth cuts you off, her tone as sharp as her sword. “You will share no word with anyone about what I just revealed, or I will strike you down.”

The wind picks up, flickering your robes left and right and rocking trees that bow in humility to a force much greater than them—a feeling you can relate to. Cold sweat runs down the back of your neck. This isn’t a threat. It’s a promise.

“You spend too much time with Hubert,” you manage with a trembling smile only held together when the tension dissipates from Byleth’s face.

“Professor Hanneman is still studying my Crest,” she says, a tinge of sorrow in her voice that strikes you harder than any danger or threat, “but I can assure you my abilities are not tied to it. I’m sorry.”

She must have felt what you so desperately wished for: a connection. The assurance that you are not alone in this world with this strange power.

It makes the way back to the monastery like a march through mud, laden limbs walking towards a goal you don’t know will be worth all the exertion. When the silence becomes too unbearable, you build up the courage to ask, “What are we, Byleth?”

She drops her gaze to the ground. It is the very first time you see uncertainty hover like a shadow over her face. “I wish I could tell you, but I don’t know.”

The sky turns an orange canvas when you finally return to the monastery. The last villagers from the small town downhill start returning home, their tools laid to rest inside their carriages. You can’t wait to sink into a nice hot bath, washing away the dried sweat and grime from the battle and change into loose, comfortable evening robes. You don’t come further than past the entrance hall. Leaning against a high pillar, Dimitri is adjusting the loops on his gauntlets, blond strands falling into his face like golden strips of sunshine. Before you reach him, Byleth says with a light touch to your elbow, “Please see Professor Manuela about your wound, okay? You did great today.” You promise her you will and watch her until she disappears through a hall leading to her personal quarters.

With your attention on him, Dimitri looks up and stands straighter. He grins at you, his smile sudden and jarring like a thunderclap.

“I have been waiting for you, Herald,” he says and takes you by the wrist. The cold of his gauntlets bites at your skin, making you hiss. His hand immediately drops, and he turns around in panic. “Oh, apologies. It is difficult to control my strength sometimes and—”

“No, no, that’s not it. I was just a little surprised.”

He sighs in relief. “Still, I am sorry. I will try to refrain from doing that in the future.”

“Dimitri.” You graze his clothed underarm with a finger, unsure if that was a wise decision when his eyes widen in surprise. How is it you only notice now how long his eyelashes are? “I think we have seen today I am not that fragile.”

His eyes jump away, avoiding contact, the blush creeping up his neck clearly standing out against his pale skin. He clears his throat. “I just wanted to make sure you will join us for dinner. I was not joking earlier when I said we should all celebrate our victory.”

“Are you guys sure? I’m not your teacher and in the end, I didn’t do all too much.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “Nonsense. You fought with us and led us to victory. We would love to celebrate with you, and while you won’t be with us all the time, I’d love nothing more than to share our happiness with you. Joy can be so fleeting, after all, and I’m sure the rest of the class feels the very same.”

“If it really is okay with you all…” You glimpse over at him. Why not. Why not enjoy some leisure time with the students. You could surely use it to get to know them better and distract your thoughts from Byleth’s revelation. “Just give me some time to get ready. I’ll see you in the dining hall.”

“Actually, please come to our classroom,” Dimitri says. “I don’t know how Sylvain managed it, but the kitchen’s head lady allowed us to dine in the classroom.”

Your brows fly to your hairline. Dimitri answers with a little, low chuckle. You both have a pretty good idea how he managed to pull that stunt.

Back in your quarters, you wash away the dirt and pick a simple robe the colour of freshly pressed parchment. The water’s heat renders today’s injuries to a dull pain save for the scrapes on your knees that still burn but are clean now. Hunger quickly catches up as well, dispersing your last doubts of intruding the class’ celebration. After leaving your room, you stop by the infirmary where Manuela makes quick work of your remaining wounds with her magic, turning purple bruises into faded yellow spots you immediately forget once you step out and head to your destination.

The tables are already laid, arranged into a formation that resembles a circle allowing conversations to flow easily. You expected them to be already stuffing their faces but when you step into the Blue Lion’s classroom, the only source of light is a dim candle flickering in the middle of some students huddled together. Only Mercedes’ soft voice is audible, not counting the little whimpers from Annette or Ashe shuffling as he tries to hide behind Dimitri who appears to be the only one invested in her story.

“… no one knows how deep the tunnels underneath the monastery run. But once they reach where walls are built from skulls and bones, they turn and go back … or try to do so, for who knows what horror lurks behind every corner.”

“Nooooooo,” Annette cries, clutching to Dimitri’s sleeve. “Why would anyone go somewhere like that?”

“A-and who built it in the first place? Tunnels lined with bones…” Ashe shudders, still looking smaller than Dimitri even though he is the one sitting.

“A fascinating idea.” Dimitri’s excitement, bright as a spark, doesn’t bounce over to his friends. “To imagine there could be a whole civilisation living right in plain sight like that.”

“I can’t imagine we wouldn’t notice,” Ashe reasons. His conviction would be more credible, would he not still cling to a white tail of Dimitri’s shirt. Before you can join and see if you would fare better listening to stories about haunted and forgotten places, Sylvain steals past you, his voice making you jump. “Shouldn’t you guys be finished by now?”

Seeing your sour expression, he simply winks and hurries inside, carrying a big steaming pot. Followed by the rest of the Lions, they carry plates with dried meat, slices of bread, vegetables and cheese, and place them on the tables for everyone to just pick whatever they want. With a flick of your wrist flames flicker to life inside both fireplaces and the candles on top of the chandelier above your heads. Everyone hurries to find a seat. The students have all changed out of their battle garments into the academy’s summer uniform, its fabric much lighter than the heavy embroidered regular uniform they wore upon your first meeting.

“My dear friends.” Dimitri raises a cup, holding the thin stem between slender fingers. It would look more elegant were its contents not simply orange juice. “To our victory today and many more to follow.”

They raise their cups to toast except for Felix who knocks his drink back as if it were strong liquor he desperately needed to sit through this evening gathering. He doesn’t look as pale as before. A quick check up by Manuela after the battle affirmed that he was alright and simply fatigued from countless sleepless nights spent at the Training Grounds.

The other participants don’t look too bad either. Bruises that vividly blossomed hours ago have faded, swollen purple eyes already start to heal—all certainly thanks to Manuela’s quick work. Sylvain surely won’t be as successful chasing girls with a shiner that makes the prettiest violet jealous of his colour and Dimitri tries to hide it but you don’t miss him tensing from time to time or moving his hand towards his side; probably a bruised rib he doesn’t want anyone to know. He catches your stare and offers a slight, boyish grin under half-closed eyes that only whispers of a shared secret only meant for you two. It does a funny thing to your stomach, a flip or drop, a light twist like missing a step and the fear of falling only to meet solid ground a split second later. You quickly look away and focus on spreading curd on a loaf of bread, not trying to think too much about how the muscles strained under his clothes wielding his lance or the fierce determination colouring his eyes a shade brighter when victory is in palpable proximity.

You feel a piercing gaze, hot like a solid touch on your skin. Quickly whipping your head around, you catch Felix’s glare from across the room, completely ignoring whatever Sylvain is telling him. It leaves you completely tense for the rest of the dinner, wondering what his problem is and why he is so hostile towards Dimitri specifically. You’ve heard from some students who have walked into an argument those two had, something about a massacre two years ago but details, as is their nature, grow hazy over time and distort until they evolve into something completely different and unrecognisable.

Felix holds your gaze for a long second, and it is only later after you all clean the classroom from your festivities and decide to retire to bed that you catch him by himself. The monastery at night is a desolate, lonely place save for a couple stray souls wandering about, either on their way to their chamber or out for a quick, last evening prayer inside the chapel. Felix’s destination is none of those as he strides towards the Training Grounds and you call out to him. He slows but doesn’t stop his step until you catch up. “You’re on your way to training, right? Shouldn’t you call it a day? Especially after what happened—”

“I’ve got no time sitting around and making smalltalk,” Felix snaps, and a month ago you would have thought he aimed his anger towards you but recently you’ve discovered he’s towards the whole world—always glaring, always hissing like a cornered, wounded animal. “There are more important matters like growing stronger—”

“And suffering from overexertion, I suppose.”

Felix pulls a grimace. “It was a mistake I don’t intend to repeat. You saw Professor Byleth’s strength. It took two of you to win, and even then, it was mostly luck. I just want to try out some moves Professor Byleth exerted today so I can surpass her strength next time I challenger her.”

“Why is it that you seek to fight so much?” you ask, deciding forwardness to be a better approach than idle chatter with a person like Felix. He doesn’t give immediate response, not because he ignores you, as is your first assumption, but because he gives it some thought.

“Why, hm… I learnt to thrust a sword before I learnt to write my name. This is how it is for all children in my country, the perfect environment where I could live free of stodgy values and virtues. Grow strong so you may live, and live to grow stronger. That’s what I was taught.”

It is no secret Faerghus is the land of knights and chivalry, and still it is hard to imagine a small version of Felix wielding a sword even before he learnt how to use a quill, scraped knees instead of black inked fingertips. What a strange world.

“As long as you don’t forget to take a break should it get too much. Everyone was worried today.”

“Everyone should mind their own business. I’m not their problem, and they aren’t mine.”

You’re too tired to argue relationships don’t work like that, any minute longer on your feet and they’ll simply give out. Wishing Felix a goodnight, you turn towards the chapel but don’t get very far.

“Herald.” Felix is halfway through the door. “Let me give you one advice.”

“That is?”

“Don’t get too close to that damn boar.”

You’re about to ask what he’s talking about, but he continues, “Beneath all that princely polish, he’s an animal, nothing more. He’s strong and skilled, sure. But don’t place your trust in him as a human being. Take care he doesn’t chew you up and spit you out.”

Not waiting for a response, Felix moves on, leaving you with more questions than answers. Every creature with two eyes can see hostility between Dimitri and Felix crackling like lightning about to strike the ground and burn down forests and villages. But to go this far and say these words about his future king … Words that couldn’t be more contrary to the impression he’s left on you.

Whatever Felix wanted to accomplish, his words succeed to remain in your head the whole night, driving off any sleep you direly needed after that day. But even without that, your mind is occupied with questions. It is like stumbling into a spider web, sticky tangles everywhere with no way out.

Who is that man you remembered? It was such a brief, yet striking memory, of what moment you cannot recall. His hostility was evident in his stance, sharp sword high up to drive down with enough force to cut your head from your shoulders. And yet here you are.

And your words, You don’t have it in you. If you were familiar enough with that person to know this, who was he to you, and what had stopped him? Did he have a change of heart and instead used the blunt end, giving you a concussion and amnesia instead? Where is he now? And would he return to finish his work?

Since that day, you look out for anyone fitting that built: tall and lean, visible even through robes with a design completely different from anything you’ve seen around the monastery. Asking Rhea or Seteth could be an option, but strangely enough, you don’t want to reveal it to anyone yet, not until you’ve found an answer yourself first.

That is how your first moon at the monastery passes. Now there are more questions than before, more secrets to carry with no clear goal in sight. Lessons continue, you attend seminars and life unfolds in Garreg Mach, surprising you how easy it is growing accustomed and familiar with the place and its people—some more so than others.

Byleth still invites you to her obligatory weekend-tea time sessions, rarely accepting no for an answer even though tea isn’t really what you consume to wind down. She’s acting like your talk after the mock battle has never happened and you do your best to mimic her even though you’d love nothing more than to see her power in battle. That opportunity shows at the end of the following month when Byleth and her class are tasked to deal with bandits the knights cornered in Zanado, the Red Canyon, but Rhea has different plans and instead sends you with the Golden Deer House to the village at the foot of the mountain to help clear debris a flooding left on one of the main roads leading to Alliance territory. It takes two days until the stench from the muddy riverbank is completely washed out of your hair.

There is still no sight of the man from your memory, even though word about the Herald’s return has reached every corner of Fódlan by now. It makes you wonder if it’s less a matter of if and rather when he sets food inside the monastery. No additional memory has resurfaced, no sudden epiphany provides explanation and you doubt that will change even though Seteth drags you inside the chapel to pray for the goddess’ help whenever his time allows. Mostly, you use those occasions to ask her to make Raphael and Ingrid leave some Nirvana Cake for you.

Then there is your other little secret of course. After another month of waking to an indistinguishable voice calling out to you every once in a while, you’ve grown used to it, finding a strange comfort in someone or something looking over you. Maybe it is the goddess. Maybe she is trying to reach out to tell you something important, to give divine insight and reach out to her followers. You just hope once she comes through to you, her words won’t proclaim hardships and sorrow.

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bibliocratic · 3 years

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tread softly

S4 Canon Divergence + Mythological Creatures AU Mermaid!Sasha, Pheonix!Tim, Selkie!Martin

cws apply - see tags

Peter Lukas has always prided himself on the timing of his entrances.

He is not there, then he is. The ward slips colder, down into single digits. Martin gives a jerking shoulder-hunch motion when he notices his unexpected arrival, coupled with an intake of breath. No noise this time, no jumping, no explications of suddenness or surprise. Martin Blackwood takes well to both shock and silence with a delightful sufferance, and Peter is indulgently proud.

The lad is, as expected, by the Archivist’s bedside. Crone-backed, ringed with an satisfying corona of misery. It’s after visiting hours, but Martin likely hasn’t even realised that the gaze of the ward staff and orderlies has simply grazed past him when he came up, when he took his traditional post, when they do their rounds. Martin has not wanted to be noticed, so he won’t be.

Peter idly watches the machinery and tubes threaded though the Archivist like mechanical embroidery. This one seems eminently more worse for wear than Gertrude ever was. Stronger, though. Peter watches Elias’ chosen as he lies still and sedate for all he stalks the landscape of dreamers, and wonders if he might see the Eye’s favoured come to fruition in a way Gertrude never did.

All the more reason to talk to Martin, it appears.

“What do you want?” Martin says. Dulled, thick-throated. He’s wiping his face free from damp with his baggy jacket sleeves, glowering at Peter with a delayed annoyance, as if he’s interrupted some no doubt tender petition for waking. The antiseptic stench of the hospital worsens the tension in his bones.

He is perfect for their God. Peter’s so pleased the Archivist wasn’t so careless to have lost this assistant like he nearly lost both of the others. Elias told him that the Corruption had already sought to burrow into the debris of this lost soul, that Martin has taken the mantle of archivist well, while Beholding’s chosen was indisposed. And it is true that Martin’s gaze is more assessing than he would like. But Peter knows that Forsaken has long laced Martin’s lining with mist and dew-damp cold, filled his stomach with fog far longer than those petty chancers have tried to have him in their maw. That his God’s touch has been settling like thronging, subdued snow in place of Martin’s sealskin.

“I wanted to see if you’d thought about my offer,” Peter replies genially. Pushing his hands in his pockets, ignoring Martin’s radiating desire to be left alone.

Martin has. Peter doesn’t need Elias’ pretty little parlour tricks to know that Martin has likely thought about little else.

“I’ve been a bit busy.”

“Oh right!” Peter says after a moment’s pause. It visibly annoys Martin that it didn’t come to mind faster. “That spot of bother with the Flesh. All sorted now, I’m sure!”

“Why didn’t you do something to stop them?”

Peter crinkles his face in a deliberate confusion. Casting out his line.

“Why, what should I have done?”

Martin takes the bait with ease.

“It’s your job, isn’t it?” His voice pitches with accusation. His hands ball into fists, and he moves to standing, the chair complaining as it’s pushed back. “It’s your responsibility! You’re in charge now Elias is gone.”

“Thanks to you,” Peter replies smoothly. “And your companions seemed to do a good enough job. A few bruises here and there, a few near misses. Nothing they won’t heal from.”

Peter slides closer. Just a step. It makes his skin sing discordant at the proximity, but Martin stiffens, an anxious intake of air despite himself, and Peter knows he’s paying attention.

“I could ask you the same question,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you do something to stop them?” Peter doesn’t sound judgemental. He doesn’t have to, Martin will paint on layers of meaning without overdoing this particular nuance of his game. “It was very impressive, watching you all. They all held their own very well. Except you. You could argue I suppose, that it’s not the same. That you’re not like the mer or the firebird or the sphinx, no added little genetic extras, and you don’t get any boost from any old helpful Power like that police officer, or the angry one touched by the Slaughter. You’re just Martin. And that’s… that’s the problem, isn’t it? Just Martin. Nothing to offer in the fight, no way to protect them. Holding them back. They could have been hurt, and you wouldn’t have been able to do, well, anything at all.”

“I…” Martin says, and Peter takes another step.

“The Extinction is a pressing threat. There isn’t time for me to wait while you finish your grave-side widow routine. I need you to help me, and it would be only fair, in return, for me to help you.”

“Oh, what, you can fix me then?” Martin snaps.

“Not at all,” Peter says. Smiling, because he is so funny, with his rage sputtering in a fog that seeks to tamp it flameless, stumbling headlong and blinded into the conversational pitfalls Peter’s dug behind him. “No, no, I’m afraid you’re broken, Martin. I speak from experience when I say you’ll never grow your skin back.”

Martin freezes. He looks Peter up and down like he’s expecting to see something different, the scales fallen from his eyes, but this is the only skin Peter has worn for so long now, and he endures the slightly prickling gaze of Martin’s Eye-touched observation.

“You… You were – ?”

“A long time ago. Before the Lonely granted me a better shroud to cloak myself in. It is not a selfish God, Martin. It offers gifts, or payment, if you prefer that way of understanding it, to those who work in aid of its ends. Benefits that could protect your friends, should something as unfortunate as the Flesh’s assault occur again.”

“And what about Jon?”

“He’ll wake up. Or he won’t.” Peter replies cheerily. “Either way, you can’t do anything for any of them like this.”

Martin gives him a scowl. Peter lets it pass over him. He knows, before Martin even opens his mouth, that he’s won.

Sasha avoids the sea.

She does not know why. Its pull is no lesser through her absence. She has dreams of sinking and never coming up for air, and she does not know if it is serenity in the ceaseless drop or despairing surrender. She marks the high days and festivals of her people alone and unremarked upon, speaks to her landward kin infrequently and vaguely. She needs to be here, she tells herself harshly. She can’t go off when there’s so much to do, when she’s in the process of losing so much. One of her family cold and vanishing, one breathing through a machine, and one… he died, died properly, and although he came back purged of something poisonous, the shrapnel scarring of collapsed masonry on his skin and the reddest, warmest wings sprung from his back, this does not settle her terrors.

She cannot leave. Not when she could lose sight of her splintering shoal so easily. Not when she’s unsure the temptation to dive down and out, deeper, further away, wouldn’t ensnare her to cowardice.

She finds the first scales in the shower. It’s a myth that any water will have the skin of her legs go slick, then bumpy, fusing into one muscled tail with her scales folding outwards. She can have showers and baths without impact. It’s the sea, that is the essential component. The same for most deepwater kin. Not the sea, maybe, or exactly, but what it represents in the change. It’s something about floating out into endless space clad only in human skin and human lungs and trusting not to drown. The letting go of one form with the tide and permitting the waves to bring forth another.

Her scales are dimmed, like they’ve smudged. Their colour diminished.

It’s not a molt. Her people don’t. Tim does, normally annually. Before they travelled to Yarmouth, he’d been dropping feathers around the office almost continually with stress. Nesting, and growing in new and painful sections of wing, snapping with a yo-yoing temper.

Tim notices. Maybe because he’s the only one left. Basira is holed up somewhere of course, as is Melanie, but it’s not the same. They weren’t here before, they don’t have the context for how much their group is diminished, falling to pieces slowly like her own skin is.

They’ll be visiting Jon later. She hasn’t seen Martin in weeks.

Tim approaches slowly. Looks at the flakes of blue in her hand. Understand flowers gently in his eyes, and he reaches out and touches her arm, and she forgot the world could manifest in ways other than hurtful.

“You OK there, Sash?” Tim asks.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “I don’t… I just… When did it all go so wrong?”

“I dunno,” Tim repeats, and he doesn’t move away and she doesn’t want him to. “God, I – I don’t know, Sash.”

Jon’s clothes are dirt-clotted, ripped up by the grind of rock, and holding him tarnishes Tim’s feathers grey, smudges the pattern on his t-shirt into obscurity. His teeth are chattering, goosebumps bobbling up his arms and making the dark hairs up his arms stand on end. Tim suspects it’s more shock than cold.

Sasha brought him a glass of water, holding her palm under it because Jon’s long-fingered grip is so shaky it’s sloshing the water up the sides.

“Told you the rib was a shit idea, huh?” Tim says. Played as a joke and deliberately shorn of any accusation. He breathes in-and-out and Jon follows the rise and fall, and it benefits both of them. Tim’s getting better at control. He’s had to. His anger grows in like pinfeathers but so does his grief these days, a full plumage of emotions he is learning to deal with.

Jon coughs up something that could be agreement, but is mostly dirt and grave soil over Tim’s shirt.

You should have waited for us, Tim thinks but does not say because there would be too much teeth in it, and Jon’s skin is already whittling down to skeletal. We asked you not to go, we wanted a better plan, why didn’t you wait.

You could have died, down there in the dark, and we wouldn’t have even had a body to mourn, he does not say.

We love you, you idiot. We love you and even that wasn’t enough to stop you leaving, he does not say.

We’re already losing Martin, he does not say.

A room full of looping, chattering, overlapping tape recorders. Neither Tim nor Sasha stacked them, and Jon would not have thought to.

It should be a reassurance, that Martin’s been here.

God, Tim hopes he knows what he’s doing.

Sasha rubs at Jon’s back, helps him sip another small trickle. Tim’s wings, voluminous and unwieldy, knock over recorders in a clattering collapse as he scoops them around to shield them both. Against the balmy heat Tim’s throwing out, Jon’s shivers gradually subside.

“Daisy?” Jon murmurs. His teeth are grimy with soil.

“She’s with Basira,” Tim replies.

Sasha’s picked up the rib that’s dropped out of Jon’s clenched palm. Wiping the grime off it and staring at it without clear expression.

“Why, Jon?” she asks.

“I wanted to help,” Jon says. His words small, like he’s embarrassed that he even thought of it. “Even if it was one person. I wanted to be able to do something good for a change.”

“You could have died,” Tim says.

Jon’s horrible flat chuckle scrapes over his lips.

“I’m not sure I can anymore.”

“Yeah…” Tim replies subdued. He glances at the red daggers of his feathers and thinks he understands that.

“I wonder what it would take,” Jon says idly, slurring with exhaustion, and Tim grips him closer and hopes he never finds out.

Martin doesn’t react when Sasha sits down near him. The breeze, a vicious snagging chill tussles his hair, some wisps twisting into nothingness like smoke from an extinguished candle. She is still getting used to this Martin, or perhaps the Martin he never let others see. The toned-down stillness of him, the undisturbed waters of his expression. His skin not quite solid, the patches that have returned pale, sickly-pallored in the softening dim of moonlight. The rest of him is a coalition of fog, a hazy motion to his image like he’s wave-rocked, smoked out.

Long minutes pass. Sasha sits down cross-legged. The waves ripple up the stones that make up the strip of beach surrounding the loch, and they’re hard and uncomfortable under her.

“I can’t swim, you know,” Martin says finally. The sea is louder than he is, and he can make himself so quiet these days.

“No?”

Sasha keeps her tone light, inquisitive without intensity. Martin shakes his head, and his image lags, skipping disjointed, like his connection is poor.

More silence. Sasha doesn’t know what she should say, where Martin’s thoughts are at. She scratches behind the base of her gills, rubs at the dorsal fins sitting mostly flat under her sleep shirt.

“I didn’t live too far from the sea,” Martin continues. Looking at the wavering mirage of his hands without comment. She doesn’t even know if he recognises her presence. “We had Liverpool about an hour away. Even Blackpool, I guess. My primary school had a swimming club, where they’d pack them off to the big leisure centre on a coach afterschool. Kids’d get these little medals for managing like five metres, or ten, fifteen. But there was a small fee, and Mum said…” He snorts out a dismissive breath and his face twists, and neither of these actions suit him. “Doesn’t matter. I never went, and I never learnt, and that was that.”

“You could always come swimming with me?” Sasha proposes slowly. Lost in the swell of this conversation, why Martin’s talking about the sea, what this has to do with anything. She wishes he’d look at her.

Martin doesn’t answer immediately. He might not have even heard her.

“I told Peter, and he said that made it even better. That it was a such a – ” he says the word with a sneer, the words sharp-toothed in his mouth “ – gift, that I’d never even had the opportunity to know what I would miss, not even a memory to embellish or to sour. That there was so much that could root in absence. He said I should be grateful.”

“Peter Lukas said a lot of shit,” Sasha says.

She shuffles closer to him. Puts her hand on his knee.

“Whatever he told you was bollocks, you know that right?”

Martin blinks. After a moment, his hand joins over hers. His image grows denser, less likely to be stolen by the midnight air.

His eyes, fixed out on a horizon point in the slick dark of the loch, are still distant.

“I just wish I understood why she did it,” Martin murmurs.

“Who?”

“I did some research. After Elias… after I found out. I couldn’t have been the only person, and it’s rare enough but there are – help groups… you know, therapists that specialise in that kind of stuff. But I didn’t… I couldn’t face going to one. I thought that… knowing what was so wrong with me would make it easier, but it didn’t. All my life, I…. I was stupid enough to think it might be something I could fix. If – if I changed myself enough, if I said the right things, loved the right people, then I might… that someone could fix me. But it can't be fixed. That’s what all the leaflets said. That it was best to think of it like a permanent injury. Like having a stroke, or some sort of brain damage or something like that. Something irreparable.”

“Martin, sweetheart…” Sasha starts. She doesn’t understand. The flotsam of Martin’s speech grows erratic and he’s started shivering, and it’s no wonder, dressed in a t-shirt, pyjama trousers and some thick socks.

“Do you know much about selkies, Sash?” Martin powers on. Chattering teeth and goosebumps and it’s like he’s drawing something out of himself, some infection long done its damage. “Not many of them left, and they don’t usually venture landward like some of the other deepwater species. They mate for life apparently. Staunchly social communities, and some of them can’t… can’t cope, if they lose their group, or their partner. They take off their pelt, and just swim off to drown. A-and those help groups and therapists, those people who had theirs stolen, or destroyed… they’re, god, they’re all terminal. They last six months, maximum. Because it kills them, losing it. They waste away and they die. And here’s me…” Martin’s face twists again, and it’s bitter and angry and despairing all at once, “and I just get to keep going.”

“Selkies…?” Sasha says. “Why are you….”

She trails off in a gradually dawning horror.

“Martin?”

“She burnt it,” Martin says, his tone stringing higher now, distress sweeping in like a squall to break up the unnatural apathy in his voice. “I don’t think she knew what it would… I mean, I don’t know, maybe she did, maybe she wanted me gone just like dad, I don’t know, and I’ll never know because I can’t ask her why. I didn’t even… it was so long ago. I was sick and then I got worse and it was awful and I didn’t understand why I was so ill, why everything hurt just so much… and after, when I was better, Mum said it was appendicitis. I believed her. Course I did, why wouldn’t I. I didn’t know… not until Elias, and I’ll never know what I’ve lost, or why it didn’t kill me, maybe it was because I was so young, or because it’s only from one side of the family, I don’t – I don’t know! I’ll never know! It’s a whole part of me that she just… she just took a-a-and…”

Martin’s back bows like whalebone. He takes long shuddering breaths like his words are keelhauling across his lungs.

Sasha’s never heard of a selkie with only half their soul. She can’t imagine, what it would do to someone.

She moves in front of Martin and he moves forward against her like a wave crash. He’s taller and heavier than her, and the impact pushes her back momentarily before her arms catch him.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” she says, “You can do it, breathe.” She holds him so surely, and she always will. And he starts crying then, the first time since Jon was in hospital, and he won’t or can’t stop shivering, and it is horrible to hear every emotion inside him claw itself back from the brink.

She keeps telling him to breathe, and he keeps following that instruction through sniffling and sobbing and broken-voiced confusion, and she counts it as a small victory nonetheless.

Jon’s mouth cannot scream.

Tim’s in the next room, the kitchen, drying plates and bowls and cutlery, within shouting distance, and he’d be here in a moment – he’d help if only Jon could speak a word other than his unbidden, unwanted recitation.

Jon’s mouth doles out its terrible missive, and he doesn’t not feel like a person as Elias rolls out the triumphant red carpet of his plotting and scheming, the self-satisfied weave of his grand finale. And no, he’s not a person, not for a long time now; he’s a catalogue, a testimony, an archive, and he would never have chosen this.

His hands scrabble at his throat, and his eyes are blurred with tears, his vision obscured, but it does not seem to matter, for his skin ripples and sloshes like an inkwell and a hundred eyes swell and pop and inflate again like bubbles against his skin.

Someone else screams. And the multitude of Jon’s eyes are newborn, fractal-imaged, gummed up with a feast of far-reaching horror all witnessed by him, overseen and devoured in his sight, and it is hard to translate what his original set of open, weeping eyes see. There is motion. Commotion. There are apologies being spoken in his ears, fervent, petitionary, but he is hearing the rising insistent thrum of the summoning and it is as sickening as it is beautiful. Someone is holding a hand hard over his mouth, the grip painful and punishing but even then the words burble out through the cracks. Another hand clamps over his eyes, and he shrieks and thrashes as his words gather to a crescendo.

A hand tears the paper from his grip. There is an acrid whoosh of smoke. Jon drops like the rigging of a ship being torn down. The hands at his mouth and eyes lower quickly to loop around his waist, catch him and hold him up.

Jon sees Tim, wide-eyed and shimmering with terror even as his skin burns gold and his feathers shine and there are only sooty flakes left of Jonah’s statement, scattering down from his palms.

He thinks it’s Martin behind him. Jon folds further, all his weight pitching forward and Martin’s forced to come down with him as he retches the leftover words in his mouth; king of a ruined world, he vomits up with bile and ink, and it splashes with a disgusting slop over the living room floor.

Sasha’s partially webbed hands are holding back his hair as he hacks and gags, his lips stained black, his stomach heaving as he chokes on everything that comes up, his stomach roiling with an overwhelming nausea. Conduit of fear, he brings up, dribbling from his lips like paper pulp.

After a long while, it’s over. Sasha carries him to the bathroom, and helps him clean up, although Jon has little memory of it.

He wakes, feeling like a shipwreck, and Tim is there. Sat nearby, his head in his hands. His fingertips stained with ink and soot. He can hear Martin and Sasha talking in low tones nearby.

They're still here. Even now, he’s surprised that they haven’t left him.

And Jon has no words remaining, so his body betrays him with airless, silent tears, at all he could have wrought upon this world, at all the suffering he could have brought to their door to still be granted forgiveness for.

It is not the end. It is an interlude, a reprieve. In some ways a kindness, and in others, waiting is its own cruelty.

They’ve bought blankets to the beach in order to cushion the hardness of the stones rounded by tide and time. It’s the first time they’ve gotten Jon to come outside for more than a few minutes. The scratches up the column of his throat healing. His voice still damaged, scratchy and scraped from misuse.

They’ll have to be moving on soon. To make plans for whatever future they need to avoid.

She sits up, and stretches out from where she’s been lying against Tim’s thigh. Glances at Jon, barely four metres away on a separate towel. Grey-haired and tired-eyed. Martin’s holding his hand, the left one crinkled by burns, as they talk about something treasured for its meaningless. Despite everything, Jon’s face practises relearning its smiles, even as he touches tentative at the marks around his neck, the bruising at the edges of his mouth.

The tension has not faded from Tim’s shoulders. His plumage sharp and strange even now. Her own scales patchy and bare, whole sections that have not grown back.

She considers her battered but striving shoal, and wants to show them that their past is not all there will ever be. That there will be an after-this, whatever that looks like. She wishes they spoke her tongue, so she could gift them names, new names, for the things they have become, this things that they have survived, and all that has survived them.

“Martin!” she shouts over, a sudden inspiration seizing her. “Want to come in the water with me?”

Martin’s expression barrels through at least three iterations before it hovers between wary and uncomfortable.

“I – er… I might just be better off here, actually.”

“No pressure,” she tells him, and she means it, for all she remembers that he has never had the chance to know the sea as she has, to feel his whole weight held up by the water. “But I am a pretty spectacular swimming teacher. I promise I won’t let go.”

Martin, to his credit, thinks about it. Gnaws on his lip, stares away from her and at his knees. Next to her, she can feel Tim bite back an enthusiastic declaration of encouragement for fear of spooking him.

Martin stands gingerly, and she is so proud of him.

“I haven’t got a costume,” he says.

“Your boxers will be fine.”

“We want something pretty to look at, show us those legs, Martin!” Tim says. He times the tone playful, the perfect balance of joking and complementing, and it works, with Martin’s blushing and ‘shut it Tim’ distracting him from the enormity of his decision as he neatly folds up his jeans, and takes off his shoes and socks. Sasha peels off her long skirt, rolls down her tights. She dislikes shoes on principle, and rarely wears them.

The rocks dig into the soles of Martin’s feet as they waddle down to the shore, slow going and interspersed with wincing.

She takes his hand as they stop, stand a foot from the border between land and sea.

“We’ll just go a little way out,” she promises. “The water’s fairly calm but for your first time…”

“I don’t think I can do this,” Martin whispers. He hesitates, and she waits for his decision. And then, he creeps forward, and she follows. He swears vehement as the water hits his toes, and he almost balks to feel the frigid temperature, but he pushes forward, his swearing getting more and more creative the further he walks out against the tide.

From the headland, someone cheers, likely Tim.

“Don’t look at them,” Sasha says. “Come on, this is all you, ok?”

Her legs unfuse into her tail, and she shivers out a feeling like cramp, luxuriating in the sensation against her skin.

Martin tentatively wades out. He’s tall, but there’s a point where he stops, knowing to move forward means his feet won’t touch the ground.

“A little further, yeah?” Sasha encourages, and he nods jerkily, a frantic up-and-down, his expression petrified. “You can do this. Don’t look at the water. Look at me.”

Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she pulls him slowly into deeper waters. His fingers are pressing rounded marks into her forearms. His leg gestures are sloppy, thrashing, and at one point he dips below the surface with the disturbance he’s making, and he splutters as he resurfaces, surging up, eyes bulging in a betrayed panic. She continues to reassure him and doesn’t let go as they stop and simply float, the shoreline easily in sight.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“Wet,” he grumbles. Clearly concentrating, he treads, kicking out in a motion that gradually finds rhythm.

For a long while, it is them and the sea. The waves rub up against the bare patches in her scales, but the reminder is not painful.

Martin’s breathing calms. His terror recedes, and he looks down at the obscured water under them.

“Can we go out a bit further?”

She’s not doing as much pulling now. She shows him how to use his arms to push himself through water, and stopping and starting, correcting his gestures and posture and breathing as they go, they drift further out before stopping again, hanging suspended above the depths.

Martin smiles at his own unexpected success. He lets out a long, satisfied sound like something’s loosened in him for the first time.

His eyes, completely black, reflect the dour and overcast midday sun.

“Martin, your eyes.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Martin says, but no – he doesn’t say, he barks, and then gasps, and then barks again, stunned, unsettled. He doesn’t look upset. He’s bitten his lip with his too-sharp teeth that now line his gums, and he touches the sharp pain it has caused with incredulity, his still human fingers marking out the sensation of the new.

“What’s happening?” he asks and Sasha grins, and says “I don’t know, Martin, I don’t know” and he’s splashing, a seal without skin, something entirely himself, shivering minutely in the cold shock even as his smile shows off his pointed teeth. He barks again, the sound almost jolted out of him as he figures out how it works, and she trills in delight, and it sets him off grinning and kicking. And for the moment, for this moment, the Lonely is banished entirely landbound, and there is only them treading water, surrounded by the endless sea and trusting they will not drown.

They have to go back to land eventually. The waves around them start to wash choppy, the sky colours grey with the surety of rain. They swim back, and sometimes Sasha lets go, bobbing near his elbow as he swims slowly but steadily on his own.

Martin’s teeth flatten when they crawl onto the shore, panting and burbling out the dregs of their laughter. Tim and Jon have come over to greet them, Jon holding the towels and garments like an overladen clothes tree. Tim chucks Sasha a towel to fold around herself into a makeshift skirt before her tail bisects back into legs.

“Tim, Tim, Tim!” Sasha says excitedly, waving her hands and gesticulating. “Did you see, did you see?”

“See what…?” Tim starts, but he glances at Martin, whose eyes are slow to fade from black to blue, and Tim might not realise what exactly has happened, but he senses the tenor of the mood because he’s barrelling in, knocking into Martin, wrapping him in a hug and nearly smothering him with his wings. Once released, Jon approaches slowly, putting his burdens down. Martin glances up at him, almost anxious now that the initial buzz is wearing down, but Jon goes softly to his knees, and his smile spreads across his face like paint in water.

The grey of the sky feels far off as they allow themselves the momentarily uncomplicated gift of being happy.

#the magnus archives #tma #cw emotional manipulation #cw ableism #cw potential suicidal ideation #cw emetophobia #cw being sick #ask to tag #jonmartin #sasha james #tim stoker #jonathan sims #martin blackwood

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warmau · 4 years

Text

painter!au jihoon

*this post was commissioned | based very lightly off seventeen - fallin’ flowers tw: break up mention/general angst

“something in your gentleness entraps him you make it look so easy, to love and provide for something he knows a flower is one thing, a human is another - but could you do that for him too?”

you had thought jihoon was going to marry them

so standing in the middle of his studio with the remnants of their relationship, a broken vase of lilies in the corner, his undone portrait of them dripping down with the streaks of paint he’d thrown at the canvas in a fit of confusion and pain

feels .......... wrong

as if you were the one who was broken up with, and not jihoon who is on his knees a couple of feet away

hands stained in watercolors, eyes blank and burrowing

you reach for the wilting lilies first, you’ve known jihoon long enough to be aware of the fact that trying to use words to comfort him right now won’t work

so you silently begin to clean up, plucking items that belong to his ex and placing them out of sight

you take the ruined canvas with half their face sketched out and turn it over

jihoon doesn’t move from his spot as you work - doesn’t say anything - doesn’t even look at you

when you’re done you finally kneel down beside him, bring the hot wet towel to his hands and start to scrub the dry paint from his palms

you try to be gently but jihoon finally speaks

“harder, you have to scrub harder if you want to get rid of them.”

you can’t tell if he’s talking about the paint or of the memories that must be flooding into him

you had remembered how happy he had looked, being in love, being with someone who seemed to understand him

now he was empty and you were scared of what could happen if he was left like this alone

you don’t argue, you scrub harder and finally you get some of the colors off his skin

there’s still smudges thought, the same way there will still be those pieces of his ex scarred across him

time heals everything - you want to say that, but its too early to start preaching

instead you tell jihoon he should go to bed now, you’ll take care of the rest of the cleaning up and put his art supplies away

he gives a vague sort of look toward the bedroom and then back at you

“i broke the vase, the one with the lilies.”

“it’s ok, ive already cleaned-”

“i should go buy fresh ones.”

his eyes glaze over, he gets up and you scramble to your feet in the process

you put a hand on his chest to stop him and jihoon stares at you, but you can tell he isnt focused

“ill buy them, please jihoon. go to bed.”

somehow you manage to get him to turn around

and you are standing now in the doorway to his apartment, with a trash bag full of his exes things and the pathetic looking lilies

you had bought them as a gift when you’d come over to celebrate jihoon’s successful art show

his ex had put them into a vase and gushed over how pretty they looked - jihoon had never been one to be so romantic, but he had said that they looked almost as pretty as his ex did

you had watched them be so loving toward each other just days ago

but now it was all gone and part of you is angry at both of them

at jihoon’s ex for leaving him, out of the blue and with no real reason but the excuse of having “outgrown” him

and at jihoon for calling you after it had happened

but that anger toward him is really just a cover for something else

the hollowing pit in your stomach that has always been there since you met jihoon in college.

the pit you’ve covered with years of support for him and his relationships and his art

the pit, in which sits the actual emotion you’ve been hiding from the world

if you had picked me, i would have never hurt you like this

the thought is cruel and you tell yourself never to think such a thing like that again

but its there, it will always be there, because you love jihoon

not that you ever plan to let that truth come to the surface......

the next morning, you stop by the florist to pick up the lilies you promised you’d buy

you look at them, watching as one of the petals sags to the side, threatening to fall

you dont know what it is about lilies in particular - they bloom so big and beautiful that they often steal the attention in a garden

they’re quite the opposite of you

who has always found yourself more of a queen anne’s lace, playing a side role in the main stories of all your friends

but you adore them above all other flowers, touching the petal made of velvet and suddenly remembering that you had seen lilies when you first met jihoon

you had taken art in college as an extra credit class

you weren’t at all any good, but it was enjoyable to take a course that didnt demand much from you but creativity

one of the first assignments had been still life: drawing baskets of fruit, books on tables, flowers in vases

you had ended up with a vase with one purple lily in it.

the only other person who had also chose it was jihoon

you didn’t know his name back then

just that he was so beautiful, like he had been drawn himself and came to life off the page

his eyes like umber, russet sunsets - his mouth slightly parted in concentration as he let his pencil flow across his canvas

you had trouble focusing on the flower, which is probably half the reason it came out terribly

but it had also allowed jihoon to look over and offer with a quiet tone, that you maybe work on shading here - and dimension here

you had told him you weren’t in the art major and he had given you the kind of look that read, i could tell

before smiling to himself in the way you caved your head in a bit of embarrassment

it wasn’t like you ever thought the meaningless, sometimes only minute long conversation you’d have with him in the art room would turn into a friendship which harbored its way into one-sided love

somehow you had just ended up being invited warmly into his small knit circle

jihoon extending his hand to you after getting a text about dinner with seokmin and jeonghan

jihoon allowing only his and your eyes to fall upon his works in progress, you taking the free time you had to spend at his studio mixing paints and organizing his drawing materials

he never ask you to do those things - but he also never chided you for it

jeonghan had mentioned it once, when you were all walking in the summer evening after a movie outing

that you being able to earn jihoon’s trust was a higher honor than one might think

you had looked from jeonghan to jihoon - who had been walking a bit in front with the rest of your friends

head turned, his profile against the setting sun

“ah - are you buying another bouquet for your artist boyfriend?”

you jump at the sudden question and shake your head

“he’s not my boyfriend.”

you swallow and find that your throats gone dry

“he actually just got broken up with so......”

the florist frowns, taking you gently by the hand and leading you away from the lilies

“then those are not the flowers you should be getting him, you need to get him something that will say cheer up! there’s someone better out there for you - could i suggest tulips?”

you give a polite smile

“no, i think i have to take the lilies.”

when you arrive at jihoon’s apartment, the door is unlocked and jihoon is still in bed

from the way the kitchen is untouched and he’s wearing the same shirt he was yesterday you assume he hasn’t moved in all this time

“jihoon”

you softly speak

“it’s already well past lunch, have you eaten?”

he pulls his feet up so they disappear under the covers again. you look around the room and find a vase full of old paintbrushes

you take it and tell jihoon you’re going to go make him something to eat and that you’ve brought the lilies

he doesn’t reply, not until you turn in the doorway and his voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard before

“can you put the lilies in here?”

“you don’t want them in the studio?”

“no, please put them here.”

you quickly fry up an egg and make some coffee, which you set down on the night table beside jihoon’s bed

you move his sketchbook away and realize that it’s open to an empty page

your eyes briefly glance to see if jihoon has reacted at all, but he’s still

you go back to wash out the waves and put the lilies in

you wrap a rubberband around his paintbrushes and set them by the others which are stock piled in the studio room

a small ping of relief floods through you when you enter the bedroom and jihoon is up, holding the cup of coffee in his hands

usually people would suggest you make conversation to help ease jihoon’s mind out of whatever dark place it has wondered into it

but you just put the lilies down and tend to cleaning up whatever other paper and things you can see on the floor

even though jihoon only finishes the coffee and maybe a quarter of the egg, it’s still a start

the pain he’s feeling is fresh and you don’t want to push anything

but as you tell him you’re off to leave again - you remind him that he does have another exhibition planned in two weeks

on the way back home you hope his love for painting can cradle him through this all

whenever you think of the sadness that comes with being unloved, you throw yourself into your hobbies, scribbling down poems or re-reading novels from your time in school

you’d done it all to stop thinking about jihoon - you hope he does the same too

about a week passes when you return to jihoon’s again, and it’s only because this time jeonghan calls you with a serious worry about jihoon’s exhibition

“he isn’t painting, that’s the problem.”

“what do you mean he isn’t painting?”

“when i came over, he was sitting in front of the canvas with his hand pressed against it - but ........ he wasn’t drawing or painting or doing anything.”

you show up to the apartment after the call and take a deep breath before you let yourself in

today might be the first time you mention the breakup to jihoon, and you don’t know if its too early yet

to make the dread bubble even harder in your stomach is the fact that sitting outside of his apartment is that undone portrait of his ex

its half shrouded with other trash bags left to be collected

you look at the familiar face and clench your fist a bit tighter

if you hadnt done this to him, if you hadnt made this mess - i wouldnt be stuck cleaning it up.

you chide and immediately fall into regret

its not a mess, taking care of your friends is not a mess.

you knock on the door and wait for a moment till you hear jihoon turn the lock

you’re relived to see that his hair is wet from a fresh shower, but the bags under his eyes like crows wings cancels it out

as well as the fact that he looks as if he’s seen the devil himself

“what’s wrong?”

jihoon’s shoulders shrink

“do i really have to answer that?”

you step inside and the door closes behind you two

“jeonghan said you’re having trouble painting”

jihoon’s head drops and the darkness of the hallway makes everything feel closer and more intense

he turns and starts to walk toward the studio and you follow, gasping a little at the sight of it

canvases broken in halves, paint spilled on the floor - but not a single new painting, not a single completed project

jihoon sits down in the middle of it all and puts his head in his hands

he looks like he’s in agony, silent and torturous

is this what happens when an artist loses their muse?

you don’t know how to help and that makes it all the more worse

you just sit down beside jihoon

he lets you take his hands in your own

in the corner of the room those fresh lilies youve bought have wilted again

on one of the broken canvases, the only thing jihoon has been able to paint is those scattered and browning petals

you start to come by everyday after that because as much as you share jeonghan’s worry about the art

you are more so worried about jihoon shutting down

now he has nothing to focus on, just the fact that he’s lost the love of his life

so you try and entertain and keep him alive to the best of your ability

with groceries and company, bringing over his other friends - trying to coax him into going outside

jihoon reacts on some level, but you can tell that he just wants to paint again

all he’s done is brush strokes on the white paper, the shape vaguely like that of a flower but you cant ever tell what kind

he also keeps asking you if you can bring him lilies again

you do, and this time they live longer because you tend to them - and when you do you fail to realize that jihoon starts to watch you

he takes note of the way you move the vase with both hands

the way you keep the steams between the same two fingers every time

you arent burdened by the little chore because its takes at most five or so minutes out of the day

but jihoon unfolds each step you take like a storybook page

something in your gentleness entraps him

you make it look so easy, to love and provide for something

he knows a flower is one thing, a human is another - but

could you do that for him too?

he looks into his hands and the cup of coffee you made for him is sitting on the table to the left

have you already been doing it, all this time?

which is why on the day before the exhibition

when you ask him if he wants you to help him cancel it

he says no, he thinks he can fish something in time

you light up and ask if he’s finally found a new muse, but jihoon blinks slowly

“a new muse?”

“yes, i mean i thought - well i thought they were your muse and losing them meant you couldnt paint but if youre saying you can now then-

jihoon’s eyes turn to ice at the mention but then he shakes his head

“they ...... i never saw them as a muse.”

he stops to think on it, he isn’t lying

“but you loved them, i mean -”

he keeps his eyes down and you fidget, “sorry, let’s not talk about that.”

“i did, you’re right i did love them but that doesn’t mean they inspired me.”

he taps a finger and then looks at you

sitting across from him, how you’ve done a million times before

suddenly jihoon thinks if he can look at you like that for a little while longer

he can create again

he can paint something

so when he asks you to stay still, you do - and jihoon brings his pencil down to paper

only to get up half an hour later and take you with him

he sits you down again and sets up a bigger canvas this time, brings his paintbrushes

and then he moves the vase with the lily from behind him to sit at your feet

“jihoon, are you going to paint me?”

“yes”

“why?”

he looks from the lily to you

“because i want to, and it’s the first time in a while that i think ill be able to.”

you don’t realize it yourself not until you’ve fallen asleep in your position and jihoon is deep into his painting

that the muse you were talking about and thinking he’d lost

had been you all along

jihoon knew it, even when he was in a relationship, that there was no one else in this world that could make him paint

he’d felt it the first time you met in that art class, he’d watched you fumble through your drawing

and usually he wasn’t inspired to draw the mundane, the everyday

until he started seeing just how much it could mean to him

he had been painting that portrait of his ex out of obligation, they had asked him to do it

and so it had been taking a while - it had been unfinished not even because of the breakup but because jihoon didn’t want to do it

and yet here he was, the brush strokes pouring out of him in an attempt to capture every little detail there is to you

he had been wallowing in his pain and hadn’t bothered to look at you again

until you started to be there, everyday, like those lilies

and those lilies, beautiful and sweet

they were yours, you were theirs. to jihoon something about the silk of the petal and the sway of your hair made sense

he doesn’t wake you up, he’s been your friend long enough to know the parts of you he wants in the painting

he only stops when he’s done and his hair is stuck to him with sweat and the sun is rising outside his window

you’ve slumped over completely onto the couch and jihoon comes closer to move you into a more comfortable position

this is the first time in these weeks that he is taking care of you instead of the other way around

when his fingers touch your skin he suddenly feels the kind of sparking urge he has only felt with others who hes been intimate with

your small stir in his arms causes him alarm and excitement all at once, when your eyes open slightly he jumps back before he fears he’ll do something you wont like

in the morning, jihoon is passed out cold in his bed and you get up and rub your eyes

finally you let yourself move toward the canvas to see what jihoon has painted

its you.........its you in every way..........you stare at that face of yours like a mirrored reflection

seeing it like this something ties a knot in your heart

“is this what its like to be a muse?”

jihoon’s voice floats through the room

“you’ve always been mine.”

you turn - because you don’t think you’ve really heard it - maybe its just your drowsy imagination speaking

but jihoon is there and the phone is ringing, jeonghan about the exhibition

neither you or jihoon reach for the phone

instead you ask him,

“what do you mean?”

he doesn’t know how to explain it

instead he looks at you and then over his shoulder into his room

the exhibition doesnt start until the afternoon, and you are in his studio and you are whats brought him back from a point of emptiness

you are more than a muse

somehow you end up with his hand on yours again and this time that spark is searing up through both of you

jihoon’s paint stained fingers splay on the small of your back

you are still a little scared that its too early for this, if its just the wounds on his heart speaking

but jihoons lips only centimetres from yours promise that its more than that

its all that time wasted, his attention was yours that day in the art classroom

and he was an idiot for ever trying to put it on someone else

but like all good things - they come with time and if you want him how he wants you then hes here

and he’s ready to let this between you bloom into something more

you giggle when his breath tickles you before you finally kiss

you wonder if everyone will be surprised by that painting jihoon has done of you when its up in the wall of the gallery

when the lily petals fall from the flower in that vase and land at your entangled feet.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen au #jihoon scenarios #jihoon imagines #jihoon au #woozi scenarios #woozi imagines #woozi au #member: woozi #sfw #writing commissions #seventeen #woozi #park jihoon

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writearctic · 3 years

Text

Turtle Threats (a) (f) - Song Mingi

wc: 2k

Disclaimer: i know zip about 🐢

for this beautiful boy: i hope you are getting the love, rest, and support you need to return to the stage soon.

“You’re late.” Your boss, Sunghyun, scowled as you entered the shop; he looked down at his watch: 19:12.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” you quickly apologized. “The rain caused the bus to show up late. I know it’s no excuse but-”

“I have to leave now. Don’t make your tardiness a habit, Miss y/n.”

“Yes, sir.” You turned to the lockers and changed into your work attire. “Late by only twelve minutes,” you uttered to yourself after he left. It was refreshing to remove your soggy clothes, but your body remained cold.

“Here.”

You turned to see your coworker, Mingi, extending his jacket towards you. He must’ve found this “late” thing amusing.

And he did, too. When your pale, wet body dripped inside, he couldn’t help but smirk at your dishevelled appearance. But, after seeing you hunch closer to your body, shivering, he halted his laugh.

“Oh. Thank you.” With trembling hands- no doubt caused by the weather- you eagerly took his jacket. A soft stretch of red eased across his face; seeing you in his coat gave him this familiar unexplainable feeling inside.

A ding at the front exclaimed the arrival of a customer. You hustled to straighten your appearance before Mingi placed his hand on your shoulder to gently stop you.

“I’ll get it,” his honey voice whispered. “Straighten up; you’ll give the tenets a fright looking like that.”

He had a point: none of the pets at Aquarium Den would ever want to see you fresh out of a “tsunami.” You turned to the mirror and huffed in defeat before pulling out your makeup wipes and washing the smudged makeup from your face. You brushed your hair with your fingers before deciding this was as good as it was going to get.

Mingi had everything under control, as always. The customer needed to secretly replace his child’s goldfish. Luckily, most goldfish look alike.

You focused your attention on cleaning the tanks. A soft melody played over the store speakers. It was assuring and made your unhygienic task seem easier. You hummed the tune while fixing the labels on the glass tanks. Mingi started the same routine on the opposite side of the shop. Aquarium Den was a downtown “fish mart” squeezed between a nail salon and card shop; the faint scent of nail polish remover and printer ink almost hid the unpleasant smells from the fishy occupants.

The shop itself was small, as all city-centered buildings were. At the front window was the register. Along the vertical walls were the tanks as well as some smaller ones against the back wall. In the middle of it was a median of supplies like tanks, food, etc.

A few other customers came, and you and Mingi easily assisted them. The last hour was quiet. Mingi sat at the checkout counter and studied his textbooks while you swept and mopped the tile floors.

“You have to take a break,” you chirped towards him.

“Y/n, I have an exam tomorrow. There’s no time for a break.” His voice grumbled back at you without even a turn of his head.

“Ok.” The tone of your voice was quiet and disappointed, though you doubt he heard it.

You and the boy had started working here at the same time. Both of you were uni students- yourself a photography student while he studied music.

You went back to mopping. No more words were exchanged, not even when you mopped around him. When your shift ended, both of you met in the lockers.

“I’ll wash your coat. It’s the least I can do to thank you.” You said while gathering your backpack and purse.

“Sure. Thanks.”

As he locked the door, you waved goodbye hoping tonight he’d finally return the gesture. But, no. He watched and turned the opposite direction.

There was something up with Song Mingi. At school, you never bumped into each other. You started taking the full walk around campus with hopes to see the boy. Today you thankfully did.

“Mingi!” He seemed to flinch at your loud voice; he stopped his pace and turned to you. “Hi. Wow your side of the building is something else.”

“I guess,” he shrugged and glanced at his friends standing further ahead. “Do you need something?”

“Your coat.” You bent to the sidewalk and dug his sweater out of your backpack. It was tidily folded in a ziploc bag.

His soft hands took the garment. “You could’ve returned it tonight.”

“Oh, yea. I guess I should have.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” he rushed to reassure you. “This is one of my favorites, and I appreciate you returning it so soon.” A timid laugh fell from his gorgeous lips.

“Oh, of course.”

“Yah, Mingi! Let’s go; class is about to start!” A friend of his called out.

“Ah, I should go. Thank you, y/n.” He smiled and waved goodbye.

You stood in shock at his ability to wave.

Every night after your only encounter at school was the same at Aquarium Den. Except for the part of you being late. You had expected a shift in relations afterwards, but no. However, some nights he would wave back at you.

You had had quite enough of this “one-sided” friendship. You were colleagues, yet it felt like he was trying to ignore your existence. After sitting near a turtle doing your homework for long enough, you sneaked towards Mingi at his usual post- the register- studying away. You reached over his shoulder and yanked the folder from the counter top.

“Y/N!” You had perhaps miscalculated the chance of him fighting you for it. Mingi lunged at you and snatched it back, but you were faster. Before he could raise it out of your reach- darn him and his lengthy genes- you grabbed it and raced around the store a couple of times until you both ended up back at your turtle corner.

“Y/n. Give. It. Back.”

“No. I want to see what’s been capturing all of your atten-TION.” You flow of speech was interrupted by you dodging his attack. Oh boy was he not going down without a fight. He jumped towards you but abruptly paused when you opened the turtle cage and hovered the paper over the reptile.

Mingi’s fight was useless, now. This was no ordinary turtle; this was Spartacus. The red-eared slider had an appetite bigger than Mingi himself. He could devour anything and everything in his path. Including the two-pocket folder whose fate rested in your hands.

“Let… me… read it.” You gasped for air after the speedy chase around the shop. Even Mingi was out of breath; his chest heaved silently while his gaze locked yours. This was the first time you’ve ever made deep (longer than a few seconds) eye contact with him, and it made your heat somersault against your ribs.

“Let… me read it… without fearing you’ll reach over and grab it ‘cause it might just fall into-”

“Read it, then.” He ordered. A momentary shiver of fear traveled down your body. Wait a minute. Was he a hired hit-man? No. No. No. It’s Mingi; no harm flows through his veins. I think, you thought.

“Ok-k.” Your delicate hands opened the file. The first notable thing were a few pages of sheet music which were a foreign language to you. He watched as your eyebrow furrowed over the music sheets, recognizing you couldn’t read them. You flipped around the pages until a small page of notebook paper caught your attention. It belonged to your journal; you remembered the day Mingi asked for a sheet. How could you say no?

It was the words scribbled all over the lines that knocked the wind out of your lungs.

‘I bet this time of night you’re still up.I bet you’re tired from a long, hard week.

I bet you’re sitting in your chair by the window looking out at the city. And I bet, sometimes you wonder about me’

He noticed your grip on the crinkled paper loosen, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

‘And I just wanna tell you, it takes everything in me not to call you.

And I wish I could run to you.

And I hope you know that everytime I don’t, I almost do, I almost do.’

Your eyes looked up at his. He was writing a song. It made sense, him being a musical arts student, but you couldn’t figure out why he tried to hide it from you.

“This is beautiful. No. That’s not the right word.” You bit your lip and gazed down at the paper before noticing a line you hadn’t yet read:

‘I bet it never ever occurred to you that I can’t say Hello to you and risk another Goodbye.’

(lyrics from Taylor Swift- I Almost Do)

“This is… about me?” It made sense, his struggle to wave to you. A blush tickled your pure cheeks when he nodded. A warm smile formed on your face as you stepped closer to the boy. “Why does Hello pain you, Min?”

“When I was younger, we moved around a lot: financial problems.” He rested on a bag of fish pebbles and fiddled with his hands. His eyes would glance at you from time to time before rushing to find something other than you to admire.

“Whenever I made a friend, there was always this fear of ‘how long?’ ‘When do I have to say goodbye?’ It’s childish, I guess-”

“No, Mingi. It’s understandable,” you purred while easing onto the stool you sat on for studying. You scraped the bottom of it on the floor while scooting closer to him.

His face lightened and rid itself of worry. “I guess I never got over the fear that... I’ll leave everyone behind. Even the ones I love.” He held his gaze with yours.

“I thought you hated me,” you breathed a low laugh.

“No. No, I- I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I- well you,” he took the paper out of your grasp carefully and slid it back in the folder. “You make me nervous, y/n.”

“I’m not trying to.”

You’ve never seen this particular loving grin of his before now. And gosh, did it feel like heaven. “You always give me this unexplainable feeling. Like, I get so much inspiration when I’m around you. I’m always looking forward to working here with you because I can go home and add the lyrics to my songs.” He sighed and took your warm hand in his.

“When you brought my sweater back, I realized I feel something for you- something close to love. I waved to you then because I unconsciously discovered why my stomach feels nauseous around you- you make the butterflies fly for me, y/n.”

You stood there in disbelief. Song Mingi likes you? You beamed at him and whispered, “I like you, too.”

“Hm I couldn’t catch that.” His tease earned a light punch on the shoulder from you.

“I’ve been thinking about you like that for a long time.” Confidence filled your voice as your eyes caught hold of his.

“Yeah?” Mingi’s slightly calloused fingers traced along your jawline. He inched closer and felt your quick breaths on his collarbone.

“Yeah.”

He leaned into your hair and eased at your tiny hands tracing along his spine. His palms firmly rested on the small of your back afraid to let you go.

“I’m afraid to lose you.” His voice sparked with panic as you slowly inched apart.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you cooed at him. Your hands raised to hold his cute cheeks; his eyes were hypnotic as they seeped with care only for you. “I’m here. And I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not leaving either,” he promised. The honesty in his voice made you deteriorate. His lips danced dangerously close with yours as he lowered to your height. You leaned on your tiptoes in frantic need for his lips. His palms cupped your neck while the pads of his thumbs grazed along your jaw. He urged you closer while your hands fell to grip the fabric of his t-shirt.

After one small kiss, you pulled away for a breath then devoured more of his alluring lips.

In that moment for air, his eyes never left your lips; they electrified him with desire. A desire that sealed his promise to never leave your side as he curved his body against yours.

#kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop fluff #kpop fic #ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez mingi #song mingi

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theoriginalladya · 3 years

Note

Prompt, In the shower (Need). Any pairing you have the scale itch to write for.

from this list

on AO3 here

Seeing as I forgot to add my Rydenko pair to the list, I went ahead and wrote this one for them! Hope you enjoy!

~~~

“You are a mess.”

The exclamation comes as Scott and the commander enter the elevator leading to their hotel room on Elysium. The younger man snorts softly and eyes the commander dubiously in the process. “Have you looked in the mirror yet? I think I ended up pretty tame by comparison.” He gestures to the dark red smear across his left hip and the blue one on his right shoulder compared to the blood smudges and weapons scarring on the other man’s. Alenko spares a quick glance at his own armor, but Scott can see he isn’t buying it. In all honesty, he doesn’t either, but it is worth a shot. Can’t blame a guy for trying, right? Lopsided grin spreading across his face, he quips, “Anyone get the number of that skycab?”

The commander makes a strangled choking sound, exaggerated by the comms in their helmets, as his eyes find Scott’s. “Let me guess, you moonlight as a stand-up comedian?”

Scott removes his helmet as the commander does the same. The pure wattage of Scott’s grin is blinding, no doubt reflecting off the elevator walls back into his eyes. Giving the man a semi-formal half bow with a flourishing sweep of his arm, he replies, “Why thank you, commander!” He then reaches over for his omni-tool. “Think I could get you to repeat that into the recording? Sara might not believe me otherwise.”

“Hah. No encores, sorry.”

The elevator deposits them on their floor and they enter the room a few minutes later, taking turns stripping down to under armor in the bathroom as they set aside the plates to be cleaned later. It never fails to amaze Scott just how much ‘damage’ killing a couple of batarians and a turian can do to armor.

Removing his left thigh plate, Scott groans. “Oh, ughhhh.”

“Problem?” Alenko calls, his voice somewhat distant.

Scott drops to a knee to wipe up whatever bits of his now-dead opponent’s guts got stuck beneath his armor after that fight and now lie in an oozy mess on the tiled flooring. Lovely. Housekeeping’s just going to love me for this. “Only if you take issue with indoctrinated batarian guts.”

A shadow appears in the doorway, brows in a deep V of concern. They ease a moment later as he takes in the scene before him. “Ah.” His gaze drifts over Scott, searching. Whatever he’s looking for he must find, Scott decides, as he relaxes even more. Still, he winces at the mess and immediately points to the shower. “You first.”

Unable to argue the point – the sight is bad enough, but the smell is even worse and it is smeared all over his left thigh and hip – Scott chuckles as he stands up. Without hesitation, he heads straight in and turns the spray on full blast. “Suit first, then me, I get it.” At least the under armor protects from the water temperature until it heats up.

“Didn’t your father ever teach you not to ‘play’ with your enemy? Kill it, not wear it.”

It only takes a few seconds to rinse the worst of the last remnants of their wild adventure down the drain. Literally. Stripping the under armor off, Scott hangs it over the top of the stall door and turns his face into the now steaming water to clean himself. “Must’ve slipped his mind!” he counters in a water-muffled voice while reaching for the soap.

Alenko snorts, muttering something Scott can’t quite hear, but his guess is it’s something along the lines of, That’s an N7 for you.

Ripples and waves of heat roll over his shoulders, down his back and chest, and Scott groans in relief more than anything. While he’s wished for more varied opportunities within the Alliance, the one benefit to being stationed on protection duty at a relay is that he never has to worry about the aches and pains that come from battle. Today’s adventure is a stark reminder that he should be careful what he wishes for.

Out of the corner of his eye he catches movement as his under armor is pulled away, no doubt to be hung up to dry by Alenko.

Alenko.

A wistful sigh slips past Scott’s lips as he reaches for the shampoo and scrubs it into his hair with vigor. Now, the things I wish for on that end … heh, I wouldn’t mind if they came true.

Of course, with their mission nearing an end, it is more or less a moot point. He’ll go back to his post at Relay 202 while Alenko will go back to … whatever it is he’s been doing since the Normandy was destroyed. Scott cannot stop a sigh of disappointment from slipping past his lips.

You can’t say you haven’t had opportunity, Scotty boy, a voice in his head points out in an entirely too logical sort of fashion. Not the commander’s fault you haven’t acted when given the chance.

With his head beneath the water, soap streaming down his face and lower, he mutters, “Yeah, right.”

“What’s that?”

Scott freezes, startled to hear the commander’s voice back in the room. So startled, in fact, he forgets to close his mouth and chokes when a mixture of soap and hot water slip inside. Gasping at the taste, he accidentally inhales a bit. The resultant coughing fit leaves his lungs heaving and aching.

And then the door to the shower is thrown open …

“You all right?”

Heat floods Scott’s face as he struggles for air and he honestly tries to nod that he’s just fine, or will be. But instead, notices his head moves side to side. Dismay and embarrassment war within him and he releases another gut-wrenching cough in the process. He blinks a couple of times, finally moving out from beneath the water spray when Alenko tugs him forward a few steps. The man has a somewhat lopsided yet concerned smile on his lips. “Helps if you don’t breathe the water, Ryder.”

Scott coughs again and manages a nod this time. “Sure … does,” he rasps. “Sorry.”

Alenko blinks looking truly surprised for the first time since … well, since they met, as far as Scott remembers. “Hey, I’m the resident Canadian. Quit stealing my lines.” The lopsided smile slides into a smirk.

Snorting softly, Scott takes two things away from the contact between them. First, up this close, the man has the most luscious looking lips Scott has ever seen, and they are more than enough to leave him just a little breathless. Second, the way Alenko’s voice drops, goes all husky and rumbly, is more than a little bit addictive. His eyes flick over Scott’s face, dropping slightly, and it takes a minute for full realization to set in, and when it does … Scott’s breath catches softly, eyes widening in shock. Is he … he’s … he IS! The other man’s gaze drifts back to Scott’s in the next instant, intense and focused, and there is no air left for to breathe.

“Scott?”

Opportunity is knocking, Scotty boy, the voice points out. Desperately gasping in a breath, he tries, “K –.”

Alenko waits a heartbeat. Two. When Scott still can’t manage anything more than that one croak, the man smiles and turns away, retreating.

A soft, strangled whimper escapes past Scott’s lips before he can stop it and, desperate not to lose this chance, he grabs Kaidan by the arms, tugs him back into the shower, and pushes his back against the wall. Heedless of the water or their current state of dress or undress, Scott most definitely moves into Kaidan’s personal space, slanting his lips across Kaidan’s and pouring every ounce of feeling he has into the contact.

At first, Kaidan doesn’t react, and embarrassment immediately stalks Scott’s heels. He breaks the kiss, already trying to form words of apology and explanation as takes a step back, but there isn’t even a hair’s breadth of space between them before his world suddenly flips on him and he finds himself pushed back against the wall.

Kaidan has a couple of inches on him, but nothing too severe, and as he leans in to take full charge of the kiss, covering Scott’s lips with heat and fire and stirring up a want unlike anything Scott has ever felt before. His legs wobble, and in desperation he grasps hold as best he can, one arm wrapping around Kaidan’s right bicep while his other slides around his shoulder.

The kiss breaks a moment later and Kaidan pulls back, whiskey-colored eyes focused solely on Scott’s face, his chest heaving up and down as much as the younger man’s, a hint of a smile curling on his lips.

Staring at him in complete amazement and wonder, Scott half-pleads, half-stammers, “D-do that again …?”

#kissing prompts #ladya writes #Scott Ryder #Kaidan Alenko #Rydenko #Straight On Til Morning #ghostxofxartemis

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lady-wallace · 4 years

Text

Whumptober Day 13: “Breathe In, Breathe Out” (JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure)

Joseph whump today!

Day Thirteen: Breathe In, Breathe Out

Prompts Used: delayed drowning, oxygen mask

Fandom: JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure: Battle Tendency

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Joseph didn't think he had ever been more exhausted. He didn't even know how long he had been climbing that pillar, but was sure it had been over two days. He only felt a little better for the fact that Caesar was also just as exhausted.

By the time he finally pulled Joseph up, they had both simply collapsed against the top platform, breathing heavily, muscles spasming from fatigue.

And all Lisa Lisa did was stand there casually, introducing them to their new teachers. Joseph didn't care what Caesar said. He stood by his opinion that she was a real bitch.

"Go clean yourselves up," she said. "Then you can get some food and sleep."

It was a monumental effort to even get to his feet again, and he and Caesar unashamedly leaned on each other. Joseph decided that any animosity between them had flown away, especially since the other young man had pulled him up at the end, no matter how long it had taken. Right now, Joseph was just glad to have a shoulder to lean on, even if they were both really supporting each other.

It took way too much effort for Joseph to wash off the disgusting oily water that had coated every inch of his body. His clothes had been ruined, but thankfully he had clean pajamas pants and a new tank top to change into, which he did after only the most cursory shower.

He and Caesar were both past being hungry and just needed sleep, so they crashed onto two of the small, twin beds in the dormitory and instantly slept.

Joseph was so tired, he didn't even have trouble falling asleep with the mask. Maybe he was getting used to it. After all, he'd been forced to control his breathing the entire time he was on the pillar climb so he wouldn't fall and die so that was likely to promote some kind of learning curve.

He wasn't sure when he realized something was wrong. He just knew he was on his back and he couldn't breathe.

Joseph woke groggily, gasping for breath. But he couldn't get any breath into his lungs.

Panic began to assault him, and he started choking. His hands scrabbled weakly at the mask, clumsily tearing at the straps before he remembered that this is what it did when he didn't breathe properly. His pattern must have changed during his sleep.

Trying to focus, Joseph took a deep breath, trying to match the Hamon breathing he'd been trained in.

But it wasn't working.

Okay, now it was time to panic. He coughed, trying to clear his lungs, but that only seemed to tighten his throat and chest more. He wheezed, going back to ripping at the mask but dammit Lisa Lisa had not made it easy to take off, especially with his fumbling, desperate fingers.

But maybe it wasn't the mask at all, he realized suddenly. Maybe it was the rings Wamuu and Esidisi had put in him. They weren't supposed to poison him for another twenty-something days, but what if something had been activated during the climb? Was it possible the exertion had broken one or both?

He panicked even more at the thought.

"Jojo, what the hell?" Caesar grumbled, rolling over in bed, eyes cracking open in annoyance before he seemed to realize that Joseph was actually struggling.

Joseph tried to explain, but only a wheeze came out and he simply reached out instead, collapsing off the bed and onto the floor.

Caesar was up in a second, rushing over. "Is it the mask? Here, let me get it off. Personally, I don't really think Master Lisa Lisa should make you sleep in it."

He reached behind Joseph's head and undid the clasp, pulling the mask free and tossing it on the bed.

Joseph tried to breathe, wondering if maybe that had been the problem, but he still couldn't get air into his lungs. Everything felt like it was closing up. He choked and coughed, his chest and throat constricting painfully.

"Jojo?" Caesar demanded, gripping his shoulder tightly as Joseph doubled over and started dry-heaving from the coughing, bringing up nothing.

"Jojo, you have to calm down and breathe," Caesar said firmly.

Joseph looked at him, eyes streaming and wanted to tell him he was trying.

But he couldn't. Something was wrong. Joseph brought his shaking hands to his chest, and dug his fingers in as if that would do something.

"Hey," Caesar snapped and suddenly he had Joseph's face between his hands, forcing him to focus on him. Joseph tried, but Caesar's messy blond hair and green eyes were just smudges of color, his vision darkening at the edges as he continued to gasp. "Look at me. Right here, Jojo."

Joseph wheezed, coughing again, and blinked hard, finally forcing himself to focus on the two pink birthmarks on Caesar's cheeks.

Caesar's hands moved so one was gripping his chin and the other was clutching the back of his neck, keeping his head up. "You need to stop fighting to breathe Jojo, you hear me? Stop fighting. You need to relax."

Joseph choked out a breathless sob, tears still streaming down his cheeks, reaching out to grab a fistful of Caesar's shirt. He would normally be embarrassed breaking down like this in front of Caesar, but right now he just couldn't be bothered.

"Relax," Caesar said firmly, massaging the back of his neck and bringing his other hand down to push Joseph's fingers away from clawing at his chest before rubbing back and forth against his sternum. "Slowly let your breath out."

Joseph closed his eyes and tried to let his body relax, steadying his breathing a little. Once his lungs had expelled all the air, they seized again though, and he choked, coughing, which only sent everything into knots again.

"Easy, you're doing good," Caesar coaxed quietly and Joseph would be surprised that this was the same arrogant Casanova he had met in that restaurant if he wasn't occupied with other things. "Try again."

Joseph slowly exhaled, and though his breath hitched this time, he was still able to start breathing slowly again. It hurt. A lot. It felt like there were needles in his chest and throat, as well as a vice crushing him. But Caesar's constant massage of his chest and the back of his neck was actually helping him relax. He breathed again.

"You're doing good, Jojo," Caesar told him softly. "Listen, do you think I can go get Lisa Lisa now? We need to get you an oxygen mask to help you out."

Joseph felt a sudden spike of fear at being left alone, not trusting himself to continue breathing on his own. His breath seized and he grabbed hold of Caesar's shirt, wheezing desperately as he tried to get his point across.

"Easy, all right, I'll stay for a few more minutes, but you really need an oxygen mask…"

Joseph slumped gratefully, head thunking against Caesar's shoulder. The older man snorted a little, but repositioned Joseph so his head was tipped back against Caesar to better ease his airway. Joseph's breathing evened out as well as it could.

Until he was startled by the door opening, breath hitching and gasping again.

"Oh, I didn't know if you were still up, but I brought sandwiches, knowing you would be hungry when you woke up…" Suzie Q's cheery voice sounded out before she stopped with a gasp. "What's wrong with Jojo?! He's blue in the lips!"

"Suzie, please tell Lisa Lisa or someone that Joseph needs an oxygen mask," Caesar said quickly.

The maid hurriedly set the tray down and fled the room. Joseph felt a spike of pain through his chest and reached up to grip the front of his shirt, wheezing again.

"Hold on a little longer, Jojo," Caesar said quietly, rubbing his back as Joseph shuddered against him, closing his eyes and trying to just focus on breathing.

Footsteps returned to the room and Lisa Lisa came in, a frown on her face.

"What's wrong, Caesar? Did Joseph fail to regulate his breathing again?" she asked, eyebrow raised, seeming unimpressed.

Joseph started coughing again, wondering what it would take for her to feel anything. Caesar stiffened behind him and Joseph caught sight of his eyes flashing.

"Master, this isn't from the mask! I think Jojo got some of the oil in his lungs from the pillar climb. It's settled in and made it impossible for him to breathe properly! Please! He could die if we don't assist his breathing!"

The Hamon master straightened her back, looked down at Joseph who tried his best to meet her gaze through his tear-filled eyes, and then nodded and turned from the room.

Caesar cursed under his breath before turning back to coaxing Joseph in breathing.

It was thankfully only a few more minutes before Lisa Lisa and Loggins returned with an oxygen tank and mask. Caesar took it from them and turned it on, placing the mask over Joseph's mouth. He panicked before he could stop himself, not wanting to have another mask on his face, but Caesar gripped his shoulder.

"Easy," he said and fixed the mask in place.

Joseph felt the oxygen flood his lungs, his sight getting less blurry, and his breathing easing, even if it still hurt a lot.

"I'll call for a doctor, but it will be a couple hours before one can get to the island," Lisa Lisa said and strode out. "Just keep him calm until then, Caesar."

"Yes, Coach." Caesar turned back to Loggins. "I've got him now. Thanks."

The man nodded and followed Lisa Lisa out of the door.

"Hey, let's get you on the bed," Caesar told Joseph after a few minutes where his breathing had calmed.

Joseph, still completely exhausted, nodded and Caesar pulled him to his feet, grabbing several pillows from some of the unused beds and piling them up to prop Joseph against before he sank down on the side of the bed as well, still exhausted himself.

"How are you doing? Better?" he asked.

Joseph nodded. The oxygen mask was a little difficult to get used to, but it made breathing so much easier and Joseph slumped wearily back against the pillows, instantly thinking they were the softest things he had ever felt.

Caesar sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry about that, Jojo, I should have paid more attention. You fell so many times, you must have gotten some of the oil in your lungs, even with the mask on."

Joseph finally found the strength to speak, whispering past the mask. "How did you know what to do?"

Caesar glanced down at his hands. "One of my younger siblings fell into a frozen pond one winter. We were so worried about the hypothermia, we didn't think about the water he got in his lungs. I had to sit with him for hours to calm his breathing and it was only by a miracle he survived."

Joseph stared at Caesar for a long moment. He hadn't even known he'd had siblings. But it would definitely explain how good he was at being reassuring and calming. Joseph wanted to be annoyed that Caesar had essentially treated him like a child, but he was honestly just grateful.

He pulled the mask aside for a second, already missing it, but he had to say, "Pro'lly the only time you'll hear this but…thanks."

Caesar snorted. "Well, I suppose that's about all I can expect from you." He reached down to pick up the blanket that had fallen to the floor during Joseph's struggling and draped it over the younger man.

"You can sleep if you want. Rest before the doctor gets here. I'll keep an eye on your breathing."

"But you're tired too," Joseph protested with a rasp.

"Yeah, but either way I'll have to stay up. At least one of us should get some sleep," Caesar shrugged dismissively.

Joseph sighed and leaned his head back a little more, letting the oxygen help his breathing. "Okay," he mumbled behind the mask, his eyes already sliding shut. Everything about this ordeal had been hell.

But…he thought as he saw Caesar settling in to watch over him as he slept, maybe it wasn't all bad. After all, he had gotten a friend out of it.

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killyourrdarlingss · 3 years

Text

Posting this finally, a really fun piece I did for @softfuzzyships who was so nice to comm me. I'm so honored, seriously thank you so much dude ❤ literally everytime you ask me for writing I'm like YESS anyway I'm so glad and please enjoy ❤❤❤❤

Looking to the almost empty street in front of them, they realize the air is thick. Zach feels their throat sting with each gasp.

A hand reaches for them, shrouded in black and their head aches as they feel it touch their hand, instantly hissing in disgust they slap it's hand away--

Wait, his hand…?

Was it really…?

The shadow retreats, no emotion on its blank face, their eyes stinging.

Why are they stinging?

It's another one of the mishaps that always seem to happen. They just always have to happen. Have to come in the form of thoughts… to think of him… of all people.

But now, he's more smoke than anything else, he's a shadow that causes emotional distress. Anger, sadness… rage.

Tears spill from their eyes and they know they mean nothing, nothing more than frustration. They want to shove their hand into its stomach, pull out the innards, show it how they made them feel.

They wipe away the tears that formed and look to Kurapika at their side, this creature-- some sort of amalgamation of memory had spawned… but how?

Kurapika looked scared, he never looked scared. Zach feels the cold sweat of the night drip down the side of their face.

The faceless creature looks upon, emotionless and empty. Flinging a black substance at the ground that has them both jump back.

From here, the image of the creature is more clear, a blacked out smudge, it's dark outside, but the glowing empty sockets where eyes should be, are gone. The memory only hollows into a pit of nothingness.

Zach felt bile rise in their stomach.

The rustle of a chain stirs their thoughts and looking over to see red scarlet eyes overtake the hollow ones. The sound of a scream and fresh gravel underneath a shoe lunging forward is all the sounds before--

"Hey! Snap out of it--"

A piercing sting across their face and Zach groans as they come to, Kurapika is looking at them and he looks worried, his hands are covered in black sludge, the byproduct now leaving a blackened handprint across Zach's face.

"Oh, thank God-- I thought you were…" the rest is jumbled.

"Kura-- what..." touching the side of their face they hiss-- why was it so hot, what kind of nen…

Getting up, they look upon the man. He's misty, like clouded in smoke of some sort but the vague details Zach can figure out and they feel sick. Some sort of illusionist nen type, making them both see things.

Their hand comes away clean now, no pain as they shake their head and try to focus, just focus, that's all they need to do, focus.

"It's not him… it's just an illusio--"

As they say it Kurapika is suddenly gone, looking around they're in a white room, a man standing before them with a smile they had long forgotten, their chest ached and the man beckons with his hand.

Zach looks down to their hands, on one is a tattoo, it's smudged and streaked but its the word 'Again?' Question marks surrounding it in all shades of red. The other one a black stain, it was simple, a 'X'. They look up once they finish reading, the only thing they manage is to clench their fists and scream.

But, it was silent. No walls to bounce off of, the white room just grew more vast underneath their feet, and the apparition grew closer, every memory didn't make sense, all the colors were off, his mouth was open but no sound came out, footsteps only sounded like dull splashing, too far off.

Their memories were-- blank.

Until,

"It's... fa… Zach--!"

The voice was so familiar and looking up to the man it wasn't right coming from his lips, something was off something…

Opening their hand, the one with the 'X' was now a jagged piece of mirror, a shard. Cutting dull into their skin but upon positioning it towards him revealed--

Escaping their lips was two syllables as they gripped the shard harder and looked up, tears in their eyes and now the man looked scared. The name they spoke was audible, and the distortion went from something familiar and wanted, to one of reality, anger, anxiety--

Zach lunged forward and buried the shard of glass into his neck without remorse, blood and black veiled smoke escaping while screams around them enclosed. As they pulled back, they stabbed again, screaming their curses into the holes they reigned upon the man's chest.

Blood was pooling. The room wasn't white anymore, it was red, the body was limp against the hand against his collar and Zach stabbed once more,

"Hate..." the blow hits, right into his chest and the man coughs out blackened blood, "all this hate--!" Tears stream down their face, "Everything I loved!" They twist their knife,

"I'm taking it all back from you!"

The illusion breaks as Zach stabs hard enough into the man's heart, everything in the world going white.

They're in the middle of the street, only the dim lights illuminating the road. Soaked with blood and gore. Their knife was buried in the hunter's chest, buried in his heart.

It was not the man who they'd seen… but it…

"Zach--!"

The voice is strained, and they drop the corpse instantly. Zach doesn't even take the time to rip the knife out before something warm is against them, covering their eyes.

"Zach… please don't look."

It was a horrific scene, thinking about how many blows they'd dealt, the hunter probably didn't even look human anymore… but, Kurapika had his hands over their eyes, Zach shivering in the night air, biting the side of their mouth and shakily breathing out.

"Let's… let's go home, please."

Kurapika nodded, a small approving noise and slipped a hand around Zach's waist to support them. Only taking the hand off their eyes once they were far enough away.

Within five minutes of their apartment Zach finally made small talk, trying to ease the demons in their head and looking to Kurapika, it was the only thing getting them out of it. Any problem, they fixed by looking at him, even if he was covered in blood... and gore. The dried crimson flakes slowly off his features in the light breeze.

Neither of them talked about what they saw. Nobody wanted to bring up the conversation.

A late night walk turned into bounty hunting, realizing it now, as their memories started to come back, Zach remembered more.

The man said they wouldn't remember him, he was sent to capture them both, some kind of paid job. Then grinned, all teeth as black smoke surrounded them. Then, only one sentence as he laughed out,

"I think your nightmares want to talk."

Zach somehow managed to repress the emotion of complete disgust as it all came back, pushing down the feeling once more as they saw the lit doors of their apartment come into view.

By the time they'd made it up the elevator and through the door, both rinsed in the shower, they were both more than happy to just sleep.

It came quick, the moment their head hit the pillows.

Nothing is an inch out of place as Zach sits at a very well decorated table. The centerpiece is that of every flower imaginable and every color too. The wait staff are manning each dish on the table, placing plates with fancy gold cloches on top.

As Zach's dish is placed onto their plate the weight staff freeze in place as if from a movie. They're sitting on the farthest end, a man no younger or older is sitting across from them. The sound of a cloche unveiling the stranger's food rings through the air, and there's nothing besides a splatter of blood on his plate.

He eats it anyway. Fork and knife against the splatter, not making any means of a mess and bringing the stained fork tips to his lips, savoring the flavor.

He motions towards Zach, the cloche still sitting atop the fancy dish. Zach looks down and sees their reflection in it. It distorts within seconds and the man across suddenly looks displeased.

The unsettling atmosphere almost makes them choke, the man's unblinking eyes, all the waiters and waitresses are looking at them now. Their heads turned at unnatural angles to make sure they saw them.

Zach shakes as they go to reach for the cloche, the audience of the wait staff claps as they do and a thick black substance starts to spill from the plate as they slowly lift it. The clapping reduces to a ringing in their ears and the man across from them grins like a fox who had just caught it's dinner.

The cloche is gone, Zach doesn't want to look down, the lump in their throat is suffocating but they lock eyes with the grinning man and he laughs.

The table is gone, the room is deserted, blood pools at their feet and the man is beside them with a sharp clawed hand digging into their shoulder,

"You should have looked down."

They don't, they're forced to, and they're gripping something wet, bloody and spherical. No they don't want to look. They look towards the man but where he once was was only a familiar figure, a blade lodged in his heart, yellow strands of hair dyed red.

His hand out reaching for them.

"Zach…?"

They only manage to scream.

A gasp of air, and they're pinned to the bed by a familiar face. They feel themself crying and panting, only looking up to make sure they aren't hallucinating.

Coming to, they see the worry in Kurapika's eyes is unlike anything else they'd seen. As if he'd already been awake and waiting, he looked exhausted.

"Kura… I--"

"Nightmares, yeah?"

Zach nods, because at this point Kurapika knew him better than anyone else,

"What happened with the hunter… it must have carried over to a nightmare." They shake their head and sit up, Kurapika shifting to sit close beside them, lacing their fingers together in a very tight hold.

They finally speak,

"I saw someone, from my past, who hurt me. A long story, but, I was so angry, so mad. He hurt me and this hunter, he knew that and got into my head." Zach sighs, "and I… I--"

Kurapika hushes the thought, "you did what you had to do, Zach… you, you saved me." Kurapika has a melancholic smile as he says it.

Zach stays silent but leans their head against his.

"I was stuck in a loop, my… my family, you know it all but. It was different, as if I was watching a movie and couldn't help, I was forced to see it. Over and over."

Zach swallows, and grips his hand tighter, looking at Kurapika and sighing out. "No wonder neither of us could sleep… even in my nightmare the guy… well, he's… he's dead. But-- he was there. Mocking me. Some fancy setup but, unnerving and awful. It's like I was being mocked… and then he… he…"

Kurapika was closer now, arms around Zach and hugging him like their lives depended on it, "If anything bad is going to come out of your mouth next. Listen-- I'm alive, and I'm not planning on going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere without you."

Kurapika holds them at arm's length and places a kiss to their forehead,

"I promise."

Zach felt tears tug at the corners of their eyes and they let themself cry, barely feeling them,

"Good… that's all I ever want to hear."

They wrap their arms around him and sigh in relief, the exhaustion once more, hitting them like a pound of brick. But, even so, they both stay there until Kurapika finally breaks the silence, hand slowly moving through their hair.

"Now lay down, I'll make sure you sleep well, I got a bit of rest so… relax, okay? I'm here."

They do, resting their head against Kurapika's lap and letting his fingers run through their hair. Exhaustion washed over them again, as well as the feeling of Kurapika's fingers slowly massaging their scalp, and a soft hum escaping his lips.

They yawned, nestling their head firmer against him, falling asleep to the beautiful tune.

They wake, and it's not a dream, no horrors awaiting, no confusing dreams to scare them. It wasn't any of those things since they could smell clearly fresh cooked pancakes and hear the sizzle of butter hitting a pan.

Blinking their eyes, they push themselves up and look out from the bedroom to the kitchen, Kurapika hearing, and looking over, beaming.

"You're awake!" He seemed joyful, happy and grinning as he strides to the bedroom and sat down beside them, "Yesterday... sucked, so, I'm making your favorites. Hopefully they're good."

Kurapika looked bashful, and in that moment, Zach just leaned over, crushing him in the strongest hug they could manage. Kurapika obviously returned the favor, a small gasp is all that escaped him.

"I love you, so, so much." they sighed out and buried their head against him.

"I love you too-- now," Kurapika pats their shoulder, pulling them onto their feet, "let's go eat… because I might have--" he looks over his shoulder and sighs, "yeah something is definitely burning."

A sigh, but Kurapika only shrugs it off, looking at Zach with a smile, pulling them into the kitchen for a well deserved meal.

#gothiepost #writing #softfuzzyships #TYSM ZACHHHH #since its copied to tumblr some italics/etc arent posted right #so don't @ me too much. its proper on my document #ALSO WARNINGS INCLUDE MURDER. BODY HORROR. UPSETTING SITUATIONS. PTSD TYPE TRAUMA. BLOOD. SLIGHT CANNIBALISM MAYBE?? GENERAL HORRORS #uhhh idk what else... nightmares and murder mostly... a lot of stuff #dont read if you dont like scary hsjsjjs

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

Text

Arcanum || Morgan & Mercy

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @cryxmercy & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Mercy and Morgan go witch hunting.

CONTAINS: Mild gore, blood poisoning

Morgan gave Mercy the details as soon as she realized the truth and before long they had everything they needed on her whereabouts. Jo Muscgraves was staying at the Haven Hotel, but of course that wasn’t satisfactory for the kind of butchery she’d been up to. So naturally she had rented out a storage unit for the month too. Under a freaking anagram, no less, like no one had ever heard of those before or would think twice about seeing Grace J Mussov on a list if they went looking. What kind of person thought a storage unit was really the place for doing whatever bullshit magic she was after? The backlash from any experiments were bound to affect anyone in the units nearby and potentially destroy anything unlucky enough to involve the wrong elements.

Morgan didn’t want to bother with knocking on her hotel door and playing nice. She wanted to go straight to the source and put an end to it all. She was taking the bolt cutters out of her bag when she realized the unit was already open. Her body went stiff with dread. This was what she wanted, she reminded herself. This was what Coraline deserved. Morgan exchanged a look with Mercy, trying to draw on some of her strength. The PI was a valkyrie, a fighter with more experience than anyone else she knew. And Morgan could still work her own will in the world, magic or not. She had to. “I’ll do the honors,” she muttered, giving Mercy an uneasy look.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find, but white light and storage jars hadn’t been on her list. Jo had amassed more than your average witch’s cupboard. Along either wall that stretched deep into the storage complex were jars of herbs, flaked or ground rock, bottled elements in easy to work with states, and shelves of what must have been past experiments. Hybrid plants bowed and purpling with strain as they tried to grow in their new spliced state. Teeth from wolves and vampires thinned and warped into weapons or fused into impossible shapes Morgan could only imagine to be impossible. A pair of wings hung over the worktable at the end of the room, and on the surface itself, lit even brighter by a lamp, were the missing pieces of Coralaine’s body, most in jars ready to be worked with, but her scales were already fused with a piece of cotton, flaking and shriveled. Jo was in the middle of the room, wrestling with Marina Adams, Coraline’s older sister. Both women turned their heads at the sound of intruders. Morgan froze. Killing a witch was one thing; freeing a captive fae was another.

The strong preyed on the weak. That was the way of the world. Always had been. Always would be. It was the natural order. Be stronger than what wants to kill you... or die. Mercy knew this better than most. But she also knew that the laws of nature, the laws that most creatures that inhabited this world obeyed because they had no reason not to, and no choice otherwise, didn’t apply to humans. Or the supernatural. They killed because they could. Because they wanted to. Or because they held some antiquated notion that they had to. Not all, of course. An individual didn’t define them as a whole. But every species had evil in its ranks.

And the witch she had offered to help Morgan find was as evil as they came. So Mercy would have no qualms relieving her of the terrible burden of living. And thus ridding the world of one more evil creature that didn’t deserve the time she’d been given.

When they arrived at their destination, Mercy was fully ready for whatever came their way. She was just about to touch Morgan’s arm, to indicate that the doors she’d intended to cut open were already slightly ajar, but Morgan noticed. When she looked to Mercy, the Valkyrie gave her a nod of encouragement, and followed her inside.

What awaited them there was… horrific wasn’t the word for it. Despicable wasn’t right either. Monstrous was closer. But the only word that seemed to fit…. was evil. Mercy would be lying if she said this was the first time she’d seen something like this. Supernaturals being experimented on. Made into weapons. Killed and maimed and tortured for the sake of someone’s fucking curiousity. Or worse: profit. She wasn’t innocent of killing for money, but that was a lifetime ago now. And she’d never harmed the innocent or the weak. Not on purpose.

The wings across the back of the unit briefly drew Mercy’s eyes, but the struggling figures in the center of the room took precedence. Mercy glanced at Morgan as the other woman paused. “Courage.” She turned her eyes back to the witch and the young fae. Tilting her head curiously, Mercy started slowly forwards, peering at the shelves and their collection of items as if she were simply in the grocery store, trying to choose what to have for dinner. And not in the lair of a homicidal, psychopathic witch.

“You know, Jo - Can I call you Jo? - as much as I love the whole…” Mercy gestured vaguely. “- Island of Dr. Moreau vibe you got goin’ here…” She focused her gaze on the witch, hoping to hold her attention for as long as possible. “- I’m gonna have to ask you, from the bottom of my heart…. to stop being a murderous fucking cunt. And let the girl go.” Mercy’s easy smirk faded to something cold and unforgiving. Slowly, she pulled a small vial of dark blue liquid from her pocket and gave it a gentle rub with her thumb. The center bled a bright, angry red. “Or… I let my little friend here go. And we see if you new age witches still burn like the old ones did.”

Marina used the shift in the room to try to pull free. She twisted in Jo’s grip, dragging her feet over the edge of the circle to smudge it enough to be rendered useless. But something on Jo’s wrist (probably another fucking circle) made her go shrill with pain. She writhed, still pulling, wrenching as best she could. Morgan felt like a first class idiot for having assumed Jo was fae in the first place. She inched to the side, trying to close the distance between herself and Marina while Jo and Mercy had it out.

“You have no idea what you are getting yourselves into,” Jo said firmly, “Or that this ‘girl’--” she emphasized the word bitterly, “Is capable of. Turn around, walk away, and I’ll forget we crossed paths. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” she stomped her foot on the ground and sent out a ripple of power towards them. The ground went slick under Morgan and she fell hard, landing on her wrist, which snapped with an awful sound. Morgan grimaced and eased it back into place. Jo nodded with intrigue as she saw Morgan’s skin reshape itself with ease. “I’m not going to repeat myself,” she said evenly. “Trust me that this is not how it looks, and leave.”

Mercy stood calmly, keeping her eyes on the witch and the girl as Morgan slowly moved in the opposite direction. This was her show. Mercy was merely a player. Though it appeared the witch wasn’t going to take Mercy’s verbal bait. But for the moment, Mercy had her talking, bringing whatever spell had been in progress to a pause.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mercy huffed, pocketing the vial of blue liquid for now. “I know exactly what this girl is capable of.” Her eyes flicked to Marina, and it was to her that Mercy spoke this time. “I bet you’d like to drown her, wouldn’t you, little nøkke? Feast on her flesh for what she did to your sister?” But Jo sent out a wave of magic, turning the floor slick as ice beneath their feet. Mercy managed to catch herself before she went down completely, but still fell hard to her knees, hands splayed in front to steady herself. She saw Morgan go down as well, the woman’s wrist crunching unpleasantly. But she righted herself, so Mercy carefully pushed to her feet and turned her attention back to Jo.

Antagonizing the witch seemed like a bad idea, though the very air around Mercy hummed with the desire to do just that. But she couldn’t. Not while the young girl was still in the alchemist’s grasp. So maybe changing tactics would work. They needed time. And distraction. So Mercy could only hope that Morgan would catch on to what she was doing. And not think herself betrayed.

“Say I believe you.” Mercy’s tone was thoughtful, but cautious. “Say I believe that whatever this is,” She gestured towards Jo and Marina. “- it’s the girl that’s the real threat, and not you.” Mercy took a few steps closer, clasping her hands behind her back. “Say I turn around and leave, and forget about you and this place. Say I forget about all of it. And I make sure she forgets too.” Mercy tipped her head towards Morgan, while still holding the witch’s gaze. “What’s in it for me?” Another step, and Mercy’s fingers slipped idly beneath her jacket and curled around the hilt of a blade tucked into a sheath concealed across her back. “What can you offer me, Jo Muscgraves, so that I forget you ever existed? Because trust me when I say that whatever this girl is capable of… I’m capable of much, much worse.”

Jo had been in plenty of tight spots before. Taboo research to crack the code of organic supernatural magic would do that to you. So did obtaining live samples from murderous animals like the Adams girls. Jo really had been fond of them, to the point that it made her sick with guilt. After what they’d done in their hometown? Fae and beasts were just specimens with power they had no right to monopolize for themselves and use against humans. If Jo could just finish her work in peace, maybe she could find the key to sharing the wealth. But Marina was whimpering and moaning in a way that made Jo’s stomach twist, the circle was smudged, and the women/creatures before her were probably about to ruin everything. “You leave me, you let my work succeed, and you’ll be first in line. You--” She turned to Morgan, looking at the way her bones were rearranging themselves inside her skin. “You know about this world. You know what kind of power is being used to keep humans ignorant and underfoot. Don’t you think you deserve a piece of it too? Shouldn’t you be able to glamour yourself at will? To jump into the air and out of danger on wings?” Her gaze flitted back to Mercy, sizing her up. She might be less human than she looked, but Jo could hardly slip her some litmus right now to tell for sure. “What would you give in order to fly? To change your face, your form? This isn’t senseless, this is--”

“If it wasn’t senseless, you shouldn’t have dumped the girl who trusted you out with the trash!” Morgan snapped. “Shouldn’t have butchered her like a hack!” The words burst out of her before her mind could think of words like ‘stealthy’ and ‘careful’ and ‘no one will warn you you’re going to die this time’ could stop her. She staggered upright and lunged for Marina just as Jo sent a lightning streak of magic her way. The power crashed through her, but Morgan didn’t stop. She grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled. Maybe being a living dead girl was good for something after all.

“First in line for what?” Mercy asked, partly to keep Jo talking, partly out of a sense of morbid curiosity. Because Mercy - perhaps more than most - could empathize with the desire to know. The search for their origins, for the answer to how the abilities - the magic - possessed by supernatural (or preternatural) creatures worked, and where it came from, wasn’t a new quest. And Jo wasn’t the first person throughout history to go about their quest the wrong way. Through murder and butchery. Which was also something Mercy could understand. But not when it involved spilling innocent blood.

So Mercy watched Jo watch Morgan. She saw how the witch’s eyes lingered on the healing bones, the way the skin knitted itself back together. Mercy kept her hands behind her back, one wrapped around the blade that was now loose in it’s sheath but still hidden, and continued her slow pacing to try and flank the woman as Morgan moved opposite. She paused, however, when Jo addressed her again.

What would you give in order to fly?

For just a moment, the Fury… considered. Of all the questions to ask… why that one? Mercy had wanted wings for close to 1200 years. It was one of the few things she felt she was owed after so long. Did Jo know something she didn’t? Did the witch have some uncanny sense of what might sway Mercy to let her live?

Almost everything. Mercy nearly spoke the words out loud. Her eyes flitted to the wings strung overhead. Where had they come from, she wondered. What creature had died, or more likely been killed, so that Jo could display them in such a vulgar, disrespectful way. And then offer them up as some sort of… reward. Mercy had a response waiting, but the witch’s words had fueled Morgan’s anger to a fever pitch and she reacted accordingly. Morgan lunged for the girl, ignoring the violent, sizzling magic that ripped through her body. The smell of sulfur and burnt flesh permeated the air, but the moment Morgan had hands on the girl, Mercy moved as well.

There was a soft ‘shick’ sound as the short-sword was pulled free. It spun in Mercy’s hand, a blur of motion as she brought it down with deadly accuracy, aiming to sever the witch’s hand at the wrist, and release the girl into Morgan’s arms.

Jo had only a second to see the blade coming and in that second one long equation fired in her head, racing to calculate the balance of her next move. Pull on the girl, hope she could be a shield. Maybe some scales would be damaged, maybe she preferred to remind them both how little her life was worth by testing the limits of her power personally, but her body would still be usable. She could risk some damage to her own body in an effort to keep Marina’s intact, and being injured might make the girl bold. She fought harder than Coraline, already, but that was a temporary state. She could let go, try to get her back later, or escape unharmed and try again in a different town. She had some contacts she could rely on, people who were counting on her to help them with her work. But how? And how did she know they wouldn’t chase her? Three supernaturals trapped in her vault, including a zombie? But Jo had a second, only a second, and in that time her body, not her mind, took control. She released Marina in time to catch the blade mid air. The sharp edge sliced into her palm for a moment, deep enough that she grunted with effort. Then the blade splashed down her sleeve and did away with any hope of keeping her circle charged, melted into water. “Nice try,” she said, and wound her fist up to land a punch. If she would get a hand on her, her tattoos could help her do the rest…

Marina crashed into Morgan as soon as she was let go. They toppled onto the slick floor together and scrambled to their knees. “There’s a car outside,” Morgan grunted. “Go. You’ll be safe inside.” She gave her a push as the girl scrambled to her feet. She flashed her teeth at Morgan. “Don’t touch me!” She spat, and staggered away. Morgan braced herself to her feet in time to realize Mercy might just be in some serious trouble if the tried hand to hand with an alchemist fast thinking enough to transmute at a moment’s notice. “Get back!” She reached to pull back her friend, but her mind hadn’t gotten around to calculating what might happen with a sudden distraction.

Over a millennia of life had given Mercy an advantage that most would never possess. Centuries upon centuries of time to hone the craft she had learned as a girl. So when the sword hit home, slicing through flesh and bone, Mercy wasn’t surprised. It was what she’d asked the blade to do, after all. But for all of the Fury’s deadly speed and accuracy, for all her confidence in those skills, when flesh and bone and blade connected because the witch caught Mercy’s sword with her hand - and in less than a moment the blade was gone, forge-hardened steel turned to nothing but a puddle of water - Mercy was, for a heartbeat, well and truly surprised. Her eyes shot to the witch’s face as she spoke, but the single moment of shock seemed to be enough for Jo. Her fist caught Mercy square across the jaw. Mercy grunted, staggering slightly to the side and nearly slipping on the slick floor. But she righted herself almost immediately, her expression turning from shock to something else. Something that welcomed the faint taste of copper in her mouth... the hum of power in the air… the unexpected (and yes, thrilling) challenge of a witch that could change one element to another at will…

Mercy turned to face Jo again. “I can do better.”

Behind her, Mercy registered that Morgan was on her feet and shoving the girl towards the exit. She heard the girl scream and snatch away. She even heard Morgan’s voice calling out to her, felt the zombie’s hand on her arm, trying to pull Mercy away. “Go!” she told Morgan, though her eyes stayed on Jo. “Take the girl. This one doesn’t have the power to kill me. Do you?” Mercy taunted. Though she didn’t miss the circles inked onto the woman’s arms and the palms of her hands.

Jo didn’t squander her advantage. She closed in as Mercy stumbled, stabilized the floor with her boot, and grabbed her by the shoulders, pressing down good and hard with her tattooed palms. A flash of power passed from her body to the strange woman’s, unlocking her skin and her blood, flooding her with iron, enough to send her body into shock. She shoved her away and started to make a break for it. Right now she didn’t need a perfect kill. She needed to make sure she was alive to finish her work.

Morgan nearly left Mercy where she stood. She had what she needed and the valkyrie was a consenting adult. She could exercise her autonomy no matter what. But she saw Jo getting away, saw something bubbling under the surface of Mercy’s body and froze. She wanted to make the witch pay. She wanted Mercy to be okay. She wanted to stop her from grabbing Marina again and running off with her. She wanted, she wanted… Morgan’s hand shot out for the witch, but Jo was ready. Even Morgan’s dulled senses registered the pain of her flesh falling away from her bone. “Fuck!” She staggered back into Mercy, cradling her skeleton hand to her chest. That was gonna take a bit to heal.

A single moment of distraction cost Mercy dearly as Jo grabbed hold of the Fury’s shoulders. Mercy shot a hand out to grab the witch’s neck, while the other swung hard at the woman’s ribs. But that was as far as she got. She felt the sudden, sickening flow of magic as it was forced beneath her skin and into her blood. As it… changed something inside Mercy. Her healing factor pushed back instantly, trying to right what had so suddenly been thrown off-kilter. But the Fury still grunted at the sudden white-hot pain, like shards of glass soaked in acid being forced through her veins. Mercy met Jo’s eyes for the span of a moment, the cold fury of the Valkyrie’s gaze both another taunt - Is this what you call power? - and a promise - This isn’t over. - just before she was shoved aside. She caught herself against the wall as her body started to slip into shock.

Fire laced through her belly, followed by nausea so intense she thought she might very well faint. It took all Mercy had not to double over. Everything hurt. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat felt like it took a monumental effort. But then Morgan was being shoved towards her and the smell of burning flesh was in the air and Morgan was screaming…

Mercy tried to steady her as they collided, but she felt near to collapsing herself. Whatever Jo had done was making her feel weak. Tired. Underneath the pain and increasing systemic shock. “Need to go...” Mercy said. “No good like this…” Mercy with her blood poisoned by magic and Morgan with her flesh peeled away from her bones. The Valkyrie coughed and spit red onto the ground. “We saved the girl. ‘S’what matters. For now…” Later, they would make Jo pay. For today. And for all the days before. But right now they were in no shape to continue. Live to fight another day and all that.

Morgan averted her eyes as the muscle and sinew around her skin stitched itself anew. On a fresh meal, it might have been done by now, but she was stretching out her feeding schedule to make sure she at least had raw strength going for her in this encounter. Apparently it hadn’t counted for much after all. At least she knew Mercy had seen worse. “Hey, you’re okay, right? You’ve made it twelve hundred years, a little hack job like whatever she did can’t knock you down now.” She braced Mercy against her shoulder and staggered out into the open air. There was no sign of Marina in the car. Figures. She probably wouldn’t have waited around in some stranger’s car to find out what would happen to her either. Wherever she’d gone, Morgan hoped she was safe. “I’d say at least you can sleep this off,” she said, laughing dryly, “But we both know that's gonna be a whole other hell of a time.”

#wr mercy #wr chatzy #wr mercy chatzy #medical blood tw #gore tw #arcanum #wr #wickedswriting

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exosmutfactory · 4 years

Text

Dark Horse-Chapter One

All I know is that one day my boyfriend and lifelong best friend disappeared. No word of him from anyone. No trace of him anywhere. And after 6 agonizing months, they concluded that he is dead. So why the fuxk do I seeing him strolling around town at 3am?

[ warning: blood ]

Prologue | Part 1 ✓ | Part 2 |

•⇔♦ •⇔♦ •⇔♦ •⇔♦ •⇔♦ •⇔♦ •

First Encounters

Somewhere in a deep dark place, a siren blares. The noise ringing the same tune over and over again as wispy whispers from all around fill the air. If one happened to look close enough, they’d see figures shifting in the darkness. Rising to their full heights as the siren coaxes them forward like a flute to a python.

Suddenly, the music stops. Dark red neon lights brightening up the area as the six figures freeze...before their eyes snap open. The colors in all of their eyes vary from electric blue to copper brown. But one—only one—has yet to open their eyes.

While the others survey their surroundings, the last one’s eyes pop open. Emerald green eyes blinking as they step forward before turning a blood-red color; their iris shrinking down to a pupil as black fills in the rest.

“Plëasë støp ït nøw.”

////

“Hello Cherry.”

I can’t help being aware of the aged, ticking grandfather clock across the room. Something about it has always been eerie. The way the dial constantly swings from side to side; skipping by half seconds when it thinks you won’t notice. I always do. It is just the same as Dr. Kim’s watch. Always 6 minutes ahead of schedule. Forever going at the pace of its own time. You can tell a lot about a man by how he manages his time. And as that clock isn’t an ordinary object, Dr. Kim is not a simple man.

Fidgeting in my seat, I play with a spare ponytail holder; curling the band between my fingers, “Hello Doctor.”

He smiles and leans back; vibrant red hair fluttering from the motion as he crosses his legs. A notepad clutched in his left hand as he clicks a pen open with the other, “How are you feeling today?”

Wordlessly parting my lips, I hesitate for a second; something he picks up on, “I...had a nightmare.” I share.

“Oh?” His eyebrows raise; pen pressed to the paper, “Tell me about it.”

“I was walking. And it was dark,” My eyes drift to the ceiling as his pen moves, “I have gotten off of work late and had to walk home with my groceries… The moon was full and bright, but then I heard an awful noise-”

Strangely, Dr. Kim interrupts, “What kind of noise?”

Dragging my eyes back to him, I take in his leaning forward, subtly rigid form; the pen not even pressed to his paper. “A thud,” I open my palms, keeping them where he can see as I look him directly in the eye, “From an alley.” Letting a few moments go by, I utter, “Then a black cat carrying a dead mouse crossed my path.” I tilt my head, smiling a little, “You know how superstitious I can be.”

The Doctor relaxes, “Yes.” He clears his throat, pen scribbling at a brisk pace, “We all can.” I can’t help eyeing his eyebrows as he leans forward to grab something; there’s a smudge of blue outlining it. In the form of a high arch—a devil’s brow, as I like to describe it. Strange for an old-fashioned man who once didn’t even know what eyeliner was...

“Anything else you want to share?” He adds softly; expression tentative and caring-his eyes telling a different story.

I smile, looking him dead in the eye as if nothing is wrong, “No sir. Sorry for taking your time today.”

“It’s no problem,” He says with a wave of his hand as I stand up. “You are a beloved visitor here-Oh.” He pauses; checking his clipboard before meeting my eyes again, “Don’t forget to pick up your prescriptions downstairs.”

The smile on my lips grows as I shove down my emotions, “Thank you.”

I release a huge breath once I’ve exited the building; taking a wary glance back. There’s just something about the place and my doctor that has always left a bad taste in my mouth. Maybe it’s my past. Or how Kim Junmyeon’s smiles used to be genuine, and his eyes pure. But now they’re just filled with-

With a shiver, I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away my nightmare.

Tightening my grip on the hefty plastic bag in my hand, I begin the long journey to the only grocery store in town. Might as well grab what I can while I still have time.

The traffic inside is horrific as always. People near shoving each other to get at the 50% off items as I carefully balance the carton of eggs in my basket.

“Watch it.” An older woman hisses, graying curls bouncing in distaste as she slams into my side with a grocery cart.

I quietly step close to the end of a shelf while tentatively rubbing my throbbing side; taking deep breaths until the pain goes away.

“Should I get the manager?”

I flinch back, spinning around with wide eyes, “Oh.” My shoulders relax, “Sehun, it’s you.”

The tall raven nods; eyes filled with concern, “Are you okay?”

A smile naturally forms on my face, “I’m fine.” I soothe patting his arm, “Although, mind helping me reach that can on the top shelf?”

Sehun sends me a playful look with a boyish grin but says nothing, grabbing the can with ease before handing it to me. “Let me know if you need anything.”

I smile even more at him; waving as he turns the corner and chuckles when he accidentally bumps into a shelf full of napkins. What a sweet kid.

Grabbing everything else I need that is delicate, I carefully make my way to the checkout. Just my luck that I accidentally bump into someone.

“Oh I’m so sorr-” I gasp turning to them; stiffening when my eyes meet empty green ones. It’s him. My eyes quickly drop down to his neck; curiosity flaring up at the two lone white braids laying across his collarbones until I feel the burn of his steady glare. I let a meek, “I-I’m sorry I’ll just get going-” My breath catches when I spot his hand moving out the corner of my peripheral vision.

He doesn’t say anything, just wordlessly holds up a packet of raw pork. I look at the item then back at him with a raised brow; shrinking under his cold stare. Sensing what I think he is trying to convey, I carefully reach out for it. My cold hand accidentally brushes against his piping hot one.

“Fuck.” I hiss clutching my throbbing hand to my chest. The packet drops to the floor with a dull thud compared to the one caused by Baëkhyun’s sudden movements. I literally stop breathing when he slams his hand to the shelf right next to my head; leaning back as he inches closer. His expression is full of menace and annoyance.

My gaze shifts down to his chest as he crowds my space; body tensing up as memories of the other day come back to the surface. I squeeze my eyes shut, tightening my grip on my basket. An intense wave of nausea washes over me as his breath fans over my face; the hairs on the back of my neck standing. My whole body shaking when his lips brush against my ear...

He chuckles.

He fucking chuckles and the minty breath it leaves in its wake confuses me to the core.

After a few seconds of silence, I peel open my eyes; blinking at my surroundings. Looking from left to right, the man and packet of pork are nowhere to be seen. My shoulders relax with a shaky breath. God...what was that? I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Spotting my basket a couple of feet away, I quickly move to pick it up; checking on all the groceries. Luckily everything seems to still be intact.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I make my way to the checkout; deep in thought as the ever-considerate Sehun scans my items with care. I send him one last smile before heading out; a bigger weight than the bags hanging from my arms hovering over my chest. The long walk home is spent weaving through packed crowds and looking over my shoulder every 5 seconds. Not a head of white hair in sight.

♦•—•♦•—•♦•—•♦•—•♦

“Cherry!” A warm voice greets just as I cross over the threshold; feeling comfort at the chime of a familiar bell and the fragrance of freshly baked bread in the air.

I look up into the beaming, powered-smudged face of a petite brunette stationed behind the counter, “Good afternoon Mrs. Lee.”

“It’s Mama Lee to you!” She declares as I move to the backroom to hang up my coat. “I’ve been reminding you every day you’ve worked here and you still forget.”

“I’m forever grateful for you taking me in, Miss,” I say with a bit more warmth in my voice, smiling. “Working here has been the best 4 months of my-”

“Oh no need to butter me up,” She shakes her head with a smile of her own; softly patting my arm. “Thank you for applying. You are still my longest worker up to date…” A frown that can only mean nothing but trouble forms on her face.

“Everything okay?” I asked tentatively.

Mrs. Lee sighs in resign. “Not really.” She turns her apologetic eyes onto me, “Nora called in sick and Naeun came by to inform me that she won’t be working here,” She paused, “Ever again.”

A small smile forms on my face, “I’ll manage everything, it’s no biggie.” Not like I haven’t done it before. The smile nearly fades when she shakes her head; a remorseful expression on her face, “Mr. Park wants his annually order done by tonight.”

I can feel the color draining from my face. Mr. Park is a renowned lawyer famous for his yearly gathering of business partners from all over the country. The food they require is a lot and it takes 4 sets of hands to complete the order in a week. But with me gone the past five days and the other girls unavailable…

Meeting Mrs. Lee's eye, I tie up my hair, wash my hands and grab the nearest apron; voice full of irreversible determination, “Let’s get this done.”

Just as I figured, we aren’t done until well into the night. The clock at the front of the bakery blaring a red 2:06 am.

“I’m so sorry.”

I look up at a frowning Mrs. Lee; looking so remorseful that I immediately shake my head. “It’s okay, Miss. In fact,” Grinning good-naturedly I added, “I think I’ve earned my keep for a five-day absence.”

“You don’t have to earn anything.” She sighs as I sweep leftover bread crumbs from the floor, “If you need a breather, take a breather. Heck, have a vacation. Go out and do whatever the young people are up to these days.”

I can't help the chuckle rumbling my chest. “People are up to some questionable things these days.”

“Now I don’t mean drugs and unsafe partying.” The way my cheeks warm at that last bit. “But you need to experience life too.” Her brown caring orbs turn back onto me before she steps closer; taking my hands in hers. “I don’t want you having any regrets as I do.”

A genuine smile forms on my face as I chuckle, looking down at the spotless floor. “I’ll try my best.”

“Good.” She walks away then pauses turning back around, “Don’t be quick to make me a grandmother though. I’m still too young.”

All I can do is squeak in indignation which makes her laugh loudly in turn. I turn away to hide my red face; focusing entirely on checking if I missed any spots around the room.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” She asks softly. “I could ask my nephew, or call you a cab.”

A small smile forms on my lips, “No thank you.” My gaze shifts back to her, “I’ll be okay Miss Lee.”

She crosses her arms, “Promise to text once you get home?” When I nod in reply, she looks at me for a minute then sighs. “Okay.”

Shooting her another reassuring smile, I move to put on my coat, but not to button it up which seems to make her frown. “I don’t want to get too hot,” I'm quick to explain. “Plus, it’s hard to move around when all bundled up.”

“If you catch even the slightest cold I’m excusing you from work with pay for a week.” She states; trying to be threatening in her own way.

I giggle a little as she shakes her head. “Yes, ma’am.” With a cheeky salute, I exit the warm bakery. The hairs on the back of my exposed neck rise, and it’s not merely from the cold. No, it’s the icy stare set on the center of my back that I ignore as I shove my hands into my pockets; venturing back to the store that is now merely a 10-minute walk.

Gathering just a small amount of items, I take off for my apartment. Humming nonchalantly as my bag rustles and footsteps echo down the deserted streets. Everyone who values their life never comes out after dark anymore. For the ones who like to party they either spend the night at a friend’s house or inform the club days in advance to accommodate them. And if you are the husband of a pregnant demanding wife you have to suck up the nagging and set out to keep the kitchen in stock come the next sunrise.

Suddenly, the wind blows. But there’s something off about it. The wind is air; it is supposed to fly past you with no way to truly feel it. Fully grasp it. Yet this wind feels like a caress of a hand over the back of my neck. Soothing. The kind of touch that makes you let your guard down.

Ha, I wasn’t born a mere 19 years ago.

Lifting my eyes to the sky, I take in the sight of the full moon with another planet lurking in its shadow. Its colors so dark that anyone would jokingly call it the “dark side of the moon.” If it is the dark side, how are you able to see it at all? Would you be able to see the strong surge of radiation coming off of it in waves? Or feel the damage of its water supply and wreckage of ecosystems? Or the fact that “the shadow” is 4 times bigger than the moon itself?

Once I hear that telling muffled scream; I run.

A whooshing noise slices through the air before my bag is 10 times lighter. I let the rest of it fall from my hand; jumping up to avoid a hit directed at the back of my knees.

He’s fast. As I land back on my feet and quickly roll forward to avoid another swing, I make sure to stay in tune with my surroundings. Damn fast.

Leaping back to my feet, I begin winding down street after street. The only things I hear are the pounding of my feet to the pavement and my desperate pants for breath. I seriously need to work out more.

I take towards an alleyway in hopes of losing him only to meet a dead end. But this just might work even better.

“Dønë bëing chasëd, lïttlë møusë?”

The rhythmic click of heeled boots is quite alluring. Or maybe it’s just him. And I hate him even more for it.

“Why døn’t wë gët this øvër wïth, hmm?” I keep my back towards him even as he brushes my hair off one shoulder; tracing his fingers over the side of my neck. “I’ll makë ït païnlëss før thë nïcë chasë yøu gavë.”

My heart involuntarily races at his deep and raspy voice. The seductive purr added to the end of every word he utters. Until I have to hold my breath from the awful stench coming from his mouth. God, it’s ten times worse than in the dream.

“Døn’t cry lïttlë lamb,” A slender finger from a hand I know so well swipes at the tear falling from my eye. It takes everything in me to reel in my emotions as he continues. “I prømïsë yøu wøn’t fëël a thïng—”

At the light brush of lips against my pulse point; I move. Snatching the weapon from his loose grip and kicking him to the adjacent wall. As the breath is forced out his lungs I’ve already got the saber pointed at his throat. My foot firmly pressed on his abdomen.

“I’m sorry,” I say mockingly; looking down at the shocked demon eyes that flick to a fuming green, “But that’s not how things will be going tonight.” I lick my lips a smirk tugging on them at the sight of his deadly glare. “And don’t try to act like you’re all that...” Lightly dragging the sword down to his adam’s apple, I add, “Judging from the pork you've been gathering and the slowing down of accidents lately, our little wolf hasn’t had a proper meal, has he?” I can’t help grinning at his expense as he growls; not even his stench of breath can ruin my fun. “So little wolfie is not at his full strength.” Tsking with a shake of my head, I meet his furious gaze, “You really shouldn’t have messed with this Red Riding hood.”

He snarls; green eyes calculating and ablaze. “What the fuck are you?”

I can’t help smiling at the sight of him trying to dodge the blade while simultaneously steaming on his spot on the ground, “Highly trained.” Looking over his leather blazer; black&white patterned turtle neck, and jewelry clad form with a silver chain on his face, I’m left in awe with my heart pounding. Damn, he’s hot for an evil creature happening to look exactly like…

“What do you want?” He grits out pulling me from my dangerous thoughts. His chin defiantly tilted up and dark eyes challenging even with his life on the line. How cute. Tempted by his little proposal I hum. “Tell me where Baekhyun is.”

He visibly stiffens; eyes shifting to the right as he scoffs. “What?”

“I know you know where he is,” I say in a sing-song voice, dragging the sword down to his collarbone as he flinches. “And you will bring me to him.”

The wind blows; ruffling his long white locks of hair dangling in his emerald eyes before they meet mine again. “I’m Baekhyun.”

I smile then proceed to scratch his skin with the sharp blade; raising a brow at the glittery red blood that flows from the small wound. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Baëkhyun, you had me convinced.” Purring I crouch down as his eyes widen the tiniest bit before narrowing my own. “But no one could ever,” Grabbing him by his shirt I press my forehead to his, “Ever. Pass off as him. So.” Tilting my head to the side a dangerous smile plays at my lips, “I suggest you start talking.”

The snow-white haired man keeps his lips sealed as I work on swirling the blade on his surprisingly delicate skin. Marveling at the unnatural blood dripping from the new wound. Baëkhyun all but growls out, “Who the fuck was he to you anyway?”

I pause for a moment; looking into his dark eyes, “Was?”

A cruel smirk forms on his lips; one that has dread filling my gut and my grip tightening on the sword in my hand.

Baëkhyun tilts his head, “You didn’t know?” He purrs with that damn smirk still on his lips. “He’s dead.”

Everything seems to zone out of focus in that moment as his words sink in. Baekhyun?... An image of fluffy black hair and sparkling puppy eyes flashes through my mind. A handsome face with the cutest box smile that could melt a million hearts. No. Taking in his snug form once again, I narrow my eyes; swooping down to point the blade right at his pulse point with a hiss. “You’re lying.”

An unexpected flicker of emotion swarms in his green orbs.“You asked for information yet do not believe me?” His soft tone and glimmering eyes do not match the neutral expression on his face. The two braids on his neck carelessly smearing the drying blood as he tilts his head to the other side, “I thought we had somëthïng spëcïal, Charïty.”

My body stiffens and I watch in horror as a crazed grin splits his face in half. Sickeningly loud cracks of his jaw breaking to accommodate his red monstrous mouth. Red pupils and black irises on full display as a trail of bulging red veins form under his right eye. I gulp holding the saber with both hands. This. This is the demon Baëkhyun from my vision. With crooked sharp teeth and long black claws.

Before I can even blink, I’m sent flying back to the wall at the next gust of wind. The breath knocked from my lungs as I gasp for air only to gag at the little I find. And rough hands slamming my back farther against the brick wall. Baëkhyun’s form is barely recognizable in the dark corner of the alley except for his glowing eyes. His panting rancid breath washing over my face at every exhale he makes.

Cringing at the sound of him grinding his teeth, (literal nails on a chalkboard,) I close my eyes; praying to a higher being to come save me. To help me out before I’m...devoured by a demon.

Just as an unnaturally hot tongue flicks against my cheek, a siren fills the air and Baëkhyun stills his breath. After a few moments I feel his hand release me and I slide helplessly to the ground. Not even lifting my head as his heeled boots walk farther away.

“Sorry little lamb.” He purrs along with the sound of metal dragging along the concrete. “We'll play more next time.” I catch the glint of white in his eye before the world swirls out of focus. “For now, I’ll be watching.” His smirk and glowing eyes are the last thing I see before everything goes black, “See you, sweetheart.”

•⇔♦ •⇔♦ •⇔♦ •⇔♦ •⇔♦ •⇔♦ •

Prologue | Part 1 ✓ | Part 2 |

Not to be me but Baëkhyun is the hottest ever 😩🤧🔥

#Baekhyun angst

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