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ridhearts · 2 years

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fated one {vamp!rook x vamp hunter!reader}

HI this one has. a bit of an intro to get through before I can let you read it haha

SO this is actually the fic that inspired me to write the whole au months and months and months ago! I wanted to write vamp rook and then i wanted to write all my faves as vamps and then I wrote some of my friends’ faves as vamps and then I just made HCs for everybody lol. Some things have changed in the “general canon” of the AU (for example, the reader isn’t a vampire hunter in the AU but they are here) but yeah, this is the start of it all :)

HOWEVER - it isn’t finished. This is actually the end of a fic that got away from me and turned out to be a much larger undertaking than I expected, and then I burned out and never finished. I still want to! But it won’t be done by the end of October, so I decided to post the real good stuff here and now :3 I have no promises of when I’ll ever finish that fic so I wouldn’t avoid reading this to wait for it to be published because...who knows if it ever will be. I’ll also be putting a brief synopsis of the lead up under the cut so you know what’s going on, so! Hopefully you won’t be too lost :)

!! information !!

characters: rook

reader: gn (”you” pronouns, read CW)

CW: reader is wearing a dress. if i used french pet names that could be gendered, i (probably) used the female version. ALSO - dubious use of aphrodisiacs/aphrodisiac bites (non-nsfw dubcon (i still don’t know what else to call this)) - also also: blood and blood drinking/turning described vividly.

note: i found a pet name that was said to be outdated but I used it on purpose because I was like “hey, vampires are old, what if Rook used an older french pet name” but if that info is wrong and it sound weird to anybody who knows french i apologize in advance

masterlists ⇿ requests

(Synopsis: Reader is a vampire hunter in an unwelcoming town, assigned to a rather difficult mission that nobody has ever come back alive from. You meet Rook, who leads you to the headquarters of the nearby Pomefiore Coven, only to reveal that he is a vampire and has tricked you. You are kept in the manor against your will, trying to hold on to your mysteriously depleting anger and hatred. [You don’t come to the conclusion that Rook may be using his vampiric seduction against you until you can’t find it within yourself to care.] One night, Rook appears rather giddy and starts making you presentable according to what seem to be very detailed specifications, but he won’t tell you what for...)

—

Rook was the one to wake you up. When he did, you grunted groggily, disoriented by the dark shadows stretched across the room. Squinting in your confusion, you lazily drew your hand up and draped your arm over your eyes, surprised at how foreign such a simple action felt. The sound of wooden doors creaking and fabric shuffling told you Rook was rifling through the wardrobe in your room. His usual jovial humming was silenced, but you could still practically feel the excitement buzzing off of him from across the room. When he returned, he held up something loose and silvery-white in the moonlight. You were briefly able to make out the shape of a dress before he set it aside and helped you lean up.

“Do you mind?” He asked, already deftly unfastening the buttons of your vest and then the blouse beneath. You could only sleepily murmur, even when you felt his gloved fingertips ghost over your skin as he removed the clothing. Rook hesitated for a moment - the thought that he might be admiring the view came to mind, and you couldn’t help but enjoy the rush - before quietly urging you to stand. He allowed you to hold onto him for support while he removed your pants and shoes. Even so, you felt yourself teetering like a branch in the wind, uneven on your feet and uncertain of your surroundings. The only thing that made you feel stable was when Rook stood back up and grabbed your arms, steadying you. You stumbled forward and leaned your head on his shoulder, muttering something about being tired. The longer he let you stay, the more time you wanted to take.

“We aren’t finished,” He reminded you, backing up a step to grab the dress. You felt colder without his touch than you did without your clothes. The fabric was cool and slick as he slipped it over your head, light enough that you barely felt the shape of the dress at all. Rook helped you slide the straps over your shoulders, one hand on your waist while the other fiddled with the few rumbles in the outfit. You tried to lean into him again, but he stopped you. “Patience.”

It took a while, but Rook finally decided you were ready. Clapping his hands in excitement, Rook reached out to take yours and allowed you to purposely tumble into his hold. “The potion is still affecting you, mon lapin?”

You hummed, barely exhaling in surprise when he lifted you in his strong arms. The last shred of your old, rational self told you not to lean too far into his chest, even if the rest of you so desperately wanted to.

“Good.”

Rook turned slowly, taking long strides to the back door leading out to the main garden. The carpet muted his purposeful steps, but the stone of the balcony amplified them. All at once you were hit with so much: the chill of the night air, the smell of some sort of incense and something metallic just beneath, and the bright light of an almost-red moon.Your body already felt limp, weak, as if your physical form were wrapped in a dream while your mind lay awake and alert. The cool breeze brushed over your skin, raising goosebumps on your arms immediately. Your instinct was to curl in on yourself, to protect yourself from the cold. The only thing you managed to do was lull your head to the side, against Rook's shoulder, surrendering yourself to the desires of your majority. Endeared, Rook chuckled softly, the vibrations comforting as you realized once again, despite his convincing masquerade, how empty his body actually was.

Was this really what you were about to allow? Were you to fulfill him? Could you?

Rook deftly stepped over the candles without extinguishing one, taking great care not to tread on the lines etched in stone. He approached the stone table, raised slightly on one end like a chaise and draped in a thin white sheet, before gently placing you on it. The thin barrier did little to provide you comfort as the coolness of the stone crept through the sheet and your dress, chilling every part of you it touched. You shivered, trying to chase after Rook as he pulled away from you. His touch was gentle against your shoulders, carefully easing you down again with hushed comforts.

"Now, now. I won't be long," He murmured, his fingers trailing down your arm before gently encircling your wrist. Reverently, he pressed his lips to your pulse point and let them linger, as if savoring a sensation he'd never have again. "Be good for me and just lie here. I could never leave such a sweet thing unattended for long."

Rook stepped back, still careful not to step on any of the markings, backing up until he was at the border of one of the circles. He grabbed a book you hadn't noticed before, flipping through the pages thoughtfully until he found the one he wanted. You were dimly aware of the way the light washed out around you until the entire courtyard was painted in red.

The candles set up at various points along the lines stopped flickering, the flames standing still and burning just a bit brighter. The wax of the white candles turned red, eventually leading a luminescent red filling in the engraved paths. The intersecting lines and glyphs you didn't recognize lit up, casting an ambient red glow around the table you were on. In the background, Rook chanted something in a language you couldn't understand, eyes fixed on the blood red moon. Adrenaline pulsed through you - not in the form of fear, but in the form of exhilaration.

Snapping the book shut, Rook cast it aside and made his way back over to you. Bathed in the red light and offering you a sinister smile, you wondered briefly how you didn't see he was a vampire before.

"It is time," He breathed, setting his hands on the table before you. You wanted him to touch you. "I promise you will be in good hands."

Before you could ask what he was going to do - a pointless question, really, as you've known since you stepped foot within the manor, and part of you even before then - Rook advanced, opening his mouth and baring his fangs like a cat's silent hiss. He was upon you in an instant, body crossed over yours as he bit into your neck. One of his hands supported his weight on the stone table just beside your hip. The other cradled your head gently, allowing it to fall heavily as he overwhelmed you.

The first pinprick stung, sharp and purposeful in the sensitive area of your neck. You couldn't help but suck in a breath through your teeth, leaning into his grip on your head in a weak attempt to pull away. He kept his fangs in your neck for a few moments, a dull discomfort at the foreign sensation quickly dwindling as something warm began to overtake you. That was all it started as, a heat somewhat familiar and comfortable quickly spreading throughout your body. The strange tingling came next, chased immediately by a pleasure unlike any you've ever experienced before.

Much more pliant in his grip, you could barely stifle the far-too-salacious gasp that came as he removed his fangs from your neck. Immediately, he put his warm lips just over the puncture wounds before you could feel him sucking greedily. Like a parched man in the desert, he drank from your neck, every so often heaving his shoulders as he gulped and pulling himself closer to you. Not many coherent thoughts were racing through your mind, your brain addled with a satisfying numbness, only lit by the occasional sparks Rook lit when his tongue brushed over your wound. All you knew was that you wanted him closer, closer still, that you wanted to give him everything he had asked for on a platter. Lethargically, you tilted yourself closer to him, moaning when his fingers tightened their grip on your hair in a silent instruction to stay still.

You briefly recognized that your body no longer felt heavy and leaden. Rather, the longer Rook held you, the lighter you felt. Your mind was beginning to feel as hazy as your connection to your body, a wonderful harmony you terribly missed. The stone beneath you was no longer as cold as it felt before, and the dull hum replacing the blood in your veins almost made you want to sing. Your thoughts spaced out until you wondered briefly if you might fly away, until the only thing grounding you were Rook's hands, one still cradling your head and the other now pressed firmly against your waist.

Every now and then you would feel him part from your neck, whether to admire his work or to swallow, you weren't sure. Just before he'd duck down for another drink, Rook would run his tongue over the wound he made, lapping up any blood that spilled. Even such a small, incidental dose of venom had your toes curling and whimpers spilling out before you could stop them. Rook seemed to enjoy those as much as he did your blood, allowing you to lean closer still. The lighter you felt, the more he indulged you. For that alone, you didn't want him to ever detach himself from you.

As though you had jinxed it, Rook pulled away moments later, further than he had ever gone before. You could no longer feel his warm, excited breaths fanning over your skin, and you pouted as you mourned your loss. He fondly tittered, the sound encouraging enough to open your eyes just enough to try to convince him to return to you. Your persuasion faltered when you saw him laughing so his fangs were bared. His teeth were stained a faint pink, and staring at them seemed to make your own guns hurt. A deeper red painted his lips like gorgeous, expensive lipstick. You licked your own lips, eyes transfixed. Though you had the vaguest sense of your pulse quickening, you couldn't feel your heartbeat hasten or your breathing shallow. Rook made you feel safe.

"Look at you," he murmured ardently, his own eyes trailing to your clavicle. Following his gaze, you saw a thin trail of red falling down your neck, staining the fabric of your dress and the sheet beneath you. He hadn't let much go to waste. Tilting your head, you stopped when you caught a whiff of something sweet. You turned back to Rook in the hopes he'd explain it to you.

Having taken off one of his gloves, Rook swiped his bare thumb over his lip, staining it red. You watched fastidiously as he brought his thumb to your lip, pressing down with the delicacy of a butterfly's wings to convince you to open your mouth. You did, sticking out your tongue ever so slightly. The gentle pressure of his thumb felt improper somehow, but the sudden burst of flavor quickly overrode any shame that was hovering in your thoughts. Where you expected the bitter taste of iron, pungent and unrelenting, you instead got the sensation of something delectable, almost cloying. You tentatively ran your tongue over the pad of his thumb, doing your best to resist the urge to bite down.

You wanted to take every last drop of blood until not even the faintest scent of it remained, but a sharp pain in your gums had you wincing and opening your mouth to cry out. Rook took his hand back while you pressed your own hand to your cheek, aimlessly rubbing and hoping the pain might subside. It felt as though something were trying to break out of your tissue, sharp and hungry and ready to kill. Part of you wanted to snarl and hiss, the pain harsh enough to draw out the mannerisms of a wild animal from within you. The angry energy pulsed inside of you, hot and entirely unpleasant.

A strong hand cupped your jaw, forcing you to look back at Rook. Without warning, he closed in again, this time capturing your lips with near bruising force. It was less a kiss and more a distraction, a dim discomfort in the strength of his grip and the force of his lips leaving you with something to fight against. When you tried to nip at his bottom lip, to satiate the gnawing urge inside you, Rook pulled away.

"Très bien," With his gaze half-lidded, Rook grinned at you. "How rapturous you are, and so soon after-"

Before he could finish, you cut him off with another kiss. You no longer wished for something else to distract from the pain - aggressive as it was, you couldn't help but feel as though another moment without his affections would kill you. While you kept your biting to yourself, Rook didn't feel the need to, for you felt his fang barely puncture your bottom lip. It didn't hurt, the venom spreading far too quickly in your body to allow it. The pleasant warmth returned, a tingling feeling that had you arching your back and moaning against Rook's mouth. He accepted your move and held you so tightly, you felt nothing short of adored.

When he pulled away the second time - for you would never willingly remove yourself from his grasp, you were realizing - he watched you keenly with his vibrant eyes. Once again you found yourself watching the gears of an unknown machine turning, like a secret was being shared right in front of you in a language you didn't know. Rook squinted his eyes slightly - had you done something wrong? Anxiety settled in your gut as he assessed you, and when he moved a step away you were certain you had never been so crushed.

"Don't fret," he hummed, sweetness dripping off his words like honey, "It's your turn."

"My turn?"

You watched Rook remove his other glove, tucking it into his pocket before holding his wrist up to your face. Dumbly, you stared at it, knowing what you wanted to do but unsure if it was what you were supposed to do.

"Drink."

The deep, almost sultry tone in his voice made you consider falling limp again, but you were being offered something too tempting to waste. Uncertainly, you gripped his wrist and brought it to your lips. Your new fangs grazed over his skin - that didn't seem right - and frustration began to build as you realized you didn't know where to bite.

Rook pulled his wrist away to help, laughing softly when your grip tightened. "I'm not leaving. Try here."

He tapped a spot on his wrist skewed just to the side of his thumb. Without bothering to check for the strength of his pulse, you opened your mouth with little grace and placed your fangs where he pointed. After a moment, you applied more pressure, relishing the way he drew in a sharp breath before letting it out shakily. Though you wanted to see if your own venom could affect him the way he affected you, you felt blood around your lips and quickly removed your fangs so you could drink.

It was difficult, foreign; you were almost certain you were making a fool of yourself, but if you were, Rook didn't seem to mind. He only carefully lifted his wrist up, allowing gravity to assist you in your first drink. His other hand cradled the very base of your skull, slowly easing you back until you were lying again. He didn't say how much you should drink, but you refused to stop. If he wanted you to quit, he'd have to take his wrist away himself.

Eventually, he did, using the edge of the sheet to stop his bleeding. You watched silently, your lips stained red even after you licked the blood from them. Softly, Rook took his hand and brushed your hair from your face.

"Je suis étourdi par votre beauté," he whispered, and for once he didn't take his attention off of you to attend to something else. The overwhelming urge to kiss him once more filled you, along with an overpowering desire for him to bite you again. You felt completely full, filled to the brim with warm blood and the steadfast attention of a vampire you have come to ardently desire.

A strange itching sensation began to prickle your arm. You rubbed at it aimlessly, frustrated at how little that seemed to help. Rook's eyes darted to the moon, so yours did too. Though most of it was just as full and red as it was before, the faintest sliver of the normal gray could be seen.

"Even the reflection of the sunlight will be too strong for you," Rook explained, sweeping you into his arms again. "You will have to hide away in the manor for a while before your new form can withstand the outdoors."

This time, when you cuddled up to him, you meant it. Rook was beyond happy to return the affections, nuzzling against the top of your head while he breezed through the wide doorway, only stopping to situate you far from any windows. "But don't worry! We will personally tend to your needs and help you flourish into a beautiful creature of the night!"

As he pulled thick curtains over the only windows in the room, you watched with a question lodged in his throat. The flickering candlelight made Rook seem even more deliberate, as if he was moving in slow motion. The closer he got, the more details you could make out; there was a darkness simmering just beneath the surface, full of promises that had you squirming in your seat.

Once he was in front of you, Rook grabbed your chin gently and held your head so he could meet your gaze. He grinned and showed his fangs - you were no longer afraid.

"Welcome to the coven, ma mie," He said, leaning closer so his warm breath fanned over your ear. "Whatever it is you desire, I will be happy to personally attend to everything until you are satisfied."

Both of you knew it would take an eternity to sate your needs. Luckily, you both had that kind of time, and neither of you seemed to mind.

#it's a soulmate ritual btw. he's making sure u are his one true love forever n ever <3 #twisted wonderland #twst #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland imagines #twst imagines #vamp au #pomefiore vamp #PLEASE TELL ME IF U LIKE THIS ONE IT TOOK ME 5EVER #AAAAAAAAAAAAA

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nimble-stuff · 1 year

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Attempted Rape || Donnie - Blue Raspberry, Part III “...I want you to live a long, long life with scars to remember me by.”

FANDOM: ROTTMNT Blue Raspberry, Part I Blue Raspberry, Part II Also on AO3

@badthingshappenbingo

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PLEASE CONSULT CWs UNDER THE CUT

CWs (Please read in full) 

- Attempted S/A. All characters involved are teenagers. The event is not glamorized and is discussed and described as something reprehensible. It doesn’t go beyond the attempt. - A character who is a teenager briefly reflects on their sexuality and sexual experiences. The descriptions are vague. If any of this subject matter is upsetting to you, I urge you to please, please put yourself first and read responsibly. General Author’s Note: I'm sorry this took so long! I was extremely sick for a few weeks, and on top of it writing this was very, very difficult and emotionally taxing for me in a way I'm not sure I can properly articulate. I didn't want to shy away from the reality of peer-on-peer sexual violence between teenagers, but at the same time I tried to write in a way that's respectful to the subject matter. I'm scared that I didn't accomplish that in the end but know that I had to do a lot of staring in the mirror. I remember seeing a lot of things when I was a teenager that deeply bothered me so I had to go digging deep into those repressed memories! Man I really did go to a rough high school.

---

Donnie lost track of his brothers hours ago, but their absence wasn't a concern this time. He was hacking the sound system to play his preferred playlists. This sight would have been unthinkable before the Krang invasion, but nowadays, the world was all kinds of weird. It was a blended yōkai-human teen party in the Hidden City, and technically, the Hamato brothers were crashing it, along with most of the party-goers crowding the mansion. He didn’t know who the host was, only that when he and his brothers had heard about the event through the grapevine, they couldn't refuse.

“C’mon, we’ve never gone to a party before!” Leo begged Raph.

“Please, please, please, please, please, please, please?” Mikey grabbed Raph’s ankle and was dragged along the floor.

“I desire a night of debauchery!” Donnie shouted.

“We’ve had parties before,” said Raph.

“Yeah, with just family,” said Leo. “That’s boring. This is a teens-only event!”

“You know some moron is gonna bring alcohol, and we’re underage,” Raph said with satisfaction, as if that settled the matter.

“We won’t touch the stuff,” said Mikey.

“I just want to show off my dance moves,” said Donnie. “I have no interest in intoxication. For the moment.”

“Raph, this is our chance to do something normal teenagers do,” said Leo. “We’re not gonna be the weirdest ones there, and there are already yōkai, so we don't have to use the costume excuse.”

“Please, please, please!” Mikey begged.

Raph rolled his eyes with a sigh and caved. He came along as their chaperone, but when Donnie last saw him, Raph was showing off his diving skills to the crowd and drinking a whole carton of apple juice without pouring it out.

The party was wild, even by teenage standards, and, in line with Raph’s expectations, it was pretty obvious that someone had handed out alcohol at some point. Yōkai teens knew how to go crazy, which was attributable to the looser laws of the Hidden City. The humans who tagged along for the event poured in through a portal in the living room and would probably be too hungover in the morning to remember anything. No one seemed to know who the host was, only that the mansion could fit five lairs, and the music made ears bleed.

Donnie leaned over the balcony, catching a glimpse of Leo, who was surrounded by a crowd of both humans and yōkai. He was spinning a hilarious anecdote, and the audience was roaring with laughter. The sight was surreal, almost like a peek into their lives if they went to a regular school. Leo was basking in the attention, and it stirred a satisfying warmth in Donnie's chest - something akin to pride. After everything they'd been through, Leo deserved to have some time off.

"Hey, there you are!" Mikey hopped up onto the balcony with a flip, perched on the rail and swinging his legs. "I've heard this song like, five times now, and I know it's one of your favorites," he said.

"What a strange but welcome coincidence," Donnie drawled.

"So you're not hacking the sound system, forcing everyone to listen to your tunes?"

"Gasp! You dare accuse me of music-related crimes?!"

"If I were, would you consider committing a music-related crime in my name?"

"...Depends on what kind of reward I could expect."

"How about free hugs?"

"Psh, those cost nothing. Literally, that's why they're free. What else you got?"

"My unending gratitude and love."

Donnie rolled his eyes. "I suppose I could provide a free sample...okay, Miguel, name your request."

"I'm Blue."

"Absolutely not."

"Donnie, if you play I'm Blue, I guarantee that Leo will start dancing to it! It'll make him happy, it'll make me happy!"

"I'm thinking of rescinding music requests."

"Donnie, I'm begging you! I need to hear it!"

Mikey latched onto his arm and shook. Donnie groaned. Only for Mikey.

“You’re lucky you’re my favourite brother,” said Donnie.

“I am?!” Mikey asked. “Do you mean that, Dee?!”

“Nevertheless, I am going to make myself scarce to somewhere quieter to get away from it.

Donnie put on I’m Blue, and no sooner had the singer started singing about a guy living in a blue world when he saw Leo bob his head. He said something else that made his audience laugh. Then the chorus started and he was dancing so horribly that Donnie averted his eyes. Mikey whooped and egged him on.

“I’m not related, I’m not related, I’ve never seen him before in my life, we’re not even the same species,” Donnie chanted under his breath.

He retreated inside the house, away from the raunchy partygoers and deafening music. While Leo entertained the guests, it was an excellent opportunity to do some light snooping. After all, it wasn't every day that he got to sneak around in a yokai mansion. The house resembled a human home, albeit with more mystical objects and scientific marvels lying around. Donnie wondered if the host's parents knew about the party.

His feet crunched on discarded snacks as he mapped out the house. His scans picked up an abundance of abnormal energy signatures, which he could analyze later as a perfect late-night activity. Donnie found himself in an empty office with large windows overlooking the party. The room was deserted and untouched by the partygoers. It was an impressive office, all things considered, with bookcases populated by rare books and an impressive portrait of a moth yokai hung over a fireplace. A self-congratulatory self-portrait, perhaps. Donnie scanned the books and found most of them uninteresting. However, some appeared to be printed fan fiction, which he took photos of for blackmail material.

As he turned to leave, the beats of "I'm Blue" died down, and he took two steps before someone cranked his arm behind his back, and something sharp jabbed into his neck. Donnie struggled, half-expecting to hear one of his brothers burst out laughing, telling him he was too jumpy.

Instead, he caught a whiff of the scent of blue raspberry.

Donnie glimpsed the person holding him reflected in the portrait's glass. Kendra flashed him a wicked smile and said with casual flair, “Hey, Donnie.”

Donnie plunged into ice water. He fought and pulled; she wasn’t strong, he could still pull away—Then he looked in the reflection and saw that it was her bionic pinky finger jabbed at his throat, transformed into a sharp knife.

Kendra’s reflection grinned horribly and she shoved him into the waiting arms of Jeremy. Stupid, he was so stupid. He’d felt eyes on him during the party and assumed they were from the other partiers, should’ve known the eyes of the enemy when they were trained on him. Should’ve felt Kendra’s stare anywhere. It was a unique sensation, a cold prickle that climbed up his spine, and he hadn’t recognized it.

In the year since he’d last seen Jeremy, he’d gotten taller, broader, stronger. Donnie was ready to fight, but Kendra had caught him off-guard and his senses hadn’t caught up yet, and Jeremy seized him in a hard arm lock from behind. Donnie’s feet lifted off the ground as he fought back, then couldn’t without threatening to snap his bones in half.

“Geez, I can’t believe you were right,” said Jeremy.

“Of course I was right,” said Kendra. “I knew the moment I saw your stupid ass brother that you couldn’t be far behind.”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, they’re all stupid,” said Donnie.

Donnie kicked Jeremy’s shin. No reaction. Jeremy pulled Donnie into a full-on hold, grabbing him from under the armpits and locking his hands behind Donnie’s head. His lower body flailed in the air, trying to land a good kick at Kendra as she gawked with wide, adrenaline-fueled eyes.

“Kendra, can we just go?” It was Jase’s voice. Jase stood by the door, looking nervous and off-balance. A light insult in his direction would be enough to push him over.

“Ugh, why are you always such a fucking coward?” Kendra demanded. “Christ, I’m not letting this go this time.”

“Oh, how long are you gonna hold a grudge?” Donnie demanded. “Not to mention, you owe me!”

“Owe you?!”

“I saved your life! I could’ve left you to the Foot Clan.”

“That doesn’t count, Donnie. Besides, I could’ve done the same.”

“Kendra, I think we should really just go,” said Jase. “His brothers are literally right outside.”

“Yeah, and too busy being show-offs to care.”

“What are you doing here, Kendra?” Donnie demanded.

“What the hell does it look like? I was just enjoying the party until you came along. I could practically see your forehead over the heads of the crowd.”

“I knew I should’ve killed you when I got the chance.”

“Well, you fucked that up. Hey, nice stick, by the way. Is it new? I liked the old one better.”

Kendra picked up his bō, twirling it with the haphazard care of someone who had never handled one before. Sweat formed on the back of his neck before Jeremy's hot breath dried it up. The familiar buzz of anxiety clouded his thoughts, and he watched Kendra examine the smooth wood of his bō with an unflinching stare. A few hundred pounds of dismay dropped into Donnie’s stomach.

He knew the look on her face, knew her well. He recognized the satisfied smirk of Kendra cooking up a new way to be unrepentantly evil, knew the smirk that grew into a toothy grin, creating a deep cleft in Donnie’s chest. His breathing increased, but his throat constricted, barely allowing oxygen to fill his anxiety-filled lungs. He felt like he was about to drown on dry land.

“Oh, I got a horrible idea,” Kendra announced, and she laughed, darkness gathering in her eyes. “Damn, I might actually be evil after all. Jeremy, keep holding him.”

“Kendra?” Jase said.

“Shut up, Jase, and watch the door.”

“What are you—”

“I said watch the fucking door!”

Jase turned and did as instructed.

“Ever the good little follower, huh?” Donnie rasped out. He could taste the bitterness on his tongue.

Kendra tightened her grip on Donnie's throat, forcing both him and Jeremy to fall to the ground. Donnie's panic reached a fever pitch, desperate to escape her grasp. In his frenzy, he would have gladly hurled himself through the nearby glass window. In the very peripheral of his vision, he saw Leo surrounded by his posse, ignorant of what was happening. Donnie couldn’t fathom how Leo’s world was expanding when his was ending.

Donnie clawed at Jeremy’s arms before he locked up his arms, facing him towards Kendra. Her hand touched Donnie’s hip. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but the room was pitching. Dread punched into his gut and released chilling adrenaline. Donnie screwed his eyes shut, hoping it would lock out the sensation of Kendra pressing against him, pressing against his knees, pressing them apart—

He realized what was coming, what she wanted. Humiliation. It wasn’t enough hurting him. Exposing him. She wanted everything. His identity. His dignity. Shutting his eyes amplified her presence, made her wretched touch burn on his skin like she was holding it against hellfire. No matter where he went, what he did, Kendra could insert her presence into it, blow her breath on his cheek. Donnie pressed his cheek against the shoulder of Jeremy’s windbreaker, digging his nails into his palms until hot blood ran down his wrists.

“Kendra—” Donnie’s voice stumbled, struggled over words, wound them up tight. He didn’t recognize his voice. He wrenched one leg away from her, pressed his calf up against her sternum. “Kendra, think about this—”

“Keep begging, Donnie, you know I like it,” said Kendra.

“Kendra, please—”

Liquid ice pumped through Donnie’s vein. He froze, despite every ounce of willpower screaming at him to fight. Kendra’s hands were a curse that nullified his body, made him dizzy with fear. She pushed his calf aside and ran a cautious hand up the length of his long legs. Extending her bionic pinky finger, she transformed it into a small knife, not even big enough to cut vegetables. Only enough to cut him.

He thought for a horrifying moment that she was going to slice his shorts right off. Although she didn’t, what she did do was nevertheless awful. Kendra insert the blade into the meat of inner thigh and carved.

Stars went supernova in the black of Donnie’s eyelids. He decided to keep them open, the lesser of two evils. At least with his eyes open he saw what was coming, see what Kendra was doing. He bit his tongue on the pain, then couldn’t hold back anymore and cried out, jerking his leg until Kendra held it steady with crushing force. Maybe he could still fight, kick her while she was distracted, bite Jeremy on the arm, but his body froze, couldn’t and didn’t move.

“Kendra,” Donnie said.

“Relax, I’m just marking my territory,” said Kendra.

“Just kill me.”

“I’m not gonna kill you, Donnie. On the contrary, I want you to live a long, long life with scars to remember me by. In fact, I hope you meet the love of your life, so they can see this and know that I got to you first.”

A sudden spike of pain made Donnie jolt. Kendra drove the blade in deep, slicing with the confidence of someone who wanted to make the scars last. Against his better judgment, Donnie looked down and saw the outlines of bleeding letters.

His chest was heaving, but he couldn’t intake oxygen, and he had little choice but to rest his head against Jeremy’s shoulder and stare at the ceiling. Raph’s awkward sex talks flooded back to him, and despite his confidence in the power of science, he couldn’t—he wanted to remember what Raph had said, what had Raph said about this? Just say no? No, he’d said to fight. Donnie’s body wouldn’t cooperate, he couldn’t even though it should be so, so simple to crush Kendra’s head between his knees and throw her off. Raph made it sound so easy.

He’d never thought about sex before, not seriously. It was a biological urge, a distraction to be dealt with behind closed doors. Donnie had never—well, not with someone else. He ran through the process in his mind, struggled to remember Raph’s awkward sex talks, realized that technical knowledge didn’t make up for lack of experience. Shit, Kendra was turning him inside out.

Donnie made a strangled, awful sob when Kendra moved onto his other leg. He felt he might pass out. He needed to breathe yet his chest was cluttered with heaving cries. His face was wet. Donnie couldn’t tell it was sweat or tears. Both tasted salty. His gaze travelled and locked with Jase standing by the door and he was looking at him with open fear and Donnie had to pull his eyes away with shame.

“Hey, Jase, get a picture of this,” Kendra said.

“I…” Jase was holding onto the doorknob with white-knuckled strength.

“C’mon, don’t be an ass!”

“I gotta go.”

Jase bolted out the door.

“Fucking typical!” Kendra huffed. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. Take a good, long look, Donnie.”

Donnie stared at the ceiling panels. They were a deep onyx, almost reflective.

“I said LOOK!”

Kendra seized him by the back of his neck and forced his gaze down, at the words she’d written, one on each inner thigh. Donnie could barely read them through a watery film and he watched tears make a long journey from his eyes to the floor.

---

“So I said, ‘You really shouldn’t play too much faith in atoms.’ And so Donnie—that’s my stupid brother—he was like, why not? And I said, ‘Because atoms make up everything!’”

Leo’s audience, a collection of both human and yōkai teens, some drunk, some not, roared with canned laughter, although the joke was pretty terrible even by his standards. For the moment, Leo didn’t care. He was in his element, a true extrovert’s paradise, at the centre of a gaggle of people whose names he didn’t remember at a party at an address he couldn’t recall. It was the epitome of the teenage experience, a night of mindless debauchery and Splinter didn’t even know where they were.

It was liberating. Living in the sewers often felt like living in a prison. Sure, they had the Hidden City to retreat to, but Leo liked sunshine and crowded beaches, and not getting stared at, and it was hard to replicate the feeling of the sun on his face when the Hidden City was so deeply entrenched underground in more way than one. He wanted to go to movies without wearing a disguise, and sometimes—though he would never admit it—he even wanted to go to school.

But tonight, the human and yōkai teens around him didn’t care about that. They didn’t care about appearances, or who lived on what surface. No one cared and the freedom tasted mesmerizing.

The crowd was still in the middle of laughter when Leo caught an unexpected movement out of the corner of his eye and his smile caught. A hand grabbed his arm.

“Wait, I know you,” Leo said, turning to the new face.

It wasn’t new, though. It was Jase.

“You need to help Donnie,” said Jase, before Leo could say anything.

“What?”

“You need to help Donnie.”

Ice crystals formed in his veins. The audience was still laughing over nothing. It didn’t matter anymore, the popularity, the stories, the stares of admiration. He thought about Donnie, about Jase. About the common thread that linked both of them together.

Where was Donnie?

It had been a while since he’d seen Donnie. He scanned the balcony where he’d last seen him and saw nothing.

“Where?” Leo asked.

“Office, second floor.” Jase pointed to the house. “It’s on the left—”

Leo was running before Jase could even finish his sentence. He didn’t even take the stairs, just crawled up a pillar and over the railing of the balcony. There was only one way Jase would be here. Donnie hadn’t sent out an emergency distress beacon, but Leo hit the one on his belt, anything to get Mikey and Raph’s attention when he couldn’t spare the time to go looking for them in the crowd.

He shoved past some party-goers and ran.

---

Kendra's fingers seared hot on his throat as she gave his windpipe a tight squeeze. Black spots erupted in Donnie's vision, pulling him into the void. He tried to decide if being unconscious would be better, but Kendra took that away from him too and loosened her grip for him to breathe. Perhaps that's what she wanted—for him to remember.

"Jeremy, do you want to go first, or should the stick go first?" Kendra asked conversationally.

"I'll go after the stick," said Jeremy.

"Just don't get pissed if you get a splinter."

Kendra reached for his bō, and Donnie desperately wanted to fold together like origami paper, to hide small, vulnerable fissures growing wider and wider in his flesh.

BANG.

Hope literally broke down the door.

Leo looked like a saviour when he stepped over the threshold, a long-awaited hero here to slay the dragon and rescue him. Donnie gasped out his name, "Leo!" and watched in satisfaction as angered surprise appeared on Kendra, hardening her, tight with fury at the interruption.

Leo froze. He took in the sight in front of him - Jeremy holding Donnie from behind, Kendra between his legs, his bō in her hand. They all just stared for a long while as Donnie watched everyone calculate their next move.

Something horrible happened to Leo's face. Stormy rage gathered and exploded. He drew a katana in a single move.

He and Kendra were two gunslingers at high noon, and Kendra held up her bionic finger at the exact same time. A powerful blast ripped through the room, and Leo leapt to the side to avoid a white hot laser beam. Kendra must've taken his advice about the heat sink. The arms holding Donnie let go. Jeremy was gone. Donnie scrambled back, crying out, and then - glass shattered. He glimpsed Kendra standing in front of the broken window, and their gazes caught in the moments before she leapt out. When they did, she smirked something awful and blew a kiss.

By the time Leo got to his feet, Kendra and Jeremy had both leapt out the window, both with katanas drawn. Donnie saw the intention in his face to pursue them, to leave him.

"Leo?" Donnie said, unable to keep the hysterical note out of his voice. "Leo?!"

The call worked. Leo rushed back to Donnie.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" Leo exclaimed. "Donnie, are you alright? Holy shit!"

Donnie didn't get time to answer when Raph barrelled in through the door, followed shortly by Mikey.

"What the hell is going on?!" Raph asked.

"Raph, I need you to take Donnie home," said Leo. He sliced a portal through the wall. "Mikey, you're with me."

"What? What's going on?"

"Take. Donnie. Home!"

No argument, no leeway. Donnie's senses were alight with panic, and he saw Mikey and Raph's eyes flick to the blood pooling on the ground beneath him. He saw the argument die in Raph's eyes as he scooped him off the ground and they dove through the portal.

---

They lost the Purple Dragons so quickly it was almost comical. Leo spent what felt like an eternity leading Mikey around the area surrounding the mansion, searching for any sign of them, but came up empty-handed. Kendra had made a speedy escape, and when they returned to the party to find Jase, he had also vanished. He had enough of a conscience to call for help when Donnie needed it, but apparently felt guilty enough to make himself scarce when Leo started looking for him. It was as simple as that.

Leo couldn't stop trembling. He felt like a newborn child, bombarded with sights, sounds, and sensations, his senses screaming at him from all sides. He felt like he might be sick. He felt like a failure.

He had failed Donnie. He had made a silent promise to never let this happen to Donnie again, and yet it had occurred right under his nose.

"Leo?" Mikey said.

Leo looked up. He and Mikey were lingering outside the mansion's gates, where he paced, restless and eager for action. His katanas were out, but he couldn't seem to keep a firm grip on them.

"Leo, what happened?" Mikey asked.

He hadn't told Mikey what happened, hadn't told him what he saw, only that they were looking for the Purple Dragons. He didn't need to know the rest, didn't need to be subjected to what Leo had witnessed. Donnie wouldn't want that.

"Leo, what happened?" Mikey repeated.

"You don't need to know," said Leo.

"But something happened to Donnie, right? And the Purple Dragons were involved?"

"Yeah."

"So what happened?"

Leo didn't have an answer he desperately wanted to give Mikey. He paced back and forth on the street, restless, desperate to take action.

“Do you know where Kendra lives?” Leo asked suddenly.

“No?” said Mikey. “Donnie would know that. Should I call—”

“Don’t call him, for fuck’s sake!”

“Leo, you’re scaring me a little here. What’s going on?”

“It’s not important. What’s important is tracking down the Purple Dragons.”

“Leo, look around us. They got away.”

“They didn’t! We just need to look a bit longer—”

“We’re not gonna find them like this! We need Donnie’s help.”

“No, we’re not involving Donnie! Not in this, not with anything to do with those fucking psychopaths!”

Breathless, Leo leaned a hand against the wall and rubbed his eyes. Mikey set a hand on his shoulder and let out a long sigh, resigned.

“We can’t do anything here,” said Mikey. “Let’s go home and see what’s happening.”

Leo didn’t want to face what awaited them back at the lair. He didn’t tell Mikey that, but Mikey must’ve seen it in his eyes because he squeezed hard.

Leo cut the portal into the wall a little more ferociously than he intended, and the cool sensation of stepping through it wasn’t relieving like it usually was. He had to let Mikey push him a little to step all the way through, and when he did, it was to yelling.

The common room was always a mess, but it looked like a bloody hurricane had ripped through in their absence. The crimson trail ended at the open doors to the medbay, where Raph stood with his hands up, and Splinter was off to the side with long lines of stress cracking his face.

“Get the fuck away from me!” Donnie screamed from the medbay.

A drawer of medical equipment flew over Raph’s head, scattering across the floor with a metallic clutter. Splinter turned to Leo and Mikey.

“Blue, what is going on?” Splinter asked.

“Donnie, you need to let me check you for injuries—” Raph ducked as a scalpel flew out. “Geez, Donnie, I’m not trying to hurt you! It’s Raph!”

“I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t CARE!” Donnie yelled, voice cracked and broken. “I don’t care, just stay away!”

“Donnie’s resisting treatment?” Leo asked. The question had a dual purpose. Dodge his father’s question. Try to lighten the mood.“He always was a bad patient.”

“Leonardo, what happened?” Splinter asked again.

“The Purple Dragons happened,” said Leo.

“What?”

Leo peered around the corner. He’d seen Donnie at his worse, seen him throw tantrums and lose his shit, but this was a whole other level. It was full on ugly-crying, eyes looking past and not at Leo, a wild animal kicked into survival mode. Crimson ran down his legs, but Leo scarcely had time to look before Donnie seized a chair and lifted it over his shoulder, ready to swing. A full body-tremble running through Donnie made the chair shake too, made him unsteady on his feet.

Injured animals were the most dangerous. Leo didn’t want to see where the blood ended, to let his mind go to the worst case scenario. He wanted to huddle in a corner and cry, but when he caught Raph’s look, he saw that he was near tears. Helpless. Raph had done all the tending, all the caring when they were growing up, when Splinter was too lost within himself. It was Leo’s turn.

“Donnie, stop throwing things before you take someone’s head off,” Leo said.

“Leave me alone!” Donnie screamed.

Leo leapt out of the way to avoid getting smacked by an airborne chair. Donnie then seized another.

“That’s the last chair in the room, Donnie,” said Leo. “If you throw that, you’re out of ammo.”

Crazed, Donnie swung the chair, prepared to strike, tears running down his face and dripping off his chin. Leo slid into the room.

“It’s just me,” said Leo. “We’re home now. I know it’s really tempting to throw furniture at this face, but please don’t.”

Donnie swung the chair, grazing Leo.

“Donnie, I’m gonna take the chair from you because you might hurt yourself.”

Another swing. Leo caught it that time, held the chair tight as Donnie fought against him.

“Don’t!” Donnie demanded. “Don’t!”

“Donnie, focus! It’s me, your stupid brother Leo! You’re at home!”

Donnie let out a loud sniff, stared at Leo’s chest. His body was shaking so badly that Leo felt it rattling through the chair.

There was a long moment that pushed past the incoherent terror in Donnie’s eyes. He looked away, ashamed, stared at the blood on the floor, the chair in his hands, the way Leo took the chance to grab firmly onto his hand, the sweat, the silent hum of the overhead lights, Raph’s rapid breathing from behind Leo.

Donnie’s hand was clammy and cold to the touch, and Leo remembered the morning they’d first brought him home after he’d first been kidnapped by the Purple Dragons, how he looked like another being, how much this Donnie in front of him looked like the strange being he’d watched sleep in a beanbag chair in the living room for five nights straight.

Donnie’s shoulders stooped low, and Leo would never be able to tell if it was his willpower giving away or simply the weakness taking over when he pulled the chair out of his hands and set it aside.

“I don’t want to—I can’t, I just can’t—don’t touch me!”

Donnie turned from him, holding his face in his hands like it was enough to hide him. Leo watched the full-body tremor start in his brother’s midsection and radiate outwards, down his legs, destabilizing him. Donnie didn’t seem to be breathing. Leo’s eyes lingered on the blood running freely down his legs.

“Donnie, I’m gonna help you over to the examination table,” said Leo.

Donnie smacked away Leo’s hand. It stung something awful in more way than one. Leo gave him a moment, and moved slow-steady to take Donnie by the arm. Donnie burst out in a crying fit, a horrible sob ripping out of his mouth to fill the deathly quiet of the medbay.

“Relax, Herman,” said Leo. “It’s just your favourite brother, Leo. I’m helping you to the examination table.”

The twelve foot walk to the nearest examination table might as well have been a marathon. Donnie’s knees jolted and threatened to buckle. But he kept going. All that mattered was that he kept going, with gentle coaxing from Leo, until finally he was settled on the edge of the bed and pressing his palms hard onto his ears.

Leo had forgotten entirely that everyone else was watching nervously from the door. It was only when Donnie was seated and not throwing anything that they stepped in.

Leo’s eyes passed over the source of the blood: some deep cuts sliced into his inner thighs. Donnie caught him looking and pressed his legs tight together.

“We need to stitch those up,” said Leo. “They’re pretty deep.”

Donnie smacked Leo’s hand away.

“Goddamn,” Leo said, a little more shortly than he intended. “I’m trying to help!”

“I…I can…” Donnie huffed out. He did something that looked like it took a lot of effort. “I can do it.”

“No, you fucking can’t. You can’t even hold your hands still, let alone hold a small, sharp object.”

“Leo?” Raph said.

“In a minute, Raph. Okay. Okay. We’re gonna stitch you up, Donnie, then you’re just gonna…you’re gonna rest while we figure this out.” Leo fumbled through a few drawers for the suture. His hands were no more steady than Donnie’s. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“Leo, I need to talk to you outside,” said Raph. “Now.”

Raph was staring at him with alarmed eyes. His phone was in his hands.

Mikey hopped up on the examination table next to Donnie, and, unlike Leo, Donnie didn’t resist when Mikey slid their hands together.

The common room felt ice cold when Donnie and Raph stepped out. Splinter was sitting just outside the medbay, also starring at his phone with the most haunted, horrible look Leo had ever seen.

“Leo, what the hell is this?” Raph asked.

Raph held out his phone to Leo, showing a series of photos sent from an unknown number, though Leo didn’t have to have one to know who had sent them. It was a series of pictures of Donnie. Graphic ones. He wasn’t naked in any of them, but that didn’t make the sight any less disturbing. Kendra had taken photos from the most disturbing angles possible, and the words carved onto Donnie’s inner thighs were perfectly visible.

They read: KENDRA’S SLUT.

Leo fought to keep his stomach in his body. After a moment, Raph gently shook his shoulder.

“Is this what you saw?” Raph asked.

Leo nodded.

“Did you see how far—”

“I think I stopped it before it could.”

Raph scooped Leo into a hug and squeezed hard, lifting him off the ground. They held each other for a long while, silent, and he looked over the crook of Raph’s elbow to Splinter. He was staring, lost, at his own phone, and it didn’t take long for it to click together.

That bitch. She gained absolutely nothing from this, nothing except tearing Donnie down.

“How many people do you think she sent this to?” Raph asked.

“Too many,” said Leo.

Leo ducked back into the medbay. He didn’t hear what Mikey was saying to Donnie, but the intonations were soothing and hushed.

“Donnie, do you have your phone?” Leo asked. “Mikey, I need yours too.”

“Why?” Mikey asked.

Leo plucked Mikey’s phone out of his hands. Donnie was slower to respond, squinting at Leo, holding his phone protectively.

“Why do you want it?” Donnie asked.

“I just need to see it,” said Leo.

“But why?”

Leo snatched it away without an answer, and it was a good thing he had; Kendra had spammed Donnie with texts. With photos that made Leo want to puke, disturbing angles, close-ups of the words, then a series of very long and graphic texts describing what she would do the next time they met.

“She took pictures, didn’t she?” Donnie asked.

As much as he wanted to lie, Leo couldn’t. Donnie deserved the truth. “Yeah, she did.”

Donnie took two breaths, holding in oxygen between them, then he finally looked away.

“I want Dad,” said Donnie.

“We really need to stitch up those cuts,” said Leo.

“I want Dad.”

It hurt a little. It felt like a rejection. It wasn’t. Leo still felt the hurt skewer his guts, at the way Donnie refused to look at him or Mikey.

---

Raph’s fist slammed into solid brick, cracking a gaping hole that radiated out, a cobweb of their collective trauma. Mikey shook all over, fists curled, arms rigid at his side, and Leo wanted to go up to him and pull apart his fingers to get him to relax, but didn’t want to break him more than he already had and everything felt broken already and he didn’t want to be the cause of more hurt.

Leo felt like a failure. After what had happened with the Purple Dragons the first time around, he’d sworn never to let it happen again, never to let the Purple Dragons interfere with their life, never let any villain to mess with his brothers in the way they’d messed with Donnie. Although he knew intellectually that this was all unforeseen, that he shouldered no real blame, that didn’t make the horrible, crushing weight on his shoulders any less bone-breaking. He saw it reflected in Mikey and Raph, too. Saw white light glinting on Raph’s moist eyes.

“Why didn’t you catch her, Leo?” Raph asked.

“Because she’s too damn smart for her own good and because she had a head start,” said Leo. “Don’t you think I would’ve caught and beat the everliving shit out of her if I could?”

“How could you possibly lose her?!”

“I wasn’t gonna leave Donnie alone! What, you wanted me to leave him bleeding on the floor?”

“I’m just sayin’ if you’d used your portals—”

“I was surprised! You’re not saying anything that I haven’t already told myself a million times over.”

“You should’ve let me chase after them too. If the three of us worked together, we could’ve caught them.”

“You’re too slow on foot, Raph, you wouldn’t have been able to catch up.”

“Apparently you’re not that fast either.”

“Stop it!” Mikey stepped in, voice sharp. “This isn’t about pinning blame on who didn’t do what, and it’s not about your big fat egos! It’s about Donnie. Check yourselves.”

The argument closed down fast. Mikey was good at that.

Splinter emerged from the medbay, looking stressed but focused, and locked eyes with the three of them.

“Purple is fine,” said Splinter. “He has no injuries aside from those cuts.”

“Dad, how far did it go?” Leo asked. “Did he tell you?”

“You appeared before anything…Well, your appearance was timely.” Splinter squeezed Leo’s hand. “Could you boys look after your brother while I am gone?”

“Wait, you’re going after her?” Leo asked.

“Yes, and before you ask, no, you cannot come. I told that girl what the consequences would be if this happened a second time and I intend to deliver.”

“What’re you gonna do? Are you gonna kill her?”

Splinter was quite a moment, thinking. “It…feels wrong to kill someone so young no matter how horrible she is. I will not hurt her…No, I am going to ruin her life, and I will start by speaking with her parents.”

“Ouch, she might wish you’d killed her after that,” said Mikey.

“Dad, let me come,” Leo begged.

“Your spirit is strong, my son, but your brother needs you here,” said Splinter. “Let me handle this.”

There was no room for argument, only a tight, claustrophobic corner where Leo tried to dredge one up and found none, and he realized that he didn’t want to leave Donnie’s side, that he would do anything in that moment to protect Donnie, and that going after his attacker wasn’t the only way to do that.

Mikey slid into the medbay. Leo glanced inside to find Donnie dressed in sweatpants and his preferred purple hoodie pulled far over his head, staring at his hands and flinching away when Mikey came too close. Donnie glanced up, and his and Leo’s stares caught.

Leo blacked out for a moment, and when he came to, he was in his room, grabbing the doorframe for support to steady his breathing. Raph was right behind him, his shadow swallowing him whole.

“It was my idea to go to that stupid party,” said Leo.

“Leo, I’m real sorry,” said Raph. “I’m sorry I yelled, I shouldn’t have—I…I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean any of it. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You think Donnie feels that way?”

“Of course he doesn’t. You stopped her before it got worse, and Donnie’s safe now.”

“I should’ve been there faster.”

“Leo, you got there fast enough. Don’t punish yourself like this.”

“…God, I’m doing just what Mikey said not to do: I’m making it all about myself. How do we fix this, Raph? How?”

Raph didn’t have the answers. Leo realized that none of them did, that it was pointless to go grasping at something that didn’t seem to have them.

Too often in the past, Leo had gone looking to Donnie for answers. How to solve a problem, how to fix something broken, how to win the unwinnable. Now Donnie didn’t have answers either and Leo was adrift in an uncertain sea, the harsh tide battering his broken body on jagged rocks. There was no answer, only the vague sense of a great injustice, and the knowledge that there was very little he could do to mend the cracks left behind.

---

Leo slept restlessly on the couch for a few hours, plagued with nightmares and the vague sense of being unsettled. He felt as though a monster was living under the couch, poking through the cushions with pins and needles, and he ached far too much when his brain convinced him to wake up fully.

Splinter still wasn’t back. Concerning, but not surprising. Leo knew he could take care of himself but he shot out a message to him anyway. It was early morning, and he knew that April would be getting up pretty soon, and suddenly he wondered if Kendra had sent any photos to her as well. Leo shot off a text to April asking her to call him first chance she got and hoped to God she would see his text before anything Kendra might’ve sent her.

Donnie wasn’t in the medbay, but Raph stood guard outside his open bedroom door, leaning on the frame and staring inside. Donnie was at his computer, hands clutched firmly around a controller, headphones on. It was typical Donnie-speak for ‘Don’t-even-think-about-interrupting-me,’ a warning sign to keep others away.

“How’s the brainiac doing?” Leo asked Raph, voice low. “Did you talk to him?”

“I tried,” said Raph. “I tried, Leo, I tried for an hour and he shut me out. Then Mikey tried, and Donnie yelled at him.”

“He yelled at Mikey. Mikey?” Leo massaged his forehead. “Alright, guess it’s Leon’s turn.”

“Don’t take it personally if he gets upset, just…just drop it if he doesn’t want to talk.”

“I can handle it.”

Donnie didn’t stir when Leo pulled up a rolling stool beside him.

“Are you winning, son?” Leo asked.

No answer. Not even a snark or a side eye. Even though Donnie’s attention was on the game, there was no real sense of focus to it, only muscle memory. He was playing Terraria, building a tower that was far more asymmetrical than Donnie typically liked to build.

“Donnie?” said Leo.

“I’m busy,” Donnie said curtly. At least his voice was normal.

“Get un-busy.”

“I formally apologize for all the trouble that has been…I mean, I’m issuing a formal apology.”

“You didn’t cause the trouble, Dee.”

Donnie didn’t answer him. “I’m busy, can’t talk.”

“Donnie, we didn’t talk about what happened the last time the Purple Dragons were in the picture, and I can’t let you slide away again.”

“That was by design. I’m not discussing this.”

“I don’t care you you talk to, just that you talk to someone. What—What about April?”

“Why the hell do you think I’d go over this with April? With anyone?”

“So, what? You’re just gonna repress the shit out of everything and not deal with it?”

“And here I was worried that I would have to explain it in excruciating detail.”

“Donnie—”

“Discussion over.”

“Can we just—”

“Over.”

Leo looked, helpless, at Raph, hoping he could swoop in and fix the problem. Raph couldn’t though, this was beyond even Raph. He didn’t know how to break the wall Donnie rapidly built between them. What was he going to do? Bring a sledgehammer down on it? Rip the controller out of his hand, rob Donnie of the choice like Kendra had tried to rob him?

Donnie’s hands were shaking on the controller. He paused as if taking a breath in a marathon, taking in air.

“Can I do anything?” Leo asked. He couldn’t be sure if he was asking for himself or for Donnie.

“…Moon Lord,” said Donnie.

“Huh?”

“Moon Lord. I need to fight the Moon Lord to get…I need more materials. Grab a controller.”

“Sounds like a four-turtle job.”

Donnie’s head dipped a little. His eyes were wide, unseeing.

“Feels like we could use two extra hands if we’re gonna go ham on the Moon Lord,” said Leo. “Teamwork makes dreamwork, am I right?”

Donnie nodded and didn’t stop. He set his controller down and squeezed Leo’s knee, rubbing a sleeve over his eyes. Raph gave Leo a thumbs up and left to grab Mikey, and when he was gone and when Donnie pulled back his arm, his eyes were perfectly dry, devoid of the miserable ache that had been there before. Wherever it had gone, Donnie had burned and buried it in a place that no one, not even Leo, could hope to touch.

#bad things happen bingo #rottmnt #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt leo #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt raph #this one really is a bad things happen #please please read responsibly #nimble writes

9 notes · View notes

merakiui · 3 years

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What do you think of the concept of yan!xiao, childe venti trapping their darling in a teapot?

I feel like they would be less restrictive since the darling wouldn't necessarily be able to escape most likely, so they wouldn't worry about restraint much. Esp in Ventis case...he is the God of freedom so while his darling isn't exactly 'free' they're still kinda free in a way that they have their own world to be free in?

Xiao would probably be somewhat restricted, but only just keep them in the house because he probably wouldn't trust them to be by themselves yet--he figures they may try to run off and hide from him or something

Childe would probably let them try to "escape" on purpose and would be absolutely amused when his darling finds out they wouldn't be able to leave

(cw: yandere, captivity, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, mention of children and implied stockholm syndrome for childe’s part)

Venti doesn't exactly lie to you, but he does trick you. He's aware that it's not the nicest thing to do and that it's not exactly captivity if you're living in a world that resembles the one outside. Only this pocket-sized world is nicer and happier and there aren't any people to get in the way. He tells you about it when you're vulnerable. Maybe you're drunk or you're crying your eyes out because something horrible happened. Either way, you're not in the right state of mind when you make the comment: "I wish I could live in my own ideal world for just one day." And this is great news for Venti because it makes relocation so much easier.

He shows you the teapot and explains it briefly, leaving out certain details. It's better if you don't know everything about how the teapot works. After all, ignorance is bliss. Venti tells you how to get in, but he doesn't tell you how to get out. And the way he describes it makes it sound so tempting—as if living inside this teapot for a bit will cure whatever's bothering you. You decide it wouldn't hurt to spend a day or two inside the teapot to see the little world Venti holds in the palms of his hands.

It's a lot of fun at first. You and Venti glide from the top of the mountains in Emerald Peak, he sings melodious ballads as you look up at the sky, and the two of you play hide-and-seek inside of the house, playfully popping out of rooms and laughing when you’re caught. Eventually the charm wears off and you start to yearn for the outside world. It’s not the same in the teapot. As pretty and peaceful as it may be, it still feels so empty. And when you bring it up to Venti he finds small ways to change the subject. It probably plays out like this:

“Venti, I’d like to go home now.”

“But we were just about to play another round of hide-and-seek! Come on! Don’t be a spoilsport! One more round? Then we’ll leave.”

Or he’ll tell you that you’re already home. There’s always a big smile on his face when he says stuff like that. He’s happy that he gets to spend so much time with you and no one can interfere. But it does get annoying when you start to beg for the old world. Your pleas to leave will fall upon his deaf ears. Venti does feel a little bad when you start to sulk, but his sympathy is short-lived. Let’s not forget that you were the one who wanted this. You wanted to live in your ‘ideal world.’ And isn’t this ideal?

As an adeptus, Xiao is aware of Sub-Space Creation and the effort it takes to construct a presentable teapot. He’s been working hard on his ever since you came into his life. Before he knew you he didn’t have a reason to put effort into it because he stays at Wangshu Inn, but after he met you he started working a lot harder. He tries to make the teapot as comfortable as possible. You mentioned you like dogs or cats in passing? You can find a few in the teapot. You said you like berry bushes and flower fields? There’s a bunch in his teapot. He probably has a nearly perfect model of your room in there as well. Before he brings you into the teapot, he’ll often sit in that room and make sure everything replicates the original, down to the bed frame and the fabric used for the pillow case.

He’ll put some of your things in it just so it feels more personal. Xiao knows he’s stealing from you whenever he does this, but it’s not like you ever noticed anything was missing. Besides, it’s all going in the teapot anyways. You won’t even need your real room or mortal possessions anymore. Xiao is actually quite proud of the teapot and manages to fool himself into thinking you’ll like it, too. And you do (for the first few days, that is). He’s very forward with his question of whether or not you’d like to see his teapot. And you eagerly nod because the two of you are friends and Xiao wants to show you something he made and he looks a little…excited? There’s definitely light in his eyes when he gets your agreement to view the inside of his teapot.

Once you’re inside, you’re genuinely surprised. It’s far more beautiful than you could have ever imagined. The Floating Abode is a really gorgeous landscape. You’re so caught up in looking at the sunset and the flowers and the animals that roam the teapot that you aren’t aware of the horrors that lie just beyond. You’ll find the room that resembles yours in no time and it’s really creepy. As much as you try to tell yourself that Xiao means well and wouldn’t actually do something like this on purpose, it’s hard to ignore the fact that everything is practically identical to your room. It’s so, so strange. You want to ignore it, but you just can’t. It’s so obvious.

It’s definitely creepy, but you don’t have the heart to tell him.

You hold your tongue because you don’t want to hurt his feelings. You’re really the only close friend he has, so you’d feel bad if you insulted his interior decorating skills. Xiao’s pleased to hear that you like it so much. Praise falls from your lips like a waterfall and it gives him a sense of relief. He’s so happy that you like it and since you’re okay with it it’ll be fine if you live here. When he tells you that, your brain freezes and you’re not sure how to respond.

“Live here? Like…permanently?”

And to your shock he nods.

Xiao is far less lenient than Venti. With Venti everything feels like eternal, childish fun with the idea of freedom sprinkled in. But with Xiao it’s definitely a harsher form of captivity. You aren’t allowed outside because he’s worried you might fall off of the bridges that connect the floating islands or you might try to find your way out of the teapot. So you’re confined to the mansion. It’s got everything you could ever need and the interior design matches that of your home perfectly. Just treat it like it’s your own home and it won’t be so bad. You definitely try to see the good in this situation because you care about Xiao, but it’s so hard when he’s keeping you here like you’re just another addition to his teapot.

It’s miserable, but at least you can count on him to visit you every single day.

Childe is very receptive to the idea of owning his own little world in a small teapot. Maybe he was holding you captive before he came upon the teapot and while you’re sleeping he relocates you. You don’t expect to wake up in a new location, but you assume you’re still somewhere in Liyue. Childe finds it cute that you’re so startled, clearly confused with the change in scenery. And when you glance at the surroundings on the Cool Isle, it feels like you might have a chance. Childe seems to think so because he waves you off, telling you with the sincerest voice that you’re ‘free to go.’

You don’t need to be told twice and so you run because you’re invigorated. You can leave and he’s not coming after you. Childe doesn’t even raise his bow in warning. You’re actually leaving him and he’s letting you! But it feels too good to be true. A day passes and you learn that there’s no one else to help you. So you find an empty shack on the shoreline and you hide in it because survival is the only thing you know right now. And the day goes by, the night comes, and morning makes its arrival. You’re still safe. He hasn’t found you.

And it really feels like you can make it out of this. Even if there’s no one around, you can still find something to help you. You’d take anything at this point. By the end of the week, you’re losing sight of your goal and you really just want to head back to the mansion and nap on a comfortable bed. You’ve been catching the crabs and the fish and doing what you can to start a long-lasting fire. When Childe finds you, you’re so exhausted from running and hiding that you collapse into his arms. And he smiles so sweetly while he tells you something that shatters your entire world.

“You did well, comrade, but this isn’t Liyue. You have no need to run.”

It’s not even Teyvat. It’s another world entirely—one existing solely within a teapot. And everything comes crashing down when you realize just how impossible that makes any escape attempts. No human contact. No energy or life that comes from meeting with friends and seeing family. It truly does feel like you and he are the only people in this world.

Childe knows that you’ll adjust to this new world whether you like it or not. It was fun to toy with you in the beginning (and it still is) when you didn’t realize this was the world inside the teapot. But now he just wants to settle into a comfortable life. He takes every chance he has to visit you and eventually you’ll find yourself succumbing to the relaxing pleasures of domestic life. You learn how to cook delicious meals with Childe’s help, you collect seashells on the shore to cure your boredom, and you’ll take care of any chores or housework. It warms Childe’s heart to see you accepting this life.

Maybe the two of you can start a family. Maybe he should get a few pets to liven up the house. It’s not like you can get away from him while inside the teapot, so it’s a recipe for anything to happen. And you’ve come to learn that what happens in the teapot stays in the teapot.

#chit chat #yandere #yandere venti #yandere xiao #yandere childe

298 notes · View notes

phantomrose96 · 4 years

Text

King

cw: heavy angst, non-canon character death, violent imagery, emetophobia

It’s pretty long, so heed the Read More.

...

Bakugou is sitting in the police station.

Time isn’t moving forward with him. It has a hand over his mouth holding him back, holding him down, beneath the surface of the unreal waters which suspend him. All sounds reach his ears muffled. The phone ringing, and the station hand answering. Chatter, officers exchanging details, Bakugou winces at the utterance of the word “explosion”. None of it is real. None of it can be happening to him.

He jangles the handcuffs on his wrist, and this attracts the weary attention of the station hands. The cuffs aren’t necessary. He is not going anywhere. He sits, and he stares forward, and his ears ring.

Bakugou has fucked up. Bakugou understands for the first time in his life the sensation of fucking up beyond repair. He is watching dreams evaporate in front of his eyes, staring forward unseeingly at the pallid white floor tiles around him. His eyes trace their lines. He does not see them. They are not real. He is not real. He has fucked up. He has fucked up.

Behind his eyelids, a single image burns. It is branded into his eyes. The scorched wick of a torso lingers there, shifting to a negative impression of itself with each blink. A torched wick, balanced on disembodied legs, falling forward. Falling forward. Falling forward. Falling forward again with each blink. It’s a sight he has no way to unsee.

His heart rate picks up. His breathing comes faster and shallower. He says nothing. He has fucked up. He has fucked up, and he can never fix this.

Because he is still, and because he is silent, no one pays him any mind.

…

A man walks into the precinct. He is just a bit portly, immaculately dressed in a suit and tie. He shrugs off the tweed overcoat, leaving just vest and undershirt and tie, and hangs it with familiarity on the coat rack by the entrance. He lifts his bowler’s hat in greeting, and overlapping responses greet him from the precinct office. “Fujimori” is uttered, affably. He extends a hand, and several workers shake it with a smile. A joke is cracked. A chorus of deep belly laughs follow. The man with the bowler’s hat – Fujimori – calms his mirth and asks one of the officers about his kids, and when the idle chatter ends, he asks where his client is.

Fingers point toward Bakugou. Fujimori lumbers over, with a confidence that reminds Bakugou of lions, his face at ease. Fujimori lowers himself to a squat so he is eye level with Bakugou.

“I’m Hiroji Fujimori. I’m a lawyer with U.A. You’ve had a hell of a day, huh, Katsuki Bakugou? Why don’t I help get those handcuffs off and get you home for some rest?”

Bakugou looks up. He hears the words, but his ears are still ringing, so he clearly has not heard them correctly. It sounded like the man said he was going home.

“Home?” Bakugou asks.

“Well, the U.A. dorms. Under protective custody but, I promise, you won’t even notice.”

“I’m not going home,” Bakugou responds. He isn’t sure it’s his own voice speaking, or his own lips moving.

“Oh? Got somewhere else you’re headed?”

“Jail.”

Fujimori lets out a deep laugh, the kind that rumbles his whole body. He fans himself briefly with the casefile in hand. “Right. Right right right, no one’s given you the run-down. Ease back those shoulders, son, you’re not headed to jail. Chin up! Try for a smile. This isn’t my first rodeo.” He offers a nod back to the officers. “Ain’t that right?”

There’s a chorus of agreement. Bakugou is looking, but not processing. His mind hangs on “not headed to jail.”

“…When am I going to jail, then?”

“Hopefully never! Not very becoming of a U.A. Hero to be doing time, hmm? Come on. There’s a car waiting out front for you. Let’s gather up your stuff and get you home. Bet you’re dying for something more comfortable than this chair, and these cuffs. Hell, I bet you want nothing more than a night in your own bed right now. Poor boy,” and Fujimori angles his head over his shoulder, “just how many hours have you lot kept him all tied up here, hmm? A touch reprehensible.”

Fujimori is wrong. Bakugou is not thinking about his bed or rest or sleep. Nor is he concerned with how many hours he’s been sitting at the precinct – though it’s been several. He has not thought about those things because time has not restarted. Because there is no future of his to consider with a bed and rest and sleep, not with the unfixable thing he’s done.

Bakugou says none of what he’s thinking. He’s uncharacteristically uncapable of trying. So he silently stands when Fujimori motions him to, and follows as Fujimori takes him back to the precinct desk, where Fujimori strikes up another amicable conversation with the officer in possession of the keys.

…

Back at the dorms, Bakugou showers off the smell of flesh that isn’t his own. He crawls into his U.A. bed for what he is sure is the last time. Hours pass staring at the ceiling, until Bakugou slips into dreams which play back his own last calamitous explosion to him a few dozen more times.

…

Fujimori is waiting for him the next morning, parked alongside the grass outside with the dew brushing along the footboard of his Mercedes. He is wearing a different suit today, a darker one, and he is holding two steaming cups of coffee, one which he offers to Bakugou. Bakugou takes it, though he isn’t sure why. The feeling of heat soaking into his palm is abhorrent.

“How’d you sleep?” Fujimori asks. His attendant opens the back-left passenger door for Bakugou. Bakugou stares. He does not answer, and he does not get in. Fujimori continues. “We’ll just be headed into the office for a few hours this morning. Some of my colleagues would like to meet you and hash over some details from yesterday. Might ask you to sign a few papers, if you’re comfortable with that.”

Fujimori gets in the back-right passenger door. The attendant takes the wheel. Once settled, Fujimori cranks up the AC and fans himself with the documents in his hand. He motions for Bakugou to get in as well. This time, Bakugou complies. Fujimori leans over and shuts the car door for him.

“You said you’re a U.A. lawyer?” Bakugou finally asks. He grips the coffee too tightly in his lap. He’s wearing his U.A. uniform, with the pants hitched up correctly. It’s what he was ordered to wear.

“Sure am. Going on 20 years this September. Y’know, I’ve got a son a little bit younger than you. HUGE fan of the U.A. Sports Festival. I get tickets and bring him every year. You were his top-ringer, favorite by a mile. Your victory over that Todoroki kid—

“Stop.”

“Hmm?”

“Stop.”

“Ah, sports festival a sour subject with you, son? As I recall you did end up restrai—”

“No. Stop being so casual. And friendly. Like this. Sports festival. Sports festival?! Like that’s ever going to matter again!” Bakugou’s voice builds toa crescendo, pent up horror spilling from his mouth like a faucet. “It’s cruel, don’t you think, to make me talk about U.A. like I’m ever coming back.”

“Hey now, the way I see it you’ve still got another two full years at that school before they’re done with you.”

“If you think that then you don’t know what happened yesterday. What kind of lawyer are you who doesn’t even know—”

“I know your case file forward and back, son. I’m no amateur. In fact, I’m very very skilled at what I do.”

“Then you know that I k—”

“—Calculated an unwinnable risk, and acted under extreme duress, and fear for you own life, in the face of a paralyzingly dangerous situation. And I know that your actions were necessary to ensure the safety of yourself and all others in the area.” Fujimori raises his own coffee to his lips and drinks from it, leaving the both of them to ruminate in the whir of the A.C. “An admirable and heroic act, with a tragic but unavoidable outcome.”

Bakugou feels colder, in a part of himself untouched by the A.C.

“…It wasn’t like that,” he whispers.

“I assure you it was, boy.”

The car blinker clicks on. They hang a left. Bakugou fixes his eyes out the window, watching the world spin by him. There’s an anger like solid ice encasing his heart, the kind he cannot act on, the kind that paralyzes him in his seat, the kind he’d only felt once before – when All Might lost his power for him – that Bakugou had vowed to never feel again.

Self-hatred. Ice instead of fire. That is what makes it so paralyzing.

“…Why are you representing me?”

“Because U.A. requested that I do.”

“And why would U.A. care? This wasn’t a U.A. mission. This didn’t have anything to do with them.”

Fujimori turns and offers him a warm smile. His face is disarming, and gentle, and grandfatherly, and he extends a hand to pat Bakugou on the shoulder.

“Come now, I think you’re a sharp enough boy to figure out the answer to that question.”

…

Bakugou leaves the office numb again. His memories of the incident feel hazier now. They feel less his own. He’s been asked to hold on to someone else’s construction, to coddle it in his mind until he believes it is his own. He needs to sew it back into himself. And forget his own memories. And move on.

Six hours have passed since he walked into the conference room with Fujimori, met with a half-dozen other lawyers whose names and faces all escape him now. He’s been asked too many times to describe the villain’s face, to describe man’s dress and his expression and his body language. Bakugou no longer trusts any memory he has of face, and body, and dress, and name.

Bakugou does not remember what, precisely, the villain said to him. He does not remember how he said it or why. Or how the villain had used his quirk, or how many times, or how close to Bakugou. Bakugou knows with certainty the villain had smashed him into the pavement, because it is that white-hot rage he felt in response that is seared into the memory behind his eyelids, like an after-image in the wake of an atom bomb.

The missing details, the absent paint strokes in his memory, have been helpfully filled in for him. Bakugou has been informed by the half-dozen lawyers that the villain had attacked him first, and with such bloodlust and such aggression that Bakugou had acted purely, and only, in defense of himself. Bakugou has been informed that the contusions to the back of his skull, documented at the police station, and the abrasions along his arms and legs and back all constitute intense physical trauma, from the villain who struck first, against Bakugou who had every reason to fear for his life.

Bakugou has been informed that the villain was a scoundrel, a lowlife, a man with a record and no family and no ties to the community.

Bakugou ruminates on all these new elements he’s been told to graft into his memory, as the car vibrates beneath him and Fujimori makes idle one-sided chatter on their ride back to U.A. All these memories meld together, such that Bakugou cannot pick apart what is his own, and what is not. He stares into the blood-red setting sun over the horizon, and he realizes he never will be able to.

There were no witnesses. There were no cameras. The only other man, who might otherwise have had the chance to defend himself, is dead.

…

Bakugou showers again. He already showered this morning. Bakugou tells himself it is because he’s been out all day. He doesn’t let himself consider what about the outing has made him feel so unclean.

So he doesn’t think about it, and he scrubs off the phantom lingering smells of burnt flesh from his body, and towels off, and changes into sweats. Alone in his room, with the blood red of the setting sun eking through his window, Bakugou considers going right to bed. His eyes shift to the clock beside his bed. It’s 5pm, and he hasn’t eaten yet today.

Bakugou stands, indecisive, and moves to the door.

When he opens it, he sucks in a sharp breath. Todoroki is standing at his doorway, leaning ever so slightly against the wall, his appraising eyes roving once over Bakugou before he straightens up entirely.

“Move,” Bakugou says.

“Where did you go with Fujimori this morning?”

Bakugou balks, only for an instant. He shoves past Todoroki, and sets his focus on navigating to the dorm kitchen. “Who?”

“The lawyer. I saw from the window. You were talking to him. You got in his car. And you’ve been gone the whole day until now.”

“What do you care?” Bakugou picks up his pace. Todoroki matches it.

“Because it’s Fujimori.”

“I don’t know what that means. Fuck off and leave me alone.”

“What did he want with you? What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“Fuck off.”

“Tell me.”

Bakugou stops cold and whirls on Todoroki. He feels his hand twitch, but he thinks better of it.

“It’s from my work study. It’s confidential. I can’t tell you, and I wouldn’t tell you anyway. We’re not friends. You don’t demand things from me. Fuck. Off.”

Bakugou takes off again.

“Fujimori…” Todoroki trails off. He hustles to keep himself in lock step with Bakugou, flanking him, refusing to be shaken off. “Just tell me why it’s Fujimori then.”

“Again, I do not fucking know what that question means. Why the fuck do you expect me to know anything? Do I look like a lawyer? Go bug Deku, you clingy piece of shit.”

“Did I hear my name?”

Bakugou rounds the corner, Todoroki in tow, and he finds himself face to face with Midoriya. Midoriya has one eyebrow quirked, hair wet from his own shower, grasping a glass of water in his hands. Midoriya’s eyes flicker between Bakugou and Todoroki.

“What… are you two up to? Uh, something fun?”

“Good.” Bakugou grabs Midoriya by the shoulders, lifts him, and spins halfway around in place. He plants Midoriya back down as a human divide between himself and Todoroki. “Deku’s here. Go bug each other.”

Midoriya looks back and forth between Bakugou and Todoroki. Worry creases his brow. “Um, okay? Is there something you wanted to talk to me about, Todoroki?”

Bakugou glances for a fraction of a second at the kitchen, and curses under his breath, and turns in place, and shoves past Todoroki and Midoriya. He stalks back to his room, where he slams the door shut and locks it. He throws himself onto his bed and buries his face in his pillow, not bothering with the lights.

There’s muffled chatter in the hall. There are footsteps pattering overhead. There is a world outside his room that has spun on without him.

The question ‘why Fujimori?’ sits like a rock in Bakugou’s chest, and he rips the pillow out from beneath himself, pressing it over his head completely.

It’s fully dark now. Bakugou has no intention of moving from bed.

It is 5:07 pm.

…

Bakugou remembers very few details from the incident, anymore.

His memories are more like wispy embers, and they burn, and they flash-ignite without warning. He remembers heat, humidity, sapping sweat dripping down his hairline and curving along his nose. Heaving breath like a swelling knife wound in his bruised chest cavity. The viscous wetness of blood mingling and running in spider veins down his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, where it painted his teeth and tasted coppery on his tongue.

He remembers rage, white hot, swamping his mind. He remembers uproarious indignation that anyone could fell him like that, crack his head open on the concrete like that, knock the air from his lungs like that, make him taste his own blood like that. He remembers his every breath being a wheezing effort. He remembers the sun searing him, blisteringly bright, when he could manage to pry his eyes open to the spinning sky above. He remembers a ringing that stole all sound from his ears.

Bakugou no longer knows anything past that. His memories aren’t his own. The ones that were are overwritten, or buried, deformed beneath the crushing weight of denial. But he hadn’t meant to. He knows he hadn’t meant to. It has to be that he hadn’t meant to.

A slamming at his door tears him from his hazy half sleep. Bakugou sits bolt-upright, and his heart is slamming in his throat.

“Yo, dude, you get dinner yet? I haven’t seen you like all day. What’s up?”

Bakugou blinks, bleary-eyed, and the clock at his bedside swims into view. It’s 8:47 pm.

Bakugou lays back down. His every nerve remains on fire.

“Go away, I’m sleeping.”

Bakugou can sense the hesitation at the door.

“Alright,” Kirishima answers, and his voice is careful. “Catch you tomorrow then.”

…

In the common area, Kirishima walks in with his fingers threaded through his loose hair, his motions agitated, and he falls onto the couch beside Midoriya.

“Yo, hey, Midoriya, you know Bakugou pretty well, yeah? Do you think something’s like, up with him?”

Midoriya looks up from his phone. Iida, sitting on the adjacent couch, slams his book shut with entirely too much force. “Bakugou had an excused absence from class today! I can confirm this, if you are worried he is shirking from his student duties.”

“Nah nah – I mean – maybe that’s part of it, I dunno. But it’s not just that he wasn’t in class but like, I haven’t seen him at all today. And I tried to go bug him just now but he shut me out.”

“Bakugou goes to bed early,” Iida continues.

“I know he does but like. I dunno. It’s different. It’s kinda reminding me of how he acted after Kamino.”

“I saw him earlier today, but just for a little bit,” Midoriya answers. “Todoroki was talking to him, then he told me to talk to Todoroki.”

“Why?”

“Um, I don’t actually know. Do you know, Todoroki?”

“I don’t know,” Todoroki answers from the floor, where he sits leaning against the couch Kirishima and Midoriya occupy. After a moment of silence, he adds in, “But it’s something bad.”

Kirishima straightens, couch springs straining beneath him. “What do you mean bad? What do you know?”

“He was with Fujimori.”

“Who’s Fujimori?” Kirishima asks. All eyes remain pinned on Todoroki, not a flash of recognition in anyone else’s face, not even Iida’s.

“He’s a U.A. lawyer.” Todoroki fidgets. “He’s… a specific kind of U.A. lawyer. I saw a lot of him, when I was very young. After Mom went away, I saw a lot of him, pretty much every day.” Subconsciously, Todoroki raises a hand to skim along the uneven skin of his left eye. “Dad was his client.”

“Oh, um, I met a couple U.A. lawyers after we rescued Eri.” Midoriya shoots a quick glance to Kirishima. “Me and Kirishima both. Bakugou’s doing a work study right now. Maybe it’s like… maybe something like Eri happened.”

Todoroki shakes his head. “You and Kirishima have not met Fujimori. Whatever U.A. lawyers you talked to, they weren’t Fujimori.”

“What makes you sure?”

Todoroki lingers in the silence. His lips part, but he says nothing immediately. He thinks long and hard on the words hanging behind his tongue. There’s a twitch along his mouth, some repressed fidget of hostility that comes slowly burning into his eyes.

“I’ve been told not to talk about Fujimori. My father has told me not to. But… I think I don’t care what my father told me.” Todoroki pushes off from the couch he is leaning on, settling toward the center of the carpet and turning in place, so that he completes a circle made of himself, Kirishima, Midoriya, and Iida. “I might still get in trouble with U.A.… But maybe I don’t care about that either.” Todoroki pauses. “Fujimori… Fujimori is a monster. Scum, the lowest and most disgusting sort of person humanity has to offer—no, not humanity. Calling human would be too generous. He’s a weapon, not a human.”

Midoriya scoots a fraction forward. His body leaks with uneasy tension. “And he’s… you said he’s someone who works for U.A.? U.A. hired him?”

“U.A. would be sunk without him,” Todoroki declares coldly. “And Fujimori… does not get involved lightly. And he would never be involved in the Eri mission, because U.A. wasn’t at fault for anything bad that happened there.”

“I…” Midoriya fidgets again, waxing uncomfortable. “I mean, um, not all the details of that mission were made public, you know. It um… that mission didn’t go as planned. I mean, I don’t… I’m not blameless, I think, for the things that went wrong.”

“Me neither,” Kirishima cuts in.

“Sir Night Eye—”

“I know Sir Night Eye died,” Todoroki responds, chillingly flat. His eyes appraise Midoriya once-over. “Did you kill Sir Night Eye?”

“No,” Midoriya answers. “Why would you even—”

“Then Fujimori was not your lawyer.”

Silence fills the room. A palpable dread sets in over them, like a blanket of fog, clammy and cold to the touch.

“What… do you think Bakugou did?” Iida asks.

“Something as bad as my father did to me and my mother,” Todoroki answers, and he does not hide the personal condemnation from his voice. “Or worse.”

…

Bakugou wakes at 6:15 am to another message from Fujimori. It requests Bakugou meet him outside once more. No dress code is specified.

Bakugou appears wearing the sweats he fell asleep in, leery eyes meeting Fujimori who stands along the same dew-swept section of street beside the U.A. dorms. Bakugou shifts furtive glances up and to the dorm windows, face racked with tension.

“People can see us from the windows,” Bakugou comments, curt.

“Does that worry you?”

“Yes. Todoroki knows you. Why the fuck does Todoroki know you?”

Fujimori lets out a good-humored chuckle. “Ah, Todoroki’s boy. Figures he may not be too fond of me.” Fujimori adjusts the suspenders digging into his shoulders. He is more casually dressed today. “Well then – here’s some excellent news for you: this will be very, very brief, so brief you don’t have to worry about being spotted with me.” Fujimori curls a smile, wide and self-satisfied on his flushed red face. “Would you like to hear another lick of good news?”

“What?”

Fujimori extends a hand, low and firm, an invite to be grasped and shaken. “All charges against you have been dropped. You’re a free man with a clean record, Katsuki Bakugou.”

Bakugou does not take Fujimori’s hand. He doesn’t so much as move. He feels as if the ringing in his ears is back. He feels again as if he’s misheard.

“…There hasn’t been a trial yet.”

“You’re right about that. We nipped it in the bud before it even reached that stage. That’s a fantastic development, because trials have their way of dragging their feet. For years, sometimes. You’re a fortunate young man.”

“How?”

“Hmm?”

“How did the charges get dropped?”

“Well I just compiled your case is all. Argued it before the district judge and the chief of police over a nice batch of chamomile tea I brewed early this morning, and they’re both exceptional, bright, reasonable men of conscience. Not one person in that room wanted to see a U.A. star’s future snuffed out before it could even begin.”

“I killed—”

“—And there’s a few weeks off, being offered to you too, courtesy of the U.A. President Nedzu himself. He wants you to take the time you need to heal from this trauma. There’s a therapist too, under U.A.’s direction, that we’d like you to meet with daily. Sorry, that part’s non-negotiable. But she’ll be good for you. You’ve been through a lot for a boy so young. Everyone just wants to see you succeed.” Fujimori steps closer, and he rests a heavy hand on Bakugou’s shoulder. “And most importantly, the events from that day are under gag order. No word of this will ever reach anyone outside that precinct or outside U.A.”

“The villain…”

“Pardon?”

“What happens to him now? With his—with the—with what’s left of him. …What happens?”

“That’s not for people like you or me to worry about. You, especially, my boy. Just focus on the happy news.” Fujimori retracts his hand, and he lumbers back toward his car. There is no attendant this time. He opens the driver’s side door and glances back to Bakugou from overtop the car. “There will be a few more meetings in the coming weeks that you’ll have to attend with my colleagues, and a few more things for you to sign, and just a few attestations. But no one will ask anything difficult of you from here-on out. The hard part’s over. Quite luckily, this may be the last you see of me.”

Fujimori tips his hat once more, and disappears into his car with the tinted windows. It’s nice—the car. It’s exceptionally too nice, and too proper, and too clean for a man like Fujimori.

The engine revs. Fujimori vanishes along with the car at the next left turn.

Bakugou is left alone in the cold clammy morning air, with the sun wicking at the grass-top dew drops mingling with the cuffs of his pants.

Time restarts for Bakugou.

Now, and only now, Bakugou feels the passing wind against his cheek, and the wetness at his ankles, and the cadence of songbirds characterized by their punctuation through time. Time is moving fast again, with him in the stream, spinning dizzyingly forward.

Fujimori is right, this news is good news, Bakugou understands that. There’s a future in front of him again. A hero path ahead of him. He can carry on. He can graduate from U.A. He can become the #1 Hero. He can surpass All Might.

Bakugou’s memory stirs.

He is stricken with the image of two eyes looking back at him, gray and befuddled, panicked and unsure. They are eyes which belong to a head, a head with belongs to a body, all atop legs too scattered to know where to run. The image is a quivering bit of prey in front of him, cowed into a quaking revolting shell. It is a thing filled with regret at the sight of the rage it spurred from Bakugou by daring to slam Bakugou into the pavement first.

Bakugou remembers pulling the pin from his gauntlet. He remembers doing it with revelry. He remembers the sweet, nigh-intoxicating high, the euphoria that came with the sense of complete command, absolute control, unchecked power, the drive to win, to win, to win.

He remembers the lock and jolt to his shoulder, now. The eruption of searing heat. The explosion ringing in his ears. And the quaking, shivering thing of prey, in a moment of panic, darting directly into the blast, when all common sense dictated that it should have darted away.

Bakugou now remembers the blast erupting into black smoke, with a smell so wretched on its wind that Bakugou had buckled on spot. Bakugou now remembers the feeling -- suddenly greasy, suddenly unclean with the blowback of the blast, suddenly sticky dripping sapping wet with—

Bakugou remembers the torched wick of a torso – with full context now, he sees it. Suspended in time. Atop legs that should not stand.

Alone now in the cold morning air, alone outside the U.A. dorms, Bakugou buckles at the waist. He doubles over, falls forward like the image so seared into his mind. He moves forward in time with the dismembered legs, both his knees and its knees hitting the ground. Bakugou’s palms strike the dew-strewn lawn, his legs sink into the wetness. He holds himself up a moment, on arms too trembling to command, with a heartbeat too slammingly loud in his ears, and he loses his stomach contents into the grass below.

…

Bakugou is in class that same day. He does not take any of the offered leave, even when Nedzu appears at his dormitory door that morning at 7:30, even when Aizawa pulls him aside at the classroom entrance to ask, in as few specifics as possible, if Bakugou really intends to be here.

Bakugou confirms both times that he’s fine, and that he’s going to class, and that he doesn’t want them to mention anything to do with this ever again.

In class, he pretends to not see when Kirishima tries to catch his attention. He pretends not to feel the cold lick of malice from Todoroki’s eyes probing his back. Hardest of all, he pretends not to notice Midoriya’s pleading look, that detestable, abhorrent disarmed expression of weakness and worry so characteristic of him.

…

The partners are presumably random, but Bakugou stares on with disgusted certainty that Midoriya’s been intentionally assigned to him for sparring practice. Each pair of students has been spread about in sparring rings around Ground Beta, ample room given between each location, such that no quirks, and no voice, could carry between any two. Only the loudspeaker affixed to the Ground Beta building issues commands to each group.

The round starts.

Bakugou squares his feet, crouched slightly, hatred burning cold in his eyes. Midoriya meets his gaze, and squares his own feet, and raises his own hands. A silent few seconds of tense nothing passes between them. Bakugou’s gauntlet-less hands itch.

“Dodge!” Bakugou barks across the makeshift arena.

Midoriya loosens his footing a fraction, confusion crawling back into his face. “You haven’t attacked me yet.”

“Well get out of the way before I do!”

“If you attack me, then I’ll dodge.”

“Well you better! Because I’m telling you to dodge!”

Midoriya blinks. Bakugou remains rooted in place. In a split second, Midoriya has bounced from his spot. He winds back a kick, the shimmer of green iridescent veins spawning like stream rivulets down his thigh, down his leg. He closes the distance between them, and Bakugou only stares back wide-eyed as Midoriya’s shin connects with his jaw.

Bakugou stumbles, face smarting, a white-hot lick of rage exploding like a cannon from within his chest. The anger swamps his mind and drowns all thought and leaves him only with the livid, licking, untamable desire to fire back.

He thrusts a palm out, arm locked in tight at the elbow, immaculately drawing Midoriya into his line of attack. Midoriya’s eyes go wide, but he is still in the air, still falling, and won’t get the chance to course correct until he hits the ground. Bakugou has the shot.

Bakugou does not take it.

Time slips around him again. Leaving him behind, knocking him at the ankles, as if he is standing knee-deep in a stream to which he does not belong. The force threatens to make him stumble. He simply stands, hand extended, the promise of an explosion sputtering behind his palm.

Midoriya lands, and Bakugou has left himself wide open.

Midoriya doesn’t take his shot either.

“Do you want to… maybe call off the fight, Kacchan?”

“No! Attack me again!” Bakugou yells, hand thrown out harder, though nothing bursts on his palms.

“I…” Midoriya hesitates. He looks around, and he lets the rivulets of power bleed away from his arms and legs. He loosens his footing, stands taller, lets the tension ease out of his body. “You know, um… After we rescued Eri, I couldn’t really do much of anything for a few days. I couldn’t even use my quirk without having to focus way too hard on it.”

“I don’t care about your stupid mission. Attack me! Attack, you damn nerd!”

“Is it… something like that for you too, Kacchan? …Is it something worse?”

“Mind your own damn business! And get out of the way before I fire at you!”

“Todoroki isn��t being too kind with his guesses. …Kirishima refuses to believe what Todoroki has to say, if that makes you feel better. But I think I know you a bit better than Kirishima, actually, and I’m not sure what to believe.”

“What makes you think I give a single shit about what Icy-Hot thinks? Or what you think?”

“Are you allowed to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“…How bad is it? The thing that happened?”

“’How bad?’” Bakugou mocks. “Not at all! Zero! Nothing! Everything got resolved this morning. Nothing’s happening. There’s nothing more to it. You can tell that to Todoroki, and tell him he can keep his prying eyes the fuck off me cuz there’s nothing more for him to see. And you can fuck off for good measure too.”

“Everything got resolved… because of Fujimori?”

“We’re still fighting. Shut up and dodge! Attack! Do something!”

“Because – what Todoroki said – is that’s what Fujimori does. He makes problems go away. No matter what. By whatever means necessary. That he’s U.A.’s ace in the hole. That U.A.’s spotless track record – its perfect reputation – for decades…” Midoriya trails off. Bakugou falters at the sight of Midoriya wiping at his own cheek with the heel of his palm. “Stupid of me, huh, Kacchan?” Midoriya says with a bitter laugh. “I just assumed U.A. put out perfect heroes, all perfect heroes. That every pro from U.A. was like All Might. That every pro from U.A. just… could never do anything wrong. I idolized all of them. Every single one of them, for being perfect heroes. I thought Endeavor was a fluke… I wonder how many Endeavors U.A. has made?”

Bakugou lets out a strangled noise. He thrusts his right palm out with force, and he fires off a blast that lights and catches, erupting outward, hurdling toward Midoriya. Midoriya dodges it with hardly any effort, a simple step to the right and the blast does not so much as lick him. Midoriya doesn’t bother striking back just yet.

“What about you, Kacchan? …It wasn’t as bad as Endeavor, was it?”

“No—it—aggh! I told Icy-Hot it wasn’t even about me. My work-study—it’s just because my work study—”

“With Moonshot, yeah?” Deku curls a hand. He lets a wick of electric green static burst in his palm, which whips his hair with its ebb and flow. “Your work study is with Moonshot right now. Moonshot’s office is small. She only has herself and three sidekicks, and none of them are U.A. graduates. You’re the only person from U.A. working there.”

Deku strikes. His attack clips Bakugou’s left side. Bakugou bears it, not so much as a noise escaping his lips. He side-steps, ducks, and slams Midoriya beneath the ribcage with enough force to knock the wind from Midoriya’s lungs.

“You always think you’re helping, you damn fucking nerd. You’re not helping! You’re just prying into shit that doesn’t concern you. It’s over. It’s done with. And I can’t talk about it anyway! So shut up, before I make you shut up.”

Midoriya pulls in a few wheezing breathes. He coughs, and straightens, and speaks along a rasp.

“Actually… I don’t even think I’m trying to help, Kacchan. I want to help you. I always do. You know that. …But I’m afraid this might be something I can’t help with, or can’t bring myself to help you with, if Todoroki is right.”

“Icy-Hot knows nothing. He’s full of hot air and conspiracy theories, and it’s none of his business. Whatever he thinks happened is wrong, and he should shut the fuck up about it.”

“Are you sure he’s wrong… King Explosion Murder?”

“Shut up.” Bakugou’s palms crackle, and he squares his feet again. “Shut up and di--… Shut up and fight me.”

Bakugou doesn’t wait for a response. He throws himself right into the fray, with the one and only goal of firing his explosions off in quick enough succession to prevent Midoriya from getting another word in.

…

“Sensei! Sensei Sensei!”

Aizawa pauses at the sound of pounding mechanical feet hitting pavement, the rumble of vibrations shaking the ground, and fence, and rubble near Ground Beta. A wetness has stirred in the air, the threat of an impending thunderstorm.

“Iida, I was just coming to collect eve—”

“There’s a fight! Uh—well of course there are fights as this is a sparing match exercise but there is a fight which is not part of the designated sparing activity I mean! I’ve come to report an incident of student violence which I witnessed! I saw it happen and promptly came to find an authority figure and luckily you’re right here but I request you accompany me back to the meeting grounds where—”

“Who?”

“Bakugou, and—”

“Midoriya,” Aizawa concludes.

Iida shakes his head, frantic, spinning on spot and motioning Aizawa to follow as his suited legs take off once more. “Not Midoriya! Todoroki…”

Aizawa falters, and then he picks up his pace to match Iida. He steels himself, and it takes no longer than 20 seconds of threading through rubble for the two of them to round the corner, and enter the scene which had already announced itself with the rising cacophony of voices from 30 feet out.

With a split-second glance, Aizawa gleans three immediate pieces of information from the gaggle of 19 assembled students standing at the center of the training ground.

One, that Bakugou has been knocked down to the pavement, soles of his shoes, seat of his pants, and palms of his hands flat to the ground, left cheek split and leaking blood, with a creeping redness threatening to swell many times over in size across the breadth of the wound.

Two, that Midoriya has grasped Todoroki from behind, his arms looped up beneath Todoroki’s armpits and locked in place in a forceful attempt to restrain Todoroki, who’s lashing against the hold.

Three, that Todoroki’s right fist is split and bleeding, and he is staring down at Bakugou with the spark of murderous intent in his eyes.

“Tell me what you mean by ‘It’s been resolved’. It’s over? Meaning Fujimori already— What did you get away with? I think I know. I think I know what you did. So tell me I’m wrong. Tell me what that scumbag let you get away with.”

Bakugou says nothing. He raises his left hand to his cheek, pressing lightly. A heavy raindrop falls from above, landing with a patter on his cheek.

Todoroki pulls against Midoriya. “Answer me!”

“Todoroki!” Aizawa shouts. He marches forward, eyes alight with his quirk activation, though there is no need for it. Neither boy has used his quirk.

“This bastard’s been meeting with Fujimori.” Todoroki thrusts a hand out, index finger extended, sharp in its accusation as he turns bodily to Aizawa. “And whatever he did, he got off scot-free this morning! He’s bragging about it!”

“Todoroki. That’s enough.”

“He needs to tell us!” Todoroki challenges. A rumble of thunder affixes itself along the end of his words, as if chorusing agreement. “How can we be comfortable calling Bakugou a classmate until we know?”

“Midoriya, you can let him go. I’ve got this under control.” Aizawa’s eye flicker to Midoriya, who blinks, and hesitantly releases his arms from Todoroki.

Todoroki looks between Aizawa and Midoriya, his confidence wavering. “Sensei, you know who Fujimori is. You have to know who he is. You’ve been at U.A. long enough.”

“Yes, I know who Fujimori is. He’s a U.A. employee. Not a villain.”

“Then you don’t know who Fujimori is.” Todoroki counters. He thrusts both hands out. “He’s the reason my mom—he’s the reason my dad—he’s the reason I—” Todoroki catches himself all three times, unable to, or perhaps forbidden from saying more.

He backtracks, calms himself, a glint of desperation lighting in his eyes. Todoroki turns in place, bodily facing Bakugou once more. “Just defend yourself. Just tell me what happened. If you’re innocent then clear your name, and just tell us what Fujimori wanted with you! Why can’t you do that? Why?”

“Todoroki that is enough. This is not like you, and it is not acceptable,” Aizawa growls this time. He stalks forward, using himself as a means of separation between the boys, and he grips Todoroki by the shoulder. “I think you’re letting your personal feelings get in the way of common rationality. My office. With me. Now.”

Todoroki appraises Aizawa, and then his eyes go wide. A few more heavy drops leak from the blackened clouds above. They plick across Todoroki’s face, riding his expression, loosening with shock.

Todoroki opens his mouth, and the energy has been sapped from his words.

“…You know. You know what it is, don’t know? You’re part of this. You really are okay with this.”

“Not another word until we reach my office, Todoroki. If you defy me, I’ll consider it grounds for suspension.” Aizawa turns in place, and he surveys the rest of the class with deathly cold eyes. “Midoriya, Iida, take Bakugou to Recovery Girl’s office. Everyone else, get back to the dorm. I don’t want to hear a word about this by tomorrow morning, understood? The threat of suspension extends to all of you.”

There is a palpable unease in the air that rides along the rumble of the clouds. The rest of the students nod, Uraraka and Asui with a prick of tears at the corner of their eyes. Wordlessly, Iida extends a hand for Bakugou to grab, and lifts him from the ground.

Kirishima throws one last worried look in Bakugou’s direction as the skies fully open. The class is caught in the downpour, the scenery effaced by a thick sheet of heavy rain. The three boys vanish from view, and Kirishima raises an arm overtop his head for cover, and he joins the others headed back to the dorm.

…

Class begins wordlessly the next day. No one dares to mention it, but everyone has noticed Todoroki’s empty desk. The threat of suspension, of following in Todoroki’s footsteps, cows everyone into compliance. Bakugou sits stiff in his own seat, his insides too mangled, his dreams too riddled with his haunting memories playing on repeat to afford him more than a few moments of uninterrupted sleep the previous night. He feels full of cotton, his stomach in knots, his brain too much a hazy mess to make sense of what’s unfolded. His jaw has swollen, hot to the touch.

Aizawa enters, his face blank and tired. He shuffles a few papers and greets the class with a monotone Good morning. Most voices echo the greeting back, but quieter, mumbled. Only Iida seems to muster the energy for a proper greeting. The downpour from the previous day has lightened, but not vanished. It plicks against the muted gray windows, sealing in the atmosphere.

“The bin for your English essays is now on the front table. Present Mic says you may turn them in any time between now and Friday. Late submissions will not be accepted.” Aizawa shuffles the papers in his hands. “Also, we have another announcement.” Aizawa nods to the doorway. Faces turn.

Shinsou stands at the entrance, face drawn into a bit of a grimace. He rubs at his neck and looks away. “Um… Hi. I’m Hitoshi Shinsou. Some of you already know me.”

No one answers him, because the class already knows Shinsou, and they’re all weary of what answering him may lead to. On a different day, friendliness might have won out over fear. Today, no one can muster the optimism.

“He’s transferring into 1-A starting today. Please extend a warm welcome.”

Silence beats around them. Iida manages a clipped greeting. A few more students nod. Bakugou watches it all unfold from his hazy fog.

Shinsou is no more lively in his acknowledgement of his introduction. He looks away, hoisting his bag on his shoulder, and shuffles down the aisle. He reaches Todoroki’s seat, and places his bag atop it, and sits down.

Midoriya’s chair screeches backward. He is standing, his face a mask of concern. “Uh, Sensei, Shinsou, um, that’s Todoroki’s desk. Todoroki sits there.”

“Todoroki has decided to transfer to Shiketsu High School, effective today,” Aizawa states simply. “Sit down, Midoriya, and raise your hand in the future if you wish to speak.”

Bakugou feels the ripple through the air. The potent unease. The prickle of disbelief that comes in just the form of a few slipped gasps, a few wide eyes swinging to Todoroki’s seat, and then swinging over to him, as if staring at him may reveal the answers they’re never allowed to know.

The haze in Bakugou’s brain won’t let him think. It’s made worse by his own shock, and his own disbelief, and his own gnawing discomfort in his gut when he looks over, and finds Todoroki absent from his seat.

It’s Kirishima’s pained eyes that he accidentally meets in the process.

“Bro… what’s happening?” Kirishima leans across the aisle. He speaks as quietly as he can for someone suppressing shock. “Please man, please just tell me it isn’t anything bad. Tell me Todoroki was wrong. Please dude. Please, I just gotta know you didn’t—”

“Kirishima!” Aizawa barks from the front of the room. Kirishima goes stock-still, spine stiff, head snapping forward to face the teacher. Aizawa turns to face the board, and he grabs a piece of chalk, snapped at the midpoint, and begins to write textbook page numbers on the board. “Not another word on the topic. I thought I made myself clear yesterday, or would you like to be an example?” Aizawa turns, and lifts an eyebrow in Kirishima’s direction. Kirishima, white in the face, shakes his head. “Good. I didn’t think so. Now be quiet. Class is starting.”

#boku no hero academia #bnha #my hero academia #mha #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #violence //#non-canon character death //#angst //#hello welcome to a bad idea that got worse.

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cotncandyboifics · 3 years

Text

A Lovely Night: Chapter 5

AO3 Link

Masterpost

Chapter 1 ~ Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 3 ~ Chapter 4 ~ Chapter 6

Pairing(s): pre-established roceit & prinxiety, anaroceit, eventual anaroloceit, eventual intruality

Word count: ~2.5k

Story summary: Roman's boyfriends had had a rivalry since before either of them had actually met Roman. Running a bit late to a date night, Roman accidentally gets them to start dating too.

General CW: non-detailed description of an anxiety attack, non-detailed description of physical pain, food, kissing, potentially triggering descriptions of physical bodies, swearing, caps lock, school settings, s-xual innuendos, slight description of gore(imagery), vague descriptions of anxiety, Implications of an eating disorder, fatigue, dissociation, suppression of stimming, implied heavy restriction (ED), inner monologue-style anxiety description, eating,(will be added to as I write more)

Chapter CW: Swearing, slight description of gore(imagery), vague descriptions of anxiety, food, (let me know if i missed anything please!)

Author notes: i like this chapter a lot :) the stage has been set.

...

The next morning, Virgil had an opening shift at the knitting and sewing supply store he worked for. He'd found it the first week the three of them had moved to this town for college, and immediately took a liking to it, likely thanks to his long-lasting hobby of clothing alteration. He'd made some good money to save up in high school from making and selling custom hoodies and other clothing, even having taken a few commissions over the years.

It wasn't rare occurrence, that he was opening the store, and on this particular morning it wasn't so dreadful (once he'd pried himself away from his half-asleep boyfriends, who both vaguely grumbled protests at the incomplete cuddle pile as Virgil was getting ready). Virgil had gotten to his favorite coffee shop, where Janus' brother Patton worked, in time that it would be open and he also wouldn't be late for his shift, which was rare. It only worked out that way if Virgil's bus commute was perfectly timed.

Now caffeinated, and somewhat less-pessimistic-than-usual about the day ahead of him, Virgil retrieved the keys to the shop from his pocket, fumbling for a bit before finding the right one. He let out a breath as he found it, unlocking the door as he'd done a thousand times before and stepping in, shutting the door behind him and leaning his back against it. Virgil noted the clock on the wall, reading 5:02 am. The shop opened at 6, and he had more than enough sorting and stocking to do before then.

The next hour passed rather quickly. His co-worker Emile showed up shortly after him, and they both spent the rest of the time before the shop opened restocking and organizing the horrendous amounts of yarn and string and such supplies throughout the store and in the back room.

Shortly 6 am arrived, and it was time for the two of them to draw straws to decide who would man the register and help customers while the other continued stocking. Typically Virgil enjoyed the latter while Emile enjoyed the former, but their manager had insisted that they make the odds more random in order to get them both more comfortable in their unpreferred positions.

True to their manager's sentiment, Virgil drew the register stick. They both sighed at each other, and Emile returned to sorting through some cerulean yarn balls. Virgil made his way to the front of the store, unlocking the doors and flipping the sign to open, before making himself at home behind the register.

Generally, customers were rare at this time of morning, save for a few early-riser regulars. The bell at the top of the door chimed. Virgil didn't look up, expecting to see Margaret in her usual morning power-walk getup, coming in to check up on whether they'd gotten a shipment of lavender yarn yet.

"Morning, Marge. We still haven't gotten any lavender in, if-" Virgil halted his speaking upon looking up, feeling his throat constrict as he realized who had entered. At any rate, this person was certainly not Margaret.

The first thing that caught Virgil's attention about this new customer was their eyes. They were a burning blue, with small subtle mushes of gray here and there. Through their vaguely foggy colors, those eyes cut sharp like ice shards. The customer seemed entirely calm and stoic, however that did not extend to the ferocious - however not hostile - intensity with which they were staring Virgil down. Of course this intensity did not extend past their eyes, as the very slight twinge of a polite smile was seated at the corners of their mouth. Virgil briefly noted some seemingly familiar physical characteristics (although he was extremely wary to assume anything - what would be the chances of him and his boyfriends all meeting the same man individually, completely perchance?); shining black hair, square-framed glasses, the freckles, the pale and sunken nature of their face. Or, as Virgil certainly noticed, the subtle pronunciation of his cheekbones and jawline. They wore a black coat and a navy patterned scarf that appeared to be hand-knitted.

Virgil stumbled his way over to the closest register to the door - he wasn't sure why they even had two, they never needed to use them both simultaneously - and leaned haphazardly on the counter, propping his chin up on his palm.

"Sorry, hello, I thought you'd be someone else. Marge is usually the first in. What can I do for you?" His face felt really hot, and he was pretty sure that much was obvious to the newcomer, but he tried his best not to think about it.

The stranger didn't speak for a moment, merely leaning forward slightly with a furrowed brow. Virgil panicked for a moment, but followed their line of sight to the name tag on his hoodie. It was quite scuffed up, and the name "Virgil" was scarcely discernible through various smears of odd substances. Virgil quickly unpinned the name tag, beginning to rub away at the gunk with a sweater-covered thumb.

"It's Virgil, sorry about that," He spoke, hiding his hot cheeks behind his bangs as he scratched at his name tag feverishly. He quickly decided on just setting it down, wanting to give the newcomer his full attention.

"Good morning, Virgil," they spoke, and wow, was Virgil gay. The strangers' voice was deep and smooth, and reminded him a bit of Janus'. But this had a tactful, almost clinical and calculated sincerity, whereas Janus' was far more lilted and drawly. Regardless, Virgil felt his throat constricting a bit. He tried subtly coughing the feeling away. "I am in search of some high quality yarn, as a gift for a dear friend of mine. It is my understanding that this establishment is highly regarded for its products' quality?" Virgil tried not to stare. The stranger was running their fingers down and up the inside of one of the lapels of their coat very slowly, and that reminded Virgil terribly of Janus. He felt like he was in high school all over again, ogling over a tall pretty boy.

Regardless of his gay panic, Virgil cleared his throat. "Yeah, we try," His voice cracked slightly, and he tried clearing his throat again. "I mean, we have some pretty awesome suppliers, and we have a really, uh... Big selection of stuff. Do you, do you know what it is you want to get for your friend, exactly?" Virgil thanked any gods that existed had allowed him to formulate a coherent sentence, and he was glad to have the expectation of speaking temporarily off himself.

The customer tapped his chin with the side of his index finger, - which again, reminded Virgil painfully of Janus - humming as he continued surveying his surroundings. "I think he'd appreciate a selection of soft or pastel colors, and he adores the color blue. I think white would be a suitable addition as well. Do you sort your yarns by color?" he inquired, returning his heavy gaze to Virgil and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Virgil tried not to audibly gulp.

"Yeah, we do. here, let me show you to the right aisle," Virgil stepped away from the register, and tried to get out from behind the counter, only to completely trip over a cardboard box and fall directly onto his face.

"Goodness, are you alright?" the stranger paced quickly over to where Virgil was groaning on the floor, attempting to pull himself up onto his elbows. They reached a pale-white and very bony hand down to Virgil, who stared at it for a little too long before taking it gingerly.

The customer pulled firmly, and Virgil did too, and they both slightly miscalculated how much strength they needed to apply in order for Virgil to stand. Virgil stumbled forward just a bit as he rose. He looked up slightly and found himself nose to nose with the now wide-eyed man. Virgil yelped slightly, jumping away like a startled cat.

"Sh-shoot, sorry about that," Virgil took to fidgeting a bit aggressively with his hoodie strings, curling them around and between his fingers. "Uh, this way," he pushed a bit awkwardly past the man, looking at his shoes as he walked and willing away the burning heat he felt in his cheeks. Of course the first cute guy he encounters besides his boyfriends is right there when he falls on his face.

He paced over to the aisle with hues of blue and purple yarn, spotting Emile still working with a large box of cerulean. After a momentary panic and trying to wave Emile's attention without making any noise, the stranger turned the corner into the aisle Virgil had led him to. Virgil sighed to himself, annoyed at an in-no-way-at-fault Emile who still hadn't noticed their presence.

Virgil cleared his throat. "Hey, Emile, could you take register while I help this... customer?" Virgil had to take a moment to recall a phrase to describe him besides 'very beautiful man'.

"Uh-" Emile went to say he could help the customer for Virgil, since they were meant to stay in the vicinity of their assigned roles, but Virgil was looking at him with an intensity that blatantly said 'I am begging you to let me help this very gorgeous man to find his yarn and if you don't so help me god I will impale your severed and rotting skull on a rusty metal pole'. Emile chuckled a little shrilly. "Yeah, sure Virge," Emile slid past the two of them, making his way to the register as the chime of the door sounded again. "Welcome in, Margaret! Do-you-how-do?"

Virgil turned his attention back to the man looming slightly over him, leading him down the aisle to the softer and lighter shades. The customer was already scanning the shelves with a tactful intensity that made Virgil almost as anxious as it did further attracted to him.

"This variety is more than adequate," he spoke, almost under his breath, and Virgil tried not to shudder at the rumble in his voice.

"Um, great," Virgil piped up after a moment, and the icy gaze of the tall boy was on him once again. His cheeks felt real hot. "I can, get you a bag for... what you pick out? Er, a gift bag, if you'd like?" Virgil tapped the side of his fist into his hip a few times, trying to expel some of his nervousness. The stranger smiled softly.

"That would be excellent. Thank you, Virgil." He turned back to examining his options, and Virgil scurried off to find a gift bag.

The bags were all by the front register, and he grumbled a bit to himself on the way, preparing for some relentless teasing from his coworker for the next century at minimum. Emile was just waving Margaret off when Virgil rounded the corner, stepping behind the counter to rummage through some boxes for a gift bag.

"Sooo, Virgil," Emile started, tone entirely teasing as he leaned a little too far on the counter, tapping his orange pen on his lips.

"Don't. Say. Anything." Virgil hissed through clenched teeth, glancing up to give Emile another pointed glare for good measure. Emile chuckled lightly, leaning back on the counter a bit.

"Whaat? I won't! I'm totally innocent, see?" Emile puffed out his bottom lip and made his eyes look big. Virgil scoffed.

"Is that a cartoon reference?"

Emile grinned, shrugging. "Probably."

Virgil found the gift bags - finally - and began scampering off and away from the prying gaze of his overly curious co-worker.

Virgil helped the customer to find and collect the proper amount and variety of yarns that he wanted. As it turned out, it was a relatively easy task; aside from being impossibly and unintentionally charming, the stranger was mindful and courteous, and working with him was proving to be relatively easy. They bantered a bit, falling into a casual conversation as they searched for yarn, as well as while they walked back to the register for Virgil to ring his items up.

Emile gave Virgil a pointed look as he approached, trading him places as he walked with a skip in his step back to his yet unstocked shelves. Virgil rolled his eyes at him, stepping extra carefully behind the counter so as not to trip on any stray cardboard boxes. He leaned against the counter in front of the register, beginning to type numbers into it as though he knew the yarn prices like the back of his hand.

the customer stood at the counter before Virgil, vaguely examining his purchase as he watched Virgil slightly through his peripheral. He noticed the way Virgil bit at the inside corner of his mouth, worrying the flesh between his canines as he focused on adding the prices.

"Alright... your total is 82.53," Virgil said slowly, looking up at the stranger, who had - oddly enough - already been looking at him. The stranger glanced away momentarily, clearing his throat and reaching into an inside pocket of his coat for his wallet.

He produced a pristine black leather wallet, pulling a shiny navy blue debit card from between its folds and setting the wallet on the counter as he handed off the card. Virgil took the card and charged it, the customer punching in his PIN through the keypad.

A faint buzzing sounded from within the man's coat, and he reached in once more with knitted eyebrows. He pulled out what seemed to be his phone, eyes widening as he saw whatever was on the screen. Virgil couldn't see, but he figured someone must be calling him.

"My apologies, I must depart," The man spoke quietly, grabbing his gift bag of yarn and bringing his phone to his face as he made hastily for the door. Virgil didn't hear what he said when he answered the phone, but his brow was still furrowed when Virgil caught a glimpse of his face walking down the sidewalk out the store window.

"Bye..." Virgil said to the empty store front.

He looked down, seeing the customer's debit card still in his hand. "Shit." He saw the wallet set on the counter before him as well. He grabbed it, opening it to return the debit card to its proper place and see if there was a way of contacting the man within the wallet.

As he opened it, a white card similar in shape and size to the debit card fell to the floor. Virgil retrieved it, flipping it over to see what it was.

"No way..." Virgil was holding a driver's license. The name it was registered under was too familiar for it to be a coincidence.

He'd need to be giving one Logan Lattimer a call on his break.

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #logan sanders #ts logan #ts virgil #emile picani #analogical #anaroceit #anaroloceit #theyre so gay oml

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yourfavoriteagent · 3 years

Text

Teacher Crush Pt 3

Chapter three is here! It gets a little steamyyyyyy

Professor!Spencer x Assistant!Reader

CW: NONE

Twenty-fucking-two. How could he have these feelings for a twenty-two-year-old? Spencer thought to himself as she enjoyed her latte and he took a sip from his excessively sweet coffee.

“So, Dr. Reid-“ She began.

“Please, call me Spencer, there’s no need for the whole Doctor thing.” He laughed and let her continue.

“Alright, Spencer,” She said tentatively, she was nervous around him, he could tell by how she avoided eye contact and played with the rings on her fingers. “So you’ve been with the BAU for 15 years, you must have seen a lot in that time, huh?”

“You have no idea, we have been on six cases a month at some points, the bad guys never really stop.” He said, her eyes were beautiful, she only looked him in the eye occasionally but when she did it was magic. She had the kind of eyes you could fall into if you weren’t careful enough, you could swim in and they would restore your youth, and Spencer was trying very hard not to fall.

“So, with the many cases, what’s the craziest thing you’ve seen?” She said, “If you don’t mind my asking,”

“Of course not,” This was a pretty common question he got, people were morbidly curious, but she didn’t seem like the morbid type at all. She looked at him with a curiosity that he couldn’t explain. “Let’s see, we’ve seen some pretty rough cases with kidnappings and child predators.” He saw her wince at the thought, okay, no children. “But the ones that always get me are the murders, you have no idea how many ways there are to kill someone.” He chuckled, trying to make the subject lighter.

“Wow, does it not get to you? I mean, I like hearing about this stuff, true crime documentaries and all that, but seeing it up close and personal, that must take a toll on you.” She said, she sounded a bit sad, he hoped he hadn’t upset her.

“It was hard at first but after a while, you learn to detach yourself from it all, so the stuff you see can’t affect you personally. It’s a hard step to take but it’s the only way to get through and save the people you need to save.” He tried to give her a reassuring smile, so she knew it wasn’t all bad. The conversation switched to a lighter topic when their food came, they discussed the upcoming classes, her goals at the school, why she had chosen his course to intern for. The time passed by quickly, it made him forget all the things that worried him, he allowed himself to indulge in the feelings for her, just for a moment. They finished their food quickly but he didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want to be back in that office where he was reminded of his responsibilities and guilt of being so infatuated with her. But his fantasy where he could have her had to end at some point, he had another class to teach in less than 3 hours and still needed to prep his lesson plan, so he paid the bill and grabbed his coat.

“You didn’t have to pay, let me pay you back!” She said and reached for her purse.

“Don’t even think about it,” He smiled at her, “It’s my treat.”

“Oh, well, thank you very much Dr. Re- Spencer.” She caught herself midway through her sentence. Her flustered face made a part of him light up, he felt relaxed by her smile, he felt something he couldn’t describe with her, something magical. They reached his car and began the short drive back to campus, the two of them talking the whole way there.

Y/N’s POV

The rest of the week went by smoothly, the two of them falling into a routine, he would give you a stack of papers to either proofread or edit in the morning, after his class you two got lunch, takeout sometimes you sat down and talked, then by 7pm you were saying your goodbyes. That was your least favorite part, you hated to say it but over the past week you had seriously begun to develop feelings for Spencer, to you he didn’t feel like a mentor or a professor, he felt like a friend, maybe more.

It was Friday night, you guys were staying late to prepare the test for Monday. He ordered Chinese food to be delivered to the office so they could at least have dinner while staying late.

“This question doesn’t make sense,” She said, breaking the concentrative silence between them.

“What do you mean?” He says and reaches out his hand to take the paper from you, your hands touch briefly and you feel a fire ignite inside you, you couldn’t tell if he felt the same way. Of course, he didn’t, why would he? He’s a professor and an FBI profiler, he has much better things to do with his time than think about you. You reacted your hand quickly, too quickly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend-“ He started.

But you interrupted “No no no! It’s not like that, I’m sorry.” You said and tried hiding your face behind your hair.

“Hey, what’s up?” He asked, he liked genuinely concerned, how could you explain to him that you had a massive crush on him and touching him had made your stomach fill with butterflies?

“It’s nothing, it’s stupid.” You say, looking up at him, there was something in his eyes, at that moment you knew you could tell him anything. He was one of the most understanding and gentle people you’d ever met.”It’s just, I just- I like you and I’m sorry that's so unprofessional and if you want to fire me please do I understand.” You say and look right back down at your lap. You didn’t say that, right? You’ve somehow been drugged and lost your goddamn mind, right?

Spencer sat in stunned silence for a moment then got out of his chair. Oh god, at least you would open the door for you on your way out. You felt sick to your stomach. But instead of heading to the door, he came to the side of your chair. He knelt to the ground next to you. You slowly turn to look at him and he brushes the hair out of your face. You stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, or maybe a millennium, you couldn’t tell anymore. Then, his lips ever so slowly came up to meet yours. It was gentle, soft like he was scared if he pushed too hard he’d shatter you like glass. You kissed him back, letting his scent engulf you, surrendering yourself to every wonderful thought you had about him. Your hand reaches for his hair and you deepen the kiss, you suppose that was his cue because he then pushed the chair out from under you and grabbed you in his arms, never breaking the kiss. Your head was spinning and your heart was fluttering. He lifted you and set you down so you were sitting on the desk, his hand explored your hair, as your tongues clashed together, your kiss had gone from gentle to passionate and aggressive like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. He held you like he never wanted to let you go, you held on to him the same. You could feel his soft moans on your lips, his teeth ever so gently biting them.

You separated for air for just a moment, he looked into your eyes and traced the curves of your jaw with his finger, “Is this okay?” He asks in a whisper.

“This is perfect.” You kiss him with a smile on your face, just then there is a knock on the door.

“Hello?” Someone from the other side calls.

You both freeze in place. Spencer clears his throat and says, “Yes?”

“I have a delivery. For, uh, Reid?”

Spencer sighed, you couldn’t tell if it was from relief or annoyance but you quickly flatten down your hair and sit back in your chair, Spencer opens to door and hands the man a fifty-dollar bill, grabs the bag, ad shuts the door once again.

He sets the bag down on the desk and asks, “Are you okay?”

You didn’t know how to tell him how indescribably happy you were in that moment.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #fic

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rainbowbutterfrosting · 3 years

Text

Chapter 14 - History

This is chapter 14 of the Dream SMP multichapter fic @dramaticsnakes and I wrote together! I hope you’ll enjoy!

AO3

Read in order (on Tumblr)

Characters in this chapter: Wilbur, Ghostbur, Tubbo (briefly)

Word count: 2,842

Cw: discussions of death, tension between characters, (verbal) fight

Fic summary: Wilbur was alive, and it was such a magnificent feeling, that made his mind spark with anticipation. It didn’t take long, however, for Wilbur to realize that this new breath of life, was not just his own. An echo-y voice hides in the back of his mind, and before he knows it, the transparent version of him he saw at the endless train station, is a lot more ingrained than he’d expected him to be.

And Wilbur really shouldn’t care. Because he’d be damned, if he spent the life he’d awaited for so long, babysitting a lost cause of a ghost, stuck in the very same limbo Wilbur spent so long in. It was an even exchange, and one Wilbur wasn’t going to mess with. Why exactly he ends up setting out to get the ghost out of his mind, in order to save the both of them, however, is beyond him. And perhaps Wilbur’s past isn’t as easy to leave behind, as he’d hoped it would be.

Wilbur opened the book carefully, almost afraid the knowledge would vanish right in his hands if he didn’t. It felt weightless as he walked to the table, sitting in the same chair he sat in during the interview. The first page was blank, but after turning to the next page, he saw a table of contents. He mostly skimmed it, the idea of reading being much more exciting than the process itself.

“Local opinions on L’Manberg’s end” caught his eye. He flipped to page 138 and read the beginning. It stated the interview each person was given, explaining how everyone received the same questions on (mostly) the same day. Some bits seemed scattered, as if they were just quick notes jotted down, and the writing wasn’t consistent. It was possible Tubbo had gotten some help writing it all down. Wilbur also remembered how some books had apparently been destroyed, so this likely wasn’t an entirely finished product.

They started chronologically of when they were taken, most of the people at the beginning saying that they weren’t affiliated with L’Manberg, but still felt the despair of those who were. A few questioned his motives along with how long it was planned out.

Wilbur easily skipped over those, the boringness of them making him yawn. A small smirk came across his face when he saw Dream’s name. He read the statement supplied, “I’m not gonna lie or fluff it up, Wilbur was an idiot. He didn’t know how to run a nation at all, but he was so hungry for power that he assumed he could. I would say it’s sad that Wilbur blew it up, but good riddance to that cry for attention.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. No wonder he declared independence against him. He truly didn’t understand the restrictions the world put on him. It really wouldn’t have been difficult for Dream to let them be their own nation, but instead, he had to childishly declare war. Though regardless of the past, Wilbur didn’t hold many hard feelings against the man. Not after what Dream had done for him. He read the next statement. A small look of disgust came across his face when he saw it was Eret.

“I know my history with L’Manberg, but I still wish it didn’t come to this fate. Wilbur was a good person. Perhaps he slipped off the deep-end near the end there, but he held kindness close to his chest. I know I… betrayed them, but I shouldn’t have. If I could go back and change it I would.” A small supplement at the end added that the confession was taken the day of L’Manberg’s explosion.

Wilbur looked at the words for longer than he should’ve blinking at them as if they’d been a trick of the light. A good person? They might have interacted so long ago, but he hoped they would at least remember the bare minimum of who he was. A good person, perhaps once, or at the very least an attempt at one. Though Eret’s words were far too hesitant and sympathetic, and Wilbur couldn’t quite get himself to grasp them. He remembered seeing regret in Eret’s eyes, that Wilbur quickly shoved away. He remembered the hope he once had for when Tommy started pursuing other things. Hope that Eret could act as a vice-president in his place. Or even before that happened, they could be a treasurer or anything that would have helped them in the wars. Perhaps they could have even helped in the elections, using his charm and charisma to ‘woo’ the neutral voters. But in the end, Eret had found a better deal, and throughout the 13 and a half years, Wilbur had found it increasingly difficult to blame her for that.

He let his eyes drift across the page, skipping a few nobodies that just happened to be nearby, before reading Tommy’s. A small note was made to the side saying it was taken three days after the explosion. “I can’t fucking believe him. We fought together for- for- I don’t know how long! But he... we had L’Manberg again and he- he’s gone. I wish I felt bad that he’s dead and shit but it was his decision for all of that to happen. Not a single person pushing him towards that. The war- our lives aren’t even over yet, but he had to leave us already.”

Wilbur shut his eyes for a moment, before rereading it once more. The words and their meanings didn’t change. Wilbur had wanted strong words like it, because words of enemies didn’t sting, and Wilbur had effectively made Tommy his enemy. Though he wasn’t certain if these counted as strong words. In fact, he wasn’t entirely certain what he’d expected them to say. If he’d expected Tommy to say anything at all. Tommy hadn’t followed along with Wilbur, despite Wilbur once feeling that he was doing exactly what they needed to do. And it was fine, really. Wilbur had left his impact, and while the action now felt distant to him, Tommy did not need to feel bad for his death. Wilbur didn’t know exactly why he’d returned, but a warm welcome wasn’t to be expected. While Tommy’s words were strange and familiar, talking of Wilbur as if he was a person who left, who died to be mourned, rather than an event, a choice, and a legacy, they were to be expected of the child. Wilbur pursed his lips, fiddling with the corner of the page in his hand. He lingered on Tommy’s section for longer than he should’ve. He didn’t know if seconds or minutes passed but he heard Tubbo’s voice from nearby, “You good?”

He turned towards Tubbo, slipping on a grin, “Yeah, yeah, it’s all pretty interesting stuff.”

Tubbo hesitantly smiled in return, “Cool, I’ll just be down here if you need anything.” He did finger guns towards the direction of the stairs and awkwardly walked back down them.

Although Wilbur’s mind was blurred, a small part of him was able to focus on Tubbo’s feelings about L’Manberg. He flipped through the pages, names filled his eyes, but none of them were what he was looking for. He frowned and double-checked, but the same results still occurred. He flipped to the last page of the section, figuring that Tubbo must’ve been at the end, if not the beginning. Instead, he found a small portion that read, “Any statements not present are from the people present only after L’Manberg’s original explosion weren’t available.”

Wilbur knew Tubbo was present during the wars, so it didn’t make sense why he pretended like he wasn’t. Especially because the statement implied he only joined after L’Manberg was over and dealt with. Did Tubbo rewrite history so he wasn’t a part of it? That didn’t seem likely to him, but the lack of Tubbo’s opinion on the paper spoke louder than his thoughts.

He told himself to shrug it off as Ghostbur’s quiet voice popped into his mind, “Hey, Wilbur, can we talk about something?”

Wilbur looked around, trying to ensure Tubbo couldn’t hear him. He mumbled, “Later.”

Ghostbur took in a deep breath, “That’s okay. Just- make sure that I don’t forget to ask about it.”

Wilbur absentmindedly nodded as he flipped to one of the earlier pages. His eyes didn’t focus on the paper, but rather on what he wanted to know. He decided his father’s opinion would be the best choice. He flipped the page once again and spotted Phil’s name near the middle of the text. “It’s been a lot to handle. I wasn’t a part of L’Manberg, but- Wilbur being gone. It means more to me than L’Manberg did to him.”

It was short and sweet in the way Wilbur expected. It washed out most of Tommy’s statement as he flipped around in search of Niki’s. He briefly thought about Ranboo’s opinion, but the book already told him it wouldn’t be there. Even then, the centrist would have probably made something up that would apply to any event.

Niki’s opinion didn’t focus much on Wilbur, but it was still good nonetheless. “I used to care about L’Manberg a lot. I built the original flag and I felt… I felt so close to everyone there. Even when Schlatt came into power. L’Manberg was all I really had to go to, even if it was technically Manberg at the time. Yet, I feel in a way, like time split us apart. Not Wilbur though. I wished he was still here.”

Wilbur smiled softly. He missed her quite a lot, especially during limbo. He would close his eyes, and pretend he was baking with her again. Nothing in particular either, just tossing flour on each other and bumping shoulders occasionally. There was enough room in the kitchen to avoid the latter, but it brought a closeness to the both of them that Wilbur didn’t know how to describe. Of course, that was during the desperate years. The ones where the concrete of the platform seemed to burn his feet, as he let vulnerability slip in, right before he let it grow into something else.

He searched his mind, thinking of who he met after his revival, and his breath hitched at the thought of Fundy. He sat for a moment, contemplating if he should even do it. He flipped the page carefully, skimming for the name of his son.

He found it quicker than he would have liked to. A dread filling his chest that he forcefully pushed away. He read the segment Fundy spoke about. Reading it over and over again, none of it sticking in his head. Disbelief and confusion hit him like a truck. The only words his son spoke about it were, “I feel ashamed to even call him my father.”

Wilbur closed the book. The cover seemed to burn him as he did so. He let it sit on the table, his hands resting on his legs. He robotically stood up, his movements feeling stiff and unnatural. He laid a hand on the book that rested so peacefully. He begrudgingly picked it up, the book somehow feeling much heavier than last time. He slowly shuffled towards the bookshelf, putting it back where he thought it was, not paying much mind if it was in the right place or not.

“Wilbur,” Ghostbur said, his voice sounding a bit apprehensive.

“Yes, what is it?” Wilbur asked, a little sharper than he perhaps intended.

“Wil, why did you lie?” the words came out, with a certain sadness, yet they seemed almost practiced. They were quick, yet each syllable was dripping with concern or perhaps spite, if Wilbur didn’t know any better.

“Lie about what?” Wilbur asked, huffing.

“Tubbo…” he took a deep breath, “Tubbo asked you if there were any side-effects, and you didn’t mention me. You said I wasn’t there. But I am! I know I am, because we’re talking. So why didn’t you say that?”

Wilbur breathed in sharply, like a hiss. “It’s nothing.” he said, “I wasn’t planning lie much after the revival, but what would you want me to say?”

“That I’m here!”

“I can’t just say that!” Wilbur said, trying to keep his voice down, “They can’t know you’re here, because it’ll make it harder for us to find a way to get you out.”

“They can help! Tubbo would want to help.” Ghostbur said, certainly.

“Tubbo isn’t going to believe me, Ghostbur. It’s going to concern him, and we don’t want Tubbo to be sad, do we?” The last words came out a bit more naturally than what Wilbur had wanted them to.

It did seem to make Ghostbur go quiet, for just a few moments. When Wilbur almost thought Ghostbur had nothing more to say, he spoke, “No no no, you don’t understand!” He said, “Sometimes, sadness can be okay, I think. Lying isn’t good at all. It leads to bad things.” The last sentence, held more melancholy than the rest.

Wilbur wanted to laugh. “It’s not that simple.” he said, “Lying is an excellent tool. Sometimes, you need it to survive, Ghostbur. And right now we do.”

“How do you know that?” Ghostbur asked, beginning to sound slightly panicked, “They told me it wouldn’t be bad, but then they lied, and it was! It was bad.”

Wilbur shook his head confusedly, “Who are you talking about?”

A bit of shock came from Ghostbur’s following gasp. “I… I don’t know.” he said, and the confusion told Wilbur it was the truth, “I’m not sure I…” he was breathing a little faster, “I can’t find the memories, but lying is bad Wilbur! It’s not going to lead to anything good, I can feel it.”

“Lying can give you an advantage, and we want to get you out quickly.” Wilbur said. He felt as if the world was momentarily catching fire around him. “It’s just a white lie, Ghostbur. Just to keep everything on track. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“I… I’m sorry, but I just don’t think this is a good idea! We should tell Tubbo. We can trust him, I know it!”

“Who are you to say who I can fucking trust?” Wilbur said, a little louder, “This is none of your business! This is my life, even if you insist on invading it!”

As the words hung sharply in the air, the silence that followed became blindingly obvious.

Wilbur could hear his own slow breathing, filling the empty room. “Fuck… Oh fuck, I didn’t mean to say that.”

There was no response.

“Ghostbur, I...” he breathed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to say that.”

The silence from the ghost stabbed him in the chest. “Ghostbur, it was just a bit of a slip-up. Y’know like when you get tongue-tied?” Wilbur tried to pull off a playful tone, but the concern behind it was prevalent. Wilbur sighed. It wasn’t one out of aggression, but rather a disappointment in himself.

He walked away from the bookshelf and towards the stairs, seeing Tubbo harvesting some melons from his farm. He forgot that the boy was even there, his thoughts consuming everything around him. He faintly smiled as he walked to the lower level of the bunker. He didn’t bother ruining the peace and simply mentioned, “I put the book back.”

Tubbo looked down at Wilbur. “Oh! Alright. Are you heading out?”

“I suppose I am,” Wilbur said, a bit quietly, almost hoping that Tubbo’s voice would bring some response from the ghost.

“Where are you going?” Tubbo asked.

At the words, Wilbur realized he didn’t have a good answer to that. His head was a mess, and it felt emptier than usual. He tried to open any gate in his mind at all, to find a rhyme or reason to his actions and his desires. For some reason, the one purpose he’d assigned to himself, seemed further off than before. It was silly and frivolous of him to bother being affected in such a way. If there was one thing he’d learned as a commander, it was that the war would rage on, whether you felt like it or not. A break, and a moment of silence, was rarely a particularly good sign. Sometimes you needed it to make plans however, and if he couldn’t even do something as simple as that, how could he consider himself powerful anymore? Knowledge. He needed knowledge, and he’d just left all the books behind after looking at one. He breathed in. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re welcome to head to the mansion.” Tubbo said with a shrug, “Ranboo and I are sleeping over again tonight, so if you need a place to stay, you’re welcome there.”

Wilbur froze, and weighed the suggestion in his mind. He heard a faint and familiar breath from Ghostbur that calmed his heart for a moment. “Sure.” he said, a little too quickly, “That sounds fine.” He accompanied it with a smile, to try to make the exchange seem natural.

Tubbo’s expression indicated it hadn’t worked entirely, but the frown quickly turned into a similar smile. “Sweet! I’ll be going there soon enough, but you can go ahead if you want.” Just before Wilbur had the chance, Tubbo looked as if he remembered something. “Oh, also! Try not to tell anyone about this place. It’s a secret to most people.”

Wilbur nodded, unsure why Tubbo would’ve told him about it, if it was such a secret. “Can I come back here?”

Tubbo took a moment to respond. “Make sure I’m with you.” he said, “We have some structural problems, so I don’t want anyone to be here without me being aware of it.”

The words reached Wilbur strangely. He swallowed something in his throat and nodded nonetheless. Then, without further response, he wandered outside, into a much more apparent form of silence.

Tubbo nodded and looked slightly dismayed at Wilbur’s sudden exit, “Alright, seeya later.”

Wilbur took long strides away from the bunker, hoping it would help collect his thoughts for Ghostbur. His footsteps echoed through the halls, making him miss the sound of Ghostbur’s voice. He walked towards the entrance of Pogtopia, quickly exiting. The change of scene didn’t help him think. If anything, it only increased his worries about the ghost as his mind ran.

#c!wilbur #c!wilbur soot #revivebur #the revived #dream smp #dsmp #dream smp fanfic #fanfic #dsmp fanfic #ghostbur #ghostbur angst #wilbur angst

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Note

if you want an idea for a specific continuation, maybe after Antoni is done showering, he can’t fall back asleep and Chris notices it and Antoni opens up a bit about his past while Chris comforts him? I just want him to be happy okay (also, “Get Up” was fantastic)

CW: Extensive discussion of scarring/scars, negative stimming (rocking, mostly, but it’s described in detail, just an fyi), references to past torture and PTSD. Noncon touching (nonsexual and not whumpy, but still)

Post-Get Up, this is pretty much just a wee little epilogue for it. Tagging my Antoni and Chris people: @astrobly, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp, @oofowouchies, @orphceus, @pretty-face-breaker, @im-just-here-for-the-whump, @thebirdsofgay, @whumpfigure, @doveotions, @newandfiguringitout, @endless-whump, @stxckfxck, @slaintetowhump

“Why... why are you here, Chrisha?” Antoni’s voice trembles a little, leftovers from the cold shower. Chris’s fingers press over his skin, trail his neck to push into his pulse point and feel at the lymph nodes there. Every touch is too warm, burns him all over again, but he can’t move to push him away. He can barely breathe to speak.

Chris doesn’t answer him at first. He’s kneeling on the tile floor, water soaked through the knees of his jeans and half-drowning in one of Jake’s old t-shirts, rocking forward and back, his eyes narrowed and intensely focused in a way that Chris never is. The blue feather necklace he always has around his neck swings forward and bumps back into his chest with the force of his rocking, and Antoni’s eyes keep drifting there, caught by the rhythmic motion, feeling like he’s being hypnotized.

He feels a strange little urge to swipe his hand out, like a cat batting at a swinging mouse.

“F-for, for, for-for you, here for you,” Chris mumbles, in a voice Antoni has never heard him use. It’s flat and strange, like he’s speaking from a thousand miles inside his mind. The fingers run down over exposed collarbone, trail a tiny line of scars there, mark each one.

He’s lost in the change of texture, maybe, or maybe it’s just that pushing down how he wants to respond to this evidence of Antoni’s evil, his sin, is taking too much out of him and there isn’t enough left to show on the outside.

“Chrisha-”

Chris just shakes his head, rocks a little harder. It’s in moments like this where Antoni can see the worry that Jake and Nat still have over him, these minutes ticking by where Chris is gone somewhere inside himself, buried in the stimuli that comes from pressing his fingers slowly over the way Antoni’s skin is slippery-wet here, and roughened there, again and again and again. Antoni has seen this only once or twice before - Chris just barely dancing around or avoiding panic by retreating into his own head, desperately chasing the safety there.

“Please-... please stop,” Antoni whispers. Chris doesn’t even seem to hear him.

It’s Antoni’s fault, really.

He had stayed curled up in the bottom of the tub letting the water run over him in icy rivulets and streams for as long as he could stand it, until the shakes were too much for him and he’d only barely managed, with numb, fumbling fingers, to turn the water off.

He hadn’t gotten out of the tub so much as he’d just draped himself over the side until gravity did the work for him and let him land with his body on the bathmat and his legs and head against cool tile, water dripping from his hair to pool and puddle beneath his cheek.

He looked like the chalk outline of a body at the beginning of a crime show. He felt a little more than halfway there, too.

Chris had waited as patiently as he could but worry had overrun his deep respect for privacy and he had found Antoni like that, still naked and shuddering, and now... this.

Chris’s lips are moving without sound, and Antoni stares at them, breathing slowly and with effort, until he realizes that he is watching Chris count his scars. His mouth moves each time his finger presses against a roughened circle of skin.

“More than two hundred,” Antoni says, softly. It’s the strongest his voice has felt since he fell asleep.

“Wh-what?” Chris doesn’t look up, and the rocking pauses, briefly, but then starts up again. What matters, though, is that he pulls his hand back and away, and Antoni can breathe more easily at the lack of touch than he could at the trailing, skimming, light-fingered consideration of every mark he earned.

“I have... more than two hundred... of those. I had Dr. Masood count them when I first... came to live at Natalie’s house. Chrisha, I need you to help me up. I c-can’t... can’t stand.”

“All from him?” Chris asks it quickly, in a single breath.

There is always a him, a her, a them.

“All,” Antoni says, as firmly as he can in a voice that still shakes. “Pl-please, Chrisha. I need you to come back to me, for a minute.”

Chris’s eyes flicker to his and they’re still gone, for a moment, before the fog in them recedes enough for him to nod and press his lips together. The rocking stills and he pushes himself back into crouch, sliding his arms under Antoni’s.

Antoni hisses at the sudden burn of the warmth of him against skin that still feels like ice.

“W-why, why, why why why, why don’t you, why, why don’t I-”

“Know about them?” Antoni leans heavily on Chris, all but falls against him, and his attempts to walk are really just Chris dragging him across the floor with his feet only barely managing to occasionally move in time.

“Um. Yes, I want-... why don’t you-... why don’t we, we know? Does Jake know?”

“No. No one knows.” Antoni’s forehead falls against the side of Chris’s neck and soft blue hair brushes him. He smiles, faintly. “Just you now, I guess.”

“So, so why-”

“Some scars are mine to keep.” He lets himself be put into bed, only vaguely aware he’s not in his own, but in Chris’s bed, in the bedroom they keep here for him where he sleeps on weekends when he’s not staying in his dorm or with Laken. “To make my body my own, I have to keep my scars my own. Do you understand?”

Some scars were mine to earn, they don’t belong to anyone but me. I am the one who made him put them there.

“No,” Chris says, covering Antoni up in his blankets, and the weighted one on top feels like a hand softly pressing Antoni into the mattress. A hand, or a body. His breath comes a little more easily, blinking slowly. “I don’t. They, they, they-they don’t... don’t-don’t give us scars, that’s-”

“They still give you scars.” Antoni grins, a faded shadow of a smile, and reaches up to press into the center of Chris’s forehead. “Yours are in here, Chrisha, and they are just a real. Mine are more visible, that is all. I am sorry I scared you. I haven’t felt well, I did not realize I was so sick so quickly...”

He hadn’t known he was dreaming, it had been so perfectly vivid. Hadn’t he heard once that you can’t smell in your dreams? But he had smelled the cloves, overwhelming, almost sweet. He hadn’t realized any of it was a dream.

“I’ll... I‘ll get you some medicine.” Chris all but vanishes out of the room - Antoni blinks and the blue-haired boy is gone when his eyes open again. He lays there, blinks again - and Chris is back, staring worriedly at him, fingers twisting at the feather he wears around his neck with one hand holding a small cup with a thick syrupy liquid in the other.

“Did I... fall asleep?”

“I, I think so. I’m sorry, I-I poured out the liquid before I remembered you, you, you can take, um, pills.”

“That is just fine.” Antoni tried giving him a supportive smile, even if it wavered, and drank the disgusting sticky grape-y mess down in one gulp, like taking a shot of the world’s worst vodka. “Chrisha please-... do me a favor? Yes? I need... hot water and the raspberry jam I keep in the fridge. Mix together, to make a tea.”

“Um. Why?”

“I don’t know.” Antoni lays back against the pillow, closing his eyes again. “I just know it will help.” There’s a silence, and when he looks, Chris is rocking again, eyes focused on the curve of Antoni’s shoulder showing above the blankets, a tiny circle of scars there. “Chrisha.”

“Yes?” Chris blinks, broken out of his impending fog once more. “Oh, s-sorry, I’ll, I’ll get the, uh, the tea and-and, and, and the water... the water-tea...”

“Please.” He hesitates. “Would you... want to know about my him, Chris?”

Chris swallows, and slowly nods. “You, you, you-you know about mine. But, but, but-but you don’t have to-”

“You cannot understand my scars unless you understand why I hide them.” Antoni smiles, a little weakly. He can feel the warmth of the blankets around him but somehow they don’t seem to penetrate the first layers of skin, he is still cold, shivering. “The tea can wait. Come... come here, please.”

He holds out a hand and Chris climbs immediately into the bed with him, laying on top and to the side with his arm across Antoni’s chest, tucking his head under his chin the way he does with Jake. He smells like the shampoo he uses at the dorms and a whisper of a different kind of scent Antoni thinks must be the gingery stuff Laken wears on their neck and wrists. Chris has smelled like that before.

But why is he here, smelling like Laken and still alone?

The answer can wait.

Instead, Antoni tightens his arm around Chris, letting fingers run lightly through the blue hair as though watching a waterfall part around them, and says softly, “My him had a first name, but I was not allowed to use it.”

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inevera · 3 years

Text

Comfortember Day 2: First Day

Decided to write some stuff for Comfortober this month for the Angmor universe. Most of it will be based of the ongoing RP between me and my partner Leo, but I figured it's great practice to get back into the swing of things.

Anyways, if you have any questions about the setting feel free to ask and I'll gladly tell you more. Most of it is shameless self indulgence.

CW: implied partial paralization, injuries but not graphically described. [if I missed anything please let me know so I can add it]

For just a moment Yael was convinced everything had just been a vivid nightmare when he opened his eyes. Sunlight was filtering through a crack of the curtains, dust particles lazily drifting around a spacious, unfamiliar bedroom. He tried to push himself off the mattress, briefly wondering why he was laying on his stomach. And then the pain kicked back in with an intensity that had his vision black out again for several seconds and gasp for air. His nerves felt like they were on fire, each heartbeat sending throbbing, sharp sensations down his spine.

"Don't move, don't move", a voice shushed him, Yael registering it's owner as Bask. He could only wince like a kicked dog in response. "I know, I was hoping you'd be asleep for longer. Breathe dove, it'll soothe in a moment." Yael let his eyes shut again, hissing through his breaths. Bask gently touched his arm before taking one of his hands between his own to hold it tightly. Yael let him.

It felt like an eternity until the searing pain ebbed off into a dull, uncomfortable sting. Bask remained at his side until Yael's eyes fluttered open again. Bask's eyes were full of concern and tears. Yael's throat refused to form words yet, so he slowly reached out to wipe them away, pulling his hands closer to kiss his knuckles. "You're still alive. You're still alive, I-" Basks voice broke off into a sob and Yael felt something inside him crack.

By the time Yael found enough strength to slowly sit up the sun was already starting to set again. Bask never left his bedside for long, carefully changing the covering and putting more ointment on his back every hour. It felt cold, but it did a good job at numbing the pain. He was grateful that his companion didn't push him to talk about it yet. It pained him to see Bask's features so heavy with worry and concern, instead of the radiant smile it usually held.

"How did you find me?" Yael's voice was hoarse and raw, his throat still sore from the agonized screaming forced out of it the day before. "I think she was a Banshee. A woman grabbed my shoulders and told me I need to get into the forest immediately. So I got there as fast as I possibly could, and… well, there you were." Bask sat next to him after placing another sheet of thin fabric on his back to cover the deep gashes.

Yael gave a low "mmhh" in return, but his gaze was spacing out as if he was staring right through the mirror on the door of the closet. There was Bask, with all the golden comforting light his aura radiated, the delicate iridescent wings and fluffy moth antennas on his head only he was able to still see. And then there was himself, and there was nothing.

No more light, no more wings, no more halo.

"I don't know how you survived… whatever happened exactly, but I'm beyond grateful you did. I don't think I could have beared losing you." Bask spoke quietly, pulling Yael back out of his thoughts for a moment.

"I don't think I was supposed to survive either." Yael rubbed his face, questioning if that would have been the better outcome. He was useless without his powers. Normally even injuries this grave healed within days, a couple weeks at most. This would take him several months, or even years now, of painful waiting until his body recovered from the shock of the impact. He didn't let Bask in on the suspicion that something was wrong with his spine by how much he already struggled to feel something in or move his legs. Yael couldn't fight like this, and it was all he was good for.

"Lay back down and get some more rest, I'll go make us something to eat. I'm sure you'll be back on your feet in no time. You always took great care of me, so now I'm gonna take great care of you." Bask got off the bed as he spoke, and flashed him a warm smile before turning around to leave the room. Yael pressed his lips together tightly and swore Bask would never find out he'd been the cause for his fall in the first place.

If he had just followed his protocol and stayed clear of him on the first day he'd probably still have his wings. Bask would be blissfully unaware of the empire looming over Yaels back, continuing his life as cheerful and fulfilled as always. And Yael wouldn't get distracted by his disarming kindness and simply follow his orders instead.

He always thought everything that happened was out of good will. That yes, the methods sometimes were questionable, but it was for the greater good. The Kangjeon family took him off the streets and gave him the opportunity for a good life in exchange for loyalty. As it turned out one act of defiance was worth more than all the years he spent devoted to them. Suddenly it didn't matter anymore that Yael was one of their best assets and willing to get his hands dirty. He would've killed anyone to prove his loyalty.

Anyone but Bask.

They sat next to each other in silence and ate. Yael still felt nauseous, but knew it would get worse with an empty stomach. Bask was gently leaning against him, a quiet gesture of comfort. He was alive, and so was Bask. Maybe that was enough.

"You'll have to glow for both of us from now on, sunshine."

#Angmor #storytime with Rae #Yael #Bask #wrote this in the middle of the damn night but who cares #i'll probably hate this in the morning #not edited #Bask belongs to Leo and I would die for him #Yael needs a hug #if you took the time to read this I love you #comfortember #comfortember 2020

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

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What Might Have Been - 17

@goodomenscelebration - Theme Prompts

Continuing to post as many as possible in one evening!

If you missed a chapter, they are all available on AO3!

CW for briefly described but very bad injuries; and for creepy abandoned towns

For those who need a reminder: “Crowley” is our Crowley, while his “mirror image” is the Alternate Universe version. “Aziraphale” (or the “Guardian of Humanity”) is the Alternate Universe angel, while “Kasbeel” is ours, in disguise.

I apologize for that being confusing.

Holiday

“Tell me about the angel.”

Crowley’s mirror image slumped against the wall, looking blankly at the space between them.

It was the only thing he ever asked. He never spoke of his own Aziraphale.

At first, Crowley had thought it was a trick. He’d kept his responses vague, evasive. What do you want me to say? Smug bastard with white wings. The mirror image had simply nodded.

Over time, Crowley started telling stories from their past, short ones, ones he thought over carefully, to ensure they wouldn’t reveal too much.

He likes oysters, way too much. Just. Salty, briny disgusting oysters, and he’ll eat a dozen of them in one sitting. Slurps them, too.

He can’t stand Charles Dickens. No idea why. Might just be that his customers are always asking for him, but I think they met once.

He’s been trying to learn to pull a coin from someone’s ear for over a century. Still drops the damn thing half the time. Isn’t it only supposed to take ten thousand hours to learn a skill? He’s coming up on a hundred thousand hours I think, and he still can’t get the fingers right.

And then, somewhere along the way, he stopped even guarding himself that much.

“He helps people,” Crowley said, turning his leg, which was still stiff and sore from the last torture session. The floor around him was black with demonic blood. “Even…when it’s really not worth it, even when there’s something way more important going on. One time, we were at this little restaurant in Italy. I turn my back for a minute, and there he goes, off washing dishes. He hates doing that sort of stuff, you know, always leaves them in the sink until I take care of it. But the girl in the back had been sick, and he sent her home and took over the job himself. Didn’t even use miracles, by the way, and couldn’t figure out how the machine worked, so he did it all by hand.”

“What…” the mirror image asked. “What was the more important thing?”

“Oh, uh, I’d been planning to ask him something. Not important what. We picked up the conversation later, but, um, he really ruined my first attempt.”

A hundred and forty miles to London.

Alone, Kasbeel could fly the distance in just under five hours. He would be exhausted, but he’d had a lot of practice the last few years.

He was not alone.

A Roman legion could walk twenty miles a day, setting up camp every night and breaking it in the morning. They could have made it in a week. Harold Godwinson had crossed from Yorkshire to Sussex in a little more than that.

But Kasbeel wasn’t leading an army.

He was leading nearly three hundred tired, hungry humans, most of them young, through enemy territory. Where they could be spotted at any moment and taken from him.

He took a deep breath, and walked through the crowd.

“Patrick, how’s the leg? Healing well? Ollie, make sure you hold onto Jennifer’s hand. Mrs. Sherwood, that’s not too many children? Please let Mrs. Kumar know if you need help. Amiyah, why don’t you move up to the front where we can see you? Alex, please, stay with your group, I don’t want to ask you again.” He greeted as many as he could, clasping shoulders, grasping hands.

When he reached the front, Lyla was waiting. She’d arranged her hair to hide the Mark on her cheekbone, as many did if they could. He bit his tongue and didn’t say anything. It was her choice.

“Are we ready to go?” she asked, tilting her head towards the highway, cutting south towards London.

“I believe so.” He glanced at the sky, black, filled with stars once more. It was comforting, and frightening. What else would change? “Let’s get as far as we can before sunrise.”

Ishliah had never seen the world before the apocalypse. Just barracks and training until the day the war started, then fighting, and fighting and fighting.

What spread before her now was almost incomprehensible. Little short plants growing everywhere from the ground, a vibrant, impossible green. And the taller ones – the trees – reaching almost to the top of the wall, branches spreading thick with fruit. Little animals sat in the branches, singing, not as varied or interesting as the singing of angels, but music nonetheless.

All that, and the sky above, brilliant blue again – it was almost enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Ishliah of the Seventh Battalion. Welcome to New Eden.”

She turned, and her heart stopped in her chest. That face – she knew him, would never forget it, though now he was in uniform, flaming sword in hand. But the pale curls – the round face – the blue-grey eyes…

“You…” she managed, weakly.

“That would be the confirmation I need.” He stepped closer, still smiling. “I am Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth and Guardian of Humanity. I believe you met someone claiming to be me, three years ago, according to your report.”

“That…it really was…you?” Her hands began to tremble, and she wondered if this was what fear felt like. She never felt it on the battlefield, but this was much, much worse.

Ishliah had lied in that report.

“No, it was not.” He patted her on the shoulder. “And I don’t believe many others understand what you truly witnessed. I don’t fully understand it myself, but I mean to. Now. You said this angel…” a screen appeared in his hand and he scrolled down, lips pursed as he read. “Here it is. He took you into a hidden room and tortured you for information? Is this true?”

“Yes?” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes. There was a great deal of pain and…he asked me questions…”

Something caught her eye down in the garden. A group of humans, being led to a smaller walled area not far away. The human in the lead was shouting, and they all seemed to be bound together on some sort of chain.

“Even here we have our troublemakers,” Aziraphale said, with something like regret. “Sometimes the children don’t grow obediently as we’d hoped, and sometimes the Retrieval teams make mistakes when identifying the Elect. Not often, but we have been very busy lately.” He nodded towards the smaller walled section. “The holding pen is their last chance. Gabriel will arrive in a week to deliver the final Judgement on them.”

“And…if they’re found wanting…?”

“They’re cast out, of course. Far from here. The Eastern Gate, you understand, is purely ceremonial.” He gestured to the outer wall beside them.

Ishliah glanced down to see, not quite directly below them, a single stone missing from the completely smooth face of the wall. It hardly looked large enough for even a young human to slip through. She checked the inside curve of the wall. No breaks there – the missing stone didn’t even reach all the way.

She looked up again to find the Guardian scrolling through her report with pursed lips. “Ishliah. I wonder if, perhaps, you weren’t completely honest in what you said?”

She clenched her jaw, the fear suddenly reaching a height she had never suspected. Was this why traitors deserted? She would do anything not to feel this way again…

But the Guardian merely smiled, stepping close, lowering his voice. “My dear. Do not worry. What you witnessed was…truly extraordinary, and of course you thought no one would believe you. But this is no longer an isolated incident. There have been…other reports, curious ones, and yours doesn’t quite line up. But if you tell me the truth now, all will be forgiven.”

Her eyes slid again to the holding pen. “All?”

He rested a hand on her back, turning her away, until she faced him and only him. “Now, Ishliah. Tell me about the angel.”

“Tell me about the angel.”

Crowley tried to sit up straighter. His leg had healed, but now there was some great gaping gash across his stomach, and the way his manacled arm hung kept stretching the wound.

“He’s a complete hedonist. Foods. Wines. He goes to the barber every month. His hair doesn’t grow, he’s never had a beard, and he never even changes his look. I have no idea why he does it, except to have someone wash his hair and buff his nails. But he always comes out smiling, like he’s found the secret to peace on earth.”

“Nh,” the mirror image said. Crowley looked up to find he had a hand pressed to the bleeding wound on his neck. But it hadn’t sounded like a noise of pain. “I…uh, yeah. I know the look.”

“He likes to spoil me, too, when he has a chance. Trying to cheer me up, I think. I don’t tell him when it works, though. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. One time in Rome, there was this place with oysters—”

“Stop.”

Crowley looked across the cell, but his mirror image might as well have lost interest, tugging himself towards the corner to sleep.

After three days of travel they reached Burton-upon-Trent.

The gang of wanderers divided into teams to explore, looking for supplies: food, medicine, clothing, shoes, anything that could be used as a weapon. Kasbeel and Lyla walked together with Squad A down the empty street, hot with the kind of blistering heat that only comes on a sunny day. Barricades were put up here and there, signs of the Marked painted on the walls, but no one came out to challenge them.

“I don’t like this,” Lyla muttered. “I don’t want to fight, but…where is everyone?”

All of the villages they’d passed had been abandoned. Apart from the angelic patrols, England was apparently empty.

Kasbeel shook his head. “The Sainsbury’s should be up ahead. Why don’t you…” he trailed off, looking at a few unbroken windows up the side of the street. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I have something to investigate here.”

Two hours later, Squad A emerged with four shopping trollies loaded with cans of soup, vegetables, powdered milk – everything they thought might still be edible after seven years. Lyla doubted it would last them more than a day or two.

No sooner had she stepped into the overly-bright day – she’d forgotten how painful the sun could be – then she heard a shriek, a high-pitched scream of a small child.

She spun, grabbing a can of food, ready to throw it at whatever angel, demon or human threatened her people –

The wanderers had gathered in the parking lot of the carwash across the street, and jets of water filled the air. She could still hear the children shrieking, but everyone else looked relaxed, calm, many of them smiling.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, prepared to push her way through the crowd, but they parted, pressing her forward until she saw the set up.

Four chairs, padded and high-backed, stood in a line across the parking lot. In each one, a child sat, dripping wet, while behind them the adults scrubbed and combed their hair, snipping with delicate scissors. They passed a hose up and down the line of chairs, rinsing the children off.

On one side, Alex had mastery of a single hose, waiting until a chair was free. “Next!” Ollie ran up, bouncing eagerly for his turn. Alex turned on the hose and drenched him, from head to toe, while the little boy shrieked, jumping up and down in the water. “Alright, you’re clean, go get your hair cut.”

On the other side, Kasbeel had set up a small table with two chairs. He sat on one side, and delicately rubbed at Mickey’s nails with an emery board, a pair of glasses she’d never seen before perched on his nose. “Ah, Lyla, you’re back. Join the queue, but be careful, many of the older customers are finding Alex’s methods a little intense.”

“What are you doing?” Lyla shoved at the table, causing little bottles of nail varnish to rattle. “You could have been helping us find food, and instead you’re – you’re wasting time!”

“I most certainly am not. Time is a precious commodity, you know, and ought never to be wasted.” He put down the emery board. “Do you want a color, Mickey? I think the pale pink would look wonderful.”

And Mickey – tough, stoic Mickey, veteran of five battles in the demonic army, Mark emblazoned on his brow for all to see – asked, “Can I try the gold? I like the way it shines.”

“Of course. A wonderful choice.”

“Look at me!” Lyla slammed her hand onto the table again. “What is wrong with you? We need to get everyone ready to move, we’re still weeks away from London. We don’t need—”

“My dear, you most certainly do need.” Kasbeel pulled off the glasses, brows snapping down. “Look at our people. They’ve been living in the mountains, in the dirt, covered in their own filth. It isn’t right.”

“So what? Who cares how we look? Humans lived like that for thousands of years. Our ancestors didn’t need to be pampered, they survived with the bare minimum—”

“Oh, no, who told you that?” Kasbeel shook a jar of nail varnish and began applying the first coat to Mickey’s nails. “I was there, and I can tell you. People bathed. People spent hours on their hair, and their eyebrows, and their nails, and elaborate henna tattoos, although I wasn’t able to find any supplies for that. It isn’t about wanting to look good, or to impress anyone. It’s about taking care of yourselves.” He blew a breath across Mickey’s nails, encouraging them to dry. “Being clean, being groomed, it makes humans feel human again.”

Lyla’s lip curled in disgust. But she looked back at the crowd, the smiling faces, the way the kids splashed in the puddles with bare feet, the way the adults laughed behind the stolen salon chairs, passing the hose back and forth. The teenagers all tugged at each other’s newly-short hair, running their fingers through it, marveling in how light it felt on a hot day.

She hadn’t seen her people like this. Hadn’t seen anyone like this. Not in so very long.

“Fine. If that’s what you want. And since we’re clearly going to spend the rest of the day here, I might as well look for a place to sleep. Something that’s actually necessary.”

She stormed up the street, past the shattered windows of the salons and nail parlors, past the Sainsbury’s again, and around the corner. She kept walking until the sounds of the crowd at the carwash were long gone, then just stood, quietly, in the street.

She wanted to scream, until the knot in her stomach was gone. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, and she couldn’t find the voice for it. So, she just stood there, in the street, fists clenched.

Until Kasbeel’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Would you like to talk about it, my dear?”

“Talk about what? I told you – I’m – I’m looking for a place for us to stay.”

“There were plenty of townhouses in the other direction, you know. And I’ve already sent a team to explore them. Unless you think a, er, door stripping establishment would make a better place to spend the night.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m mad, I feel like I don’t have any control over my mind. I’m just – I have a million thoughts racing in my head and I can’t even slow down long enough to actually think any of them, I just know we have to keep moving.”

“You’re afraid,” he told her. “You’re stressed, and although I forget it sometimes, you are still very young. I shouldn’t ask so much of you.”

“I can handle it!”

“Yes, you can. You handle it very well, taking care of the others, taking care of your brother before that. But, you know,” his hand rested under her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his. “It’s perfectly alright to take care of yourself, too. Indulge a little. Let yourself be happy. They deserve it. You deserve it. And it will make you feel better.”

“I just…I’m not sure I can relax anymore. What if they come for us while we’re all standing around, or—”

“If they do, I will be ready. I promise. I have not let my guard down for an instant.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, rubbed her back like a child. “That fear you feel. You know if the angels come back, there’s nothing you can do, but you want to be ready anyway. Your mind is telling you to find a solution that doesn’t exist. I’m sorry. But there is something you can do, I think.”

“What’s that?”

“There are many of my former colleagues who believe that anything which makes humans happy is a sin. I believe it is always worth indulging, just a little, to show them how little you care.”

“Oh. And one other thing.” Gabriel wasn’t happy. He often wasn’t happy these days. Bringing about the end of the world, it seemed, was more complicated than anyone had expected.

Aziraphale kept his face carefully blank.

“We have reports of a gang of hundreds of humans moving south, but the scouts can’t seem to get near it. Vanishes every time they try. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

“Yes. I’ve been following up on these rumors for some time. The circumstances appear to me, well, nearly incomprehensible.” He hesitated, but only for a second. “It would appear these humans are being led by a rogue angel, posing as a scout or a messenger.”

“Rogue? You mean a deserter?” A brief flash of anger in Gabriel’s eyes, but it quickly vanished, smoothed over by something calm and patient. “Well. At least my best agent is already on this. Glad you took the initiative. Now. Tell me about the angel.”

The mirror image didn’t say anything today. He wasn’t a mirror image, either. He’d angered the angels who had come in earlier, refusing to cry out as they hurt him. Shoftiel had left him as a serpent, coiled mutely on the ground, and then they’d turned to Crowley.

“I can tell you about the angel,” Crowley offered. His throat was still raw from the screaming. They hadn’t even asked any questions, simply given him back his wings and broken every bone in them. It hurt, worse than almost anything else in the last three years. He wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

The serpent lifted his head, then let it fall heavily.

“He…he…” Crowley closed his eyes. It was so hard to think of a story. Not just the pain. His mind longed to be blank. “He is so soft. Like a cloud, like a warm blanket, like a pile of feathers. And that’s all most people ever see of him. A fool and a pushover and a – a – a lazy pleasure seeker who likes his books and his chair and his food. It’s what he wants, though. He wants to be soft.”

He closed his eyes and tilted back his head, ignoring the way his wings felt like a thousand pieces of shattered glass.

Far away, an angel led a troop of humans down the motorway. He laughed as he walked, carrying one of the youngest on his back. In the week of travel, they’d grown dirty again, their nails had lost their color, their clothes become faded and stained. But they still smiled, still tossed their heads, running fingers through their hair. The young woman beside him had hers cropped almost completely off, exposing the Mark on her cheekbone.

Suddenly, the angel stopped walking, his eyes locked on the sky above. None of the others had heard or sensed anything, but he knew what was coming. Three hundred humans gathered close in the shelter of his wide white wings, and his eyes took on the color of steel.

“But then…when he needs it…when the things he cares for are threatened…he isn’t soft at all.”

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pertinax--loculos · 4 years

Text

Character Study: Jay (1)

[Quite note for CW -- vague reference to drug use.]

1. Intro My name is Jay Johns, though my parents would probably deny it. Oh no, they’d say, that’s not our boy. Must be another Johns, y’know I hear there’s another family with that name out north.

Don’t get me wrong, they love me to death. That’s their mistake.

People would probably look at my life and go, oh my gosh, where did they go wrong? Or, what happened to him to make him like this? The trouble is, nothing happened. This isn’t a product of trauma or a horrible home life or whatever else. No funny uncles. No ridiculously strict parents making me rebel. No reason.

Just… boredom, I guess.

Technically speaking I suppose it can be traced to an injury I sustained when I was fourteen, but don’t read anything into that. Truth be told I was being a moron, thinking I could balance on a ledge I shouldn’t have been trying to balance on and, surprise surprise, I fell. Nothing insidious about it.

Same can’t be said for the panadeine forte I was prescribed for the broken collarbone, though.

Stuff’s fairly well regulated if you don’t need it, and doctors weren’t particularly keen to prescribe it to a teenager more than once. So I outsourced. Knew a guy who knew a guy, you know how it is. Except turns out the guy on the end was kinda tangled up in some heavier stuff. And at fifteen I didn’t exactly have disposable income.

So I had to do a few odd jobs to get the next fix. But, like, who the fuck cares. No big deal. Flow like mine, didn’t really matter what they asked me to do; it was always get in, do the job, get out.

Y’know talk about, like, a self-fulfilling prophecy? Where you do a thing in order to get the result but the result makes you do the thing again, and so ad infinitum?

Yeah. Given my… aptitude for certain jobs, I suddenly started getting only those. And those morphed into Jobs, capital J, which I didn’t regret so much as want to erase from my memory which was facilitated by, you guessed it, more opioids. And so on and so forth.

Dunno why I decided to get clean – well, that’s a lie, the decision was taken out of my hands, essentially – but I was way too entrenched by then to get out. Knew too much about the operations, the players, the secrets.

Plus, y’know, it was easier. And the pay was almost worth the nightmares.

Almost.

So, yeah. Take the Jay Johns of today and describe him to my parents, and they’d marvel at the coincidence of some amoral gangster having the same name as their beloved golden child. The one who’s off working as an engineer a few hundred clicks south – no, haven’t heard from him lately, but you know how it is, they get to be adults and forget about their dear old parents. And, I mean, I could disabuse them of that notion, sure.

But I don’t wanna break their hearts. They deserve better than that.

They deserve better than me.

2. Family Jay had a very specific memory he wanted to preserve of the last time he’d seen his parents. They’d been so very proud, and through the guilt that threatened to strangle him they’d had an exceptionally pleasant day, culminating with a barbeque in the backyard, warm summer evening heavy with the buzz of dragonflies reminiscent of his very favourite recollections from childhood. If he closed his eyes he could still see his mother’s beaming face as he told her about the job offer; could still see his father’s gruff pride, hidden behind layers of learned reserve but shining through his eyes regardless. He could still taste the tang of lemon in his mother’s specialty cheesecake on his tongue.

Right now all he could taste was blood, and he wondered if that was why it had taken him so long to place the figures wandering past the end of the alley.

Markus had frozen as soon as they’d come into view, his fingers still wrapped around Jay’s wrist, and it took Jay a half-second too long to clap his free hand over his mouth. The sound that escaped was truncated but hellishly loud.

The figures hesitated; the shorter, wider one swivelled towards the alley.

“Did you hear that?”

Her voice was more curious than apprehensive, and Jay was nearly certain being stabbed in the chest would be less painful than hearing that warm, comforting tone juxtaposed with the tiny, pleading whimpers rising in Markus’s throat. The hold around Jay’s wrist tightened and Markus squirmed a little.

Without looking away from the mouth of the alley Jay uncovered Markus’s mouth and instead buried his fingers in his hair, twisting savagely. It elicited another whimper, but at least he stopped moving.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jay heard his father say, even as the two of them took a couple of steps forward, into the darkness and squalor. “What was it?”

Jay’s jaw was aching – he hadn’t even realised he’d clenched his teeth – and his grip on Markus was white-knuckled, less due to concern the dumb fuck was going to move and more to keep his hands from shaking. His breath was roaring in his ears and there was an uncomfortable scrabbling inside his chest, some sharp-clawed animal desperate to get out.

“It sounded like someone in trouble,” his mother said, alert and worried and good god for once in your life don’t be a fucking good Samaritan.

The only advantage Jay had was the light; he’d chosen to ambush Markus in this alley for a reason, it being one of the few he knew that completely lacked any illumination. It was stupid enough for Markus, a young man experienced with the unsavoury elements of the city, to try to cut through. Surely an older couple wouldn’t risk it. Plus, motionless as he was, Jay was nearly certain that his parents couldn’t make out whether or not there was actually someone down there.

Anxiety was an iron band around his chest. He couldn’t breathe.

His mother stopped.

“It was probably just a cat,” his father said. “I read somewhere that they’ve actually evolved to mimic the cries of human babies. Which, as far as I’m concerned, is just another strike against them.”

His mother chuckled, though she continued to peer into the gloom. “I guess it could’ve been. It just sounded so…”

There was a pause that stretched interminable. Jay twitched the hand knotted in Markus’s hair, a silent warning not to try anything stupid.

“… tormented,” his mother finished finally. Then she shrugged and turned, making her way back to the street. “I must have been imagining things.”

Their voices faded as they walked away, and Jay sucked in a deep breath. It felt like he was choking on it.

“Johns,” Markus gasped, twitching in his grip. “Please. I’m not—I get it, okay? I understand. You don’t have to—”

Jay hauled him up and around, slamming him against the wall of the alley. Markus’s cry of pain was so breathless it was nearly inaudible.

“Unfortunately, Markus,” Jay said, his voice light and even and betraying none of the shame surging so strong inside of him he felt like he was drowning, “My colleagues see it differently.”

“Johns—”

“I like that word. Tormented.” Jay twisted his left hand. He felt the familiar tingle of the Orn between his fingers, and then the just-as-familiar weight of his knife in his palm; Markus’s eyes widened when it shimmered into being in the physical world, a low keen breaking out of his throat. Some tiny part of Jay cringed at the noise, at the fear in his eyes, but he refused to acknowledge it. Instead he just cocked his head a little, letting the detached smirk settle on his lips. “Let’s see just how tormented you can sound.”

3. Friends “It’s not like you have to screw him,” Cassidy said matter-of-factly, crunching another couple of almonds between her teeth. “I’m just asking if you like the guy.”

Jay raised an eyebrow, very purposefully continuing to stare down at the book spread out over his lap. “Keyword being guy, Cass. Who says I even swing that way?”

They were spread out on his bed, ostensibly doing homework, although Cassidy had abandoned that pretence nearly half an hour ago in favour of interrogating Jay on his nonexistent love life. The fact Jay still had his books open was more to provide him with an excuse not to look at her than any real attempt at finishing his math assignment.

Cassidy waved a hand expansively, blowing her fringe out of her eyes. “Jay. There is no need to pretend in here. I know you.”

“Wait,” Jay said, glancing up briefly enough that he hoped she wouldn’t notice the blood he could feel warming his cheeks, “Are you assuming I’m gay because I’m not into you?”

“Well, I mean, that would be a fair assumption, because I’m hot as hell,” Cassidy said, her grin wide enough that Jay could hear it in her voice. “But one, you have never actually said you’re not into me, and two, I never said you were gay. I was simply asking if you liked a guy. Singular.”

“For the record,” Jay said, turning a page in his textbook. He hadn’t actually absorbed anything on the preceding page, but hell if he was gonna give up the ruse now. “I am not into you.”

Cassidy sighed theatrically. “Oh gee, well there go all my hopes and dreams. Whatever will I do now, how will I overcome this devastation.”

It was getting difficult to keep his face straight, but Jay was fairly sure he managed it. “I’m sure you’ll find the strength to carry on.”

“Mayhaps!” Cassidy clapped a hand to her chest and fell backwards on the bed with a wail. “Or perhaps this broken heart will be the end of me!”

“Could you at least die quietly?”

Jay jumped when her hand landed in the centre of the page he was looking at.

“Never,” Cassidy said. “Or at least not until you answer the question.”

“You mean how on earth you will carry on knowing that I’ll never be your boyfriend?” Jay glanced up to throw her a smirk, and Cassidy jabbed a finger at him.

“No, whether or not you like Johnny Davis. Come on, Jay. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Jay couldn’t stop himself; this time he jerked his head up to stare at her, feeling horror unfurl across his face. Any hope of hiding his blush was gone, his cheeks flaming as he processed what she was saying. “I’m not—”

Cassidy’s teasing veneer vanished and she scooted close enough to rest a hand on his arm. Jay dropped his eyes. “Relax, darl,” she said softly. “It’s not obvious at all. Like I said, it’s because I know you.” She ducked her head, and Jay let her catch his gaze again. Her face was warm, made even more comforting by the tiny crinkles extending outwards from the corners of her eyes as she smiled; not that Jay would ever tell her that. She’d probably end up in a back alley getting illegal botox if he so much as suggested she had anything remotely resembling wrinkles.

“I’m not trying to be a bitch,” she added.

“No, that just comes to you naturally,” Jay said without thinking.

For a beat Cassidy just stared at him, before she roared with laughter, swatting at his arm. Jay grinned as well, raking his fingers through his hair as he waited for her to calm down.

“Nice one,” Cassidy said eventually, still snickering. “I’ve gotta remember that. Man,” – she swiped her hand across her face – “What was I saying?”

The smile wouldn’t shift from Jay’s face, and he met her eyes as he said, “The answer’s yes. As in yeah, I like Johnny Davis.”

The admission was more than worth the grin that practically split her face in two.

4. Education/Mentors Friday was the Big Day.

Mrs. Phillips had told them all about it, had explained how important it was and how they weren’t allowed to muck about in the waiting area or they would be sent to the principal’s office. Jay thought it was all a bit of a hullabaloo. After all, the Orn was just a fact of life. Why did it need to be measured?

Mum and Dad had told him that he should be very careful when he was taking the Test. But that didn’t make sense either. They’d talked about all sorts of stuff and Jay had stopped listening pretty quickly. After all, Mrs. Phillips had told them that there was no way they could fail the Test. It was just to get an idea of where they were at.

Like with their reading. That was a Test, too. Normally it was done when the rest of the class was working on their handwriting, so they were real quiet. You waited until your name was called, and then you went up to the teacher’s desk – all by yourself, so that the other students couldn’t hear you in case you made a mistake – and you read through the list. It was a very long list, and it started with super basic words like ‘at’ and ‘the’ and then by the time Jay started stumbling he was up to words like ‘pneumonia’ and ‘rendezvous’.

Mrs. Phillips had been very impressed with how good he was at his reading. So why shouldn’t he try to impress these teachers too? Just because he didn’t know them didn’t mean he should pretend.

And it wasn’t like Dwayne’s parents had told him the same thing. Jay knew, because they’d been discussing it for the last forever while they waited for their names to be called.

That was kinda why they were friends, because Cass was in Mr. Allen’s class this year and Dwayne’s last name was Jacobson so he and Jay always got to sit together. And if they were real careful and talked real quiet Mrs. Phillips didn’t seem to notice.

“But, see, like, there’s different, like, levels,” Dwayne said, leaning sideways as he kept one eye on the door their classmates kept disappearing through. “Y’know how I can do different things to most everyone else?”

Jay nodded, as wisely as he could. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“So that’s what this is for. Mum calls it a attitude test, so that they can get an idea of what sorta connection to the Orn you have and then they can teach you the right way to handle it.”

They paused as Gary came back out of the door, and Mrs. Phillips whispered to the man who came with him. Then she nodded and ushered Gary back over to the other side of the room as the man glanced down at a paper and called, “Carrie Harvey?”

Jay watched Carrie disappear through the door and then said, “So your parents didn’t say, like, some people get taken away after the attitude test?”

Dwayne frowned, deep furrows appearing in his forehead. “No. Why would they? They just wanna know what we can do.” He straightened a little, smiling instead of frowning now. “And they reckon that the testers’ll be real impressed with me.”

“Well, yeah,” Jay said, like he was saying well, duh. “You’ve gotta be the best at it out of all of us.”

Which was annoying, really, but Mum and Dad had been very very clear about Jay not showing off. It would get him into trouble, they said, and Mum and Dad were normally right. But this wasn’t showing off, was it? This was just showing the special teachers what he could do.

Carrie came back, Mrs. Phillips whispered to the man, and Carrie took her seat on the other side of the room.

“Dwayne Jacobson,” the man called.

Dwayne sent Jay a nervous sort of smile, and Jay gave him two thumbs up.

Without Dwayne there to talk to the time seemed to drag even more. Or maybe they were actually taking longer to test Dwayne. Jay didn’t want to look at the clock, because every time he did the second hand seemed to freeze into place.

When the door opened this time, the man and a woman stepped out with Dwayne.

Mrs. Phillips hurried up to them, quicker than she had been walking. Jay watched carefully as they talked, trying to look around Mrs. Phillips to see Dwayne’s face, to get an idea of whether he thought he’d done well or not. But try as he might, he couldn’t get a good look.

After a few more seconds of whispering, Mrs. Phillips nodded and stepped back. But instead of ushering Dwayne to the other side of the room, she just nodded at the strange woman, and the strange woman took Dwayne’s hand and led him through the side door.

Jay stared, waiting, waiting for them to come back. Maybe Dwayne had just really needed to go pee. But Mrs. Phillips had walked back to her chair and sat down. She didn’t seem to be waiting for Dwayne to come back.

Jay felt like his chest was about to burst. Heat raced up into his eyes and he tried not to sniffle as he swiped at it. He was not gonna cry. Not in front of everybody.

But he could suddenly hear Mum’s words, real clear.

You’ve gotta be careful, Jay. Promise me, alright? Promise me you’ll be careful.

“Jay Johns,” the man called.

Jay swiped at his eyes one more time, and then pushed himself to his feet. He held his chin up as he walked across the room.

He was gonna be careful. Even if it meant he didn’t show them everything.

He wasn’t gonna give them a reason to take him away.

#WIP: CASCADE #original writing #writeblr #character study #original character #excerpt #kinda #i guess?

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thewhumpstuff · 4 years

Text

You and I, Me and You [33]

[CW: References to human trafficking/trading. Focused on recovery and healing.]

[Teaser and Master List] [Archives of our Own] (Lost and Found: Chapter 8)

Trust.

[<-- Previous] ~ [Next -->]

Cricket chirps. Soft footsteps and the whir of the wheels. The sloshing of the liquid in the bottle that sat in the cupholder of the wheelchair and the jostle of the fabric. A Q.B. uniform, a splayed black coat hugging a figure on a wheelchair and a black tracksuit moved in choreographed harmony. Like shadows that dissolved in the still darkness of night. Slinking between the buildings, on the empty, balmy roads that were laid out like grids. Zizi rode the remotely operated chair with tranquillized silence. She looked as restless as Jared felt. Their encounter had unearthed something that reared its ugly head from the past. A hungry monster, that sapped their peace and energy alike. It made everything feel uncomfortably personal and Jared was left feeling vulnerable. Akira’s prodding earlier that day did not help. And he found himself wishing now that Novara had been anywhere else but with her. Tariq’s relatively neutral presence was welcome, they did not ask each other for elucidations. The men had let the moment stir them into a wordless acceptance. Soon they were ascending the elevator of the living quarters for the trainee BioHackers.

There was a soft rap on the door. Akira locked eyes with Nova, before she slid off the bed to answer. She immediately had to flatten herself against the wall to give way as the men pooled in after the wheelchair. She had only dealt with patients, who were amputees. From the way Zizi rolled into her life, it already felt like she was going to be more than that. Akira quickly realised she could only be helpful by staying out of the way. A part of Nova was relieved that Zizi was unconscious as her limp body was lifted to the bed. Nova busied herself with the MedScan feature of her CommCube. “I’m going to need some things from the hospital wing…” “I’ll get them.” Akira was eager. She wanted to be useful and she had enough experience in the field to manage such a simple task. Nova quickly listed what she needed. “I’ll go with Shira…” Jared offered, speaking of her, but not to her. He sought a reason to not be in the room because he did not want to make matters worse for Zizi when the tranquilizer wore off… And for himself. The woman was likely to have enough on her plate with just Nova. “I don’t need your help.” Akira responded sharply. Jared’s brief disappearance after he abruptly left their conversation on the pretext of getting food left her prickly. The time he took in getting back was warranted, given the circumstance, but she still could not reconcile with the fact that he did not find a single moment to let her know or give her a heads-up. Instead, he chose to just go AWOL. Jared did not see the reason for her hostility and bit back the urge to respond in kind. “I need to get stuff checked any way... Mind if I come along, Kira?” Tariq muttered. It felt like the easiest way to keep things on an even keel. Novara looked stressed as is. He did not really give her a chance to protest and led the way out. Akira strode out, wearing her stormy demeanour and offering Jared a side-eye he did not think he deserved. === Tariq lightened Akira’s mood as they shared some joy over Ezekiel’s fate. He took pleasure in describing exactly how things transpired. They marvelled over how well Nova handled it. “If the serum doesn’t work as intended for whatever reason, I’ll tell whoever asks that I tried some shit, ‘kay?” Akira’s question was anything but. It was a declaration. She sifted through the cabinets and drawers for all the things that Nova needed for Zizi. Patches, IVs, NG-Tube, electrolyte solutions… Akira picked up a straitjacket for good measure. Tariq would have protested if he had seen her do so. He instead, was surreptitiously pocketing a vial of the advanced shealing serum. His injured hand had not come out of his pocket at all and he did not let Akira know of it. “You were nowhere close to the scene. I was…” Their whipping scars were still raw, and they were arguing about who got to take the blame for this situation. Everything Akira collected was shoved into a sling bag. “We’ll see how it all pans out. T… I can carry all this on my own. Get some rest, will you?” Tariq looked haggard. After everything with Ezekiel and being the one who found Zizi, she could see why. These were not the kind of battles he fought. Akira implored him to take some time for himself. And this was without her knowing about his injuries. “I-” She was quick to interrupt him. “Y’know you’re going to wear yourself out and eventually make a mess of everything…” They knew she was only half-joking; it was a quality the two of them shared, among others. He really was out of his depth. His presence would not hinder, but it would not aid either. With some reluctance he agreed and promised to check back on all of them later. “Don’t worry about it.” Akira sought some solace in being the one reassuring her friends today. I can do this; I can be there for them too. === The three pairs of eyes were trained onto Zizi after she had been adequately replenished with fluids. They watched as her limbs slowly came to life. Slowly and barely as the tranquilizer finally wore off. Jared considered bolting out of the room. Instead, he waited by the door, away from Zizi’s immediate field of view. Akira on the other hand stood beside where the woman lay, crowding her a little. Nova sat on the other side of the bed. “Hi Zizi… I’m Akira… How’re you feeling?” Jared and Nova let her take the lead. Another new person. The voice sounded friendly enough, Zizi did not open her eyes yet. She felt a mattress under her. Her head was cradled by a pillow. Such simple luxuries… She found herself relishing them with an embarrassing amount of contentment. “Sorry about the slight mess… by the way.” Akira added and averted her gaze briefly, afraid that if it lingered too long on Zizi, she might betray sympathy in a manner that came off as pity. She unnecessarily fussed over folding a towel that was drying on her chair. There was nothing else there. Just the sheets on the bed were sprawled, and the cabinets of the kitchen were still slightly ajar. Zizi wasn’t going to notice those things anyway. She was still addled by whatever she had been injected with. Her movements were slow, but she turned to scan the room with narrowed eyes. Her eyes widened instantly when they fell upon Nova, whose eyes were still bloodshot and swollen from the tears she had shed. Zizi drew a ragged breath and the flash of fear in her expressions dissolved into a resignation. I know Nova meant well and I know Ezekiel didn’t. “Can I talk to you?” Zizi’s voice was barely a whisper. Akira missed Zizi’s request. “Should I brew us some tea? I’ve got some… generic green, jasmine… mint… chamo-” Jared did not. He tried too hard to tune it out that it only resulted in him being more attuned to it. At least she isn’t rapping anymore. So he interrupted her. “I think Zizi wanted a moment with Nova.” Akira was already filling the kettle. She set it down and put her hands on her hip lazily. “They’re both here, right? I’m ju-” “Alone.” She narrowed and squared off with Jared. “And you think that’s a good id-” He cut her off again. His tone was slightly impatient. “They’ve spent time together already…” Jared did not expect to get into the thick of things with Akira right now. He could not see that she was trying to normalise things in her own way. That they were simply not in agreement about how things should proceed. Aki drew a deep breath. If you cut me off one more goddamn time… She did not think it through when she decided to drag Zizi into this. “I think she can tell us that herself…” “Shi- Akira!” Jared exclaimed, completely flabbergasted with Akira’s behaviour. She certainly was not being prudent, but he too was not thinking clearly. Akira raised her eyebrows in an unspoken and pettish question. What? Zizi purposely kept her gaze off the source of Jared’s voice. It was less familiar to her than his face; less likely to trigger her slip into rap mode again. A part of her feared it may lead to tranquilization again. As easy as it was to slip into nothingness, she wanted to enjoy her autonomy for what it was worth. She could hear the famous Red Knight trying so hard to act professionally while Akira approached the matter more on instinct. The intimacy between them was hard to miss and the friction was palpable. Neither of them was wrong. The exchange was like a tennis match, till she was dragged into it. And Zizi intervened like an umpire would. She was not too reluctant to ask for what she wanted. The world would have crushed her a long time ago if she had chosen silence. “I would like to talk to Nova - alone…” She did not hesitate to make her preference known. Choices had been a rarer luxury in captivity. Now that she was out, she lapped at every chance she got to exert her will. Her voice was clear, but soft, it demanded attention in a way that a louder voice never could. They were forced to fall silent to give her a chance to speak. And Akira did have the grace to do that, even though she was fuming. She deliberately avoided looking at any of them. There was a flash of an inexplicable venom and deep mortification in her eyes, best directed towards the panel of the induction stove. “If that’s okay with you…” Zizi addressed Nova this time. Akira did not know those words were not directed at her at all and managed a weak nod as she set her tea box aside. Novara recognized the question was for her and apprehensively nodded too, much more eagerly, but did not say anything given Akira’s assumption. Her friend was feeling prickly and Nova did not want to make matters worse. Technically, this was Akira’s room and they were all taking a lot of liberties intruding this way. Nova believed in Akira’s inherent generosity. Akira was now resolutely quiet and chewed on the inside of her mouth. For once she understood why Jared chose silence sometimes. It was he who filled it, to reassure the victim in the room. “I think it is brave that Zizi would like to spend some time with Novara after everything…” And accidentally diminishing the other victim in the room by adding words addressed to her. “You should know how difficult that is… and how much courage it probably takes...” Jared had not expected this to be as much of a struggle. Akira’s head hung for a moment. Her body lost something, like bones, because her petite frame slouched. In a motion akin to slithering, she dragged herself out of her own room, muttering. “Right… Well, excuse me, then.” Jared followed and closed the door behind him, leaving Novara and Zizi alone. He wanted to be within earshot and reach. Akira’s concern was a consequence worth considering. He did not tell her that though, perhaps he should have. He lingered in the corridor. Akira did not. It was her turn to take a solitary walk. And he let her go. - Nova looked a little apologetic, not for her friends’ behaviour per se, she knew that they too had been through a lot, but given that Zizi didn’t have any context, it was probably uncomfortable for her to witness. “Don’t worry… There is… That’s just Jared and Akira.” The medic’s voice was soft. And she casually broke the illusion Jared had tried to create. Nova did not see the reason to build walls around the woman. They had been through so much together. Zizi was not uncomfortable in the least. She was left amused. “Don’t worry… I’ve seen much worse.” Nova shuffled in place. Her knees sinking in and out of the mattress. “I- I’m so sorry… Z, I-” A choked back sob, a stifled sniffle and a shaky breath. “-I never meant for any of this… For...” “I know." Zizi replied simply. Nova gulped and looked at her with wide sorrowful eyes. She did? She blinked away the tears. “I could kinda see you hated it… I saw past his shit eventually and… I’m sorry too.” Zizi did sound apologetic herself. She wanted this time with Nova, just to let the poor BioHacker know, that Ezekiel did not win. That he did not succeed in villainizing Nova. Nova wrapped her arms around herself, shaking her head slowly. “You… you shouldn’t have to be.” “I did try and kill you.” Zizi thought she could handle this heart-to-heart with ease. She could not. She resisted the urge to break into a rap again and gently massaged the stub of her arm as it began tingling. It had been a tough few month, among the worse of Zizi’s life at least in terms of raw, physical suffering. To be torn up repeatedly, one way or another and painfully be put back together. But she had lost everything before and she held on. She could do it again. She would. Nova’s reassurance was bland and honest, and she noticed Zizi’s discomfort. “I’d want to kill me too, in that… situation. Are you ok? Can I get you something?” “No… I’ll be fine… He called you Supernova...That was never a compliment, was it?” That derogatory name. A darkness found its way into Nova’s being and she shook her head with an added vehemence. But it was not his voice; it did not grate against her being. “No… No, it was not. But it is nothing compared to what you, to what you and Ge-” She could not find the nerve to say his name. The name that no one would use again, not for him. There was no one left to call. Zizi had come to terms with losing the man she temporarily shared that hidden room with. Death was not uncommon in the Pit. Nova had not. She could not bury what happened, like Ezekiel presumably buried Genzo. Did he even bury Genzo? The thought chilled her. Ezekiel had thrown Genzo to the wolves before he was ready, before Nova’s serum had made him whole. Zizi was made to watch the fight where he was taken down. He was not brought back to the hidden room that night. Nova did not know about Bloody Blitz – The Pit of Doom… So, when she inquired about Genzo, Ezekiel simply stated that he was gone, and that she was responsible for it, for not fixing him well enough. And that day Zizi lost the little freedom she had. As did Nova who was pinned like a butterfly, under the weight of the life she could not save. And the life she now had to – Mine! Zizi thought, before Ezekiel’s voice rang in her head. “No more going to the Bloody Blitz till Nova has perfected the serum…” From that day onwards, the pain she received had been methodical and at Eze’s hands. It was solely for the purpose of testing the serum. She was reduced to nothing but a lab rat. At least she always came through. I do owe my life to her. Nova finally understood what Akira meant when she compared degrees of suffering. Pain was pain. But Zizi had had it so much worse. Nova sidled closer to her, tentatively. Zizi did not mind, she was quite accustomed to Nova’s presence in her private space. It was refreshing to see her softer side, one that was not governed by the strings Eze pulled. Strings he did not want Zizi to see, but she had. “You did the best you could for Genzo…” These were not empty words. Their fingers found each other. The skin on the back of their hands sat in such stark contrast, their palms less so. Nova knew Zizi’s anatomy too well, to not know anything about her as a person. It felt unfair and wrong. Her soft mutter carried a whine attesting to that. “He, he never quite told me where he… where he found you both…” “What did he tell you?” The counter question sounded a little sharp. Nova clammed up a little, her words were a jumble, just like his answers had been, if he ever indulged her questions to begin with. She had to stop asking when it irritated him enough to make matters worse for Zizi. “From, prisoners of war, to criminals, to street rats… drug addicts…” He deliberately gave enough answers, for Nova to never know which one was true or if all of them were. He played with her, till it was amusing. Till he could revel in the friction between the women. She wanted Zizi to have the whole truth as much of it as she could offer. There was an insistence in the way she spoke. “He made me believe you were dangerous, like you were… you were both on death row. That is why we didn’t mourn G-” She shortened the name to a letter, so it didn’t keep getting caught in her throat. “-because Eze said, he didn’t deserve it. But he did! He deserved it!” Nova forgotten to breathe between the slurry of her words, now she gasped in short, exhausted sounds. “Everyone does. And I did not believe him, but…” She looked at Zizi pointedly now. Unflinchingly, fearlessly. She wanted her to know, no matter how dark her past truly was… Nova didn’t think that it was okay for her to suffer the way she had. “Even if any of what he said was… is true… Nothing made- nothing makes what I did okay… What he made me do… what he made me do.” She switched between talking about it like it was something in the past, because her hope reminded her that it was. But her grief anchored the pain, Zizi’s and hers to the present. She licked her lips. She finally stopped; the woman had not expected to spiral into this conversation. Nova had poured all this out, for the second time today. It felt easier to divulge this time around, because she had gathered her thoughts while talking to Akira. Zizi let her, in silence, clutching onto the medic’s hand gently. It truly was inspiring to finally meet the real Novara. I am surprised the world has not chewed you up and spit you out, Novara. You must be doing something very right. Empathetic, empowered and brilliant. “All the things he said were somewhat true… I guess. Genzo and I were drawn against each other in the pit… and we fight to knock-out or kill… So…” Zizi licked her dry lips. Nova immediately reached for the bottle of water, she helped Zizi sit up enough to sip from it. She gathered the will to go on. “He found us on the brink of death… and promised to save us, but only if he could keep us for himself.” Nova’s skin crawled. But she should have figured. Especially recently after everything else Ezekiel had done, so blatantly, with such little regard for the pain he caused. “How- from?” Zizi closed her eyes again, the lyrics of her rap rose in her throat. Nova was familiar with Ritonix’s entire discography – Zizi had screamed her way through the songs on every encounter with Nova, the needle and the syringe full of the serum. Zizi did not want to trigger the medic. She wanted her to know that she felt safe now. Zizi also did not want to answer the question. She pursed her lips. She thought of Jeremy. He only wanted to save her… To save them. He had been kind; she did not want to implicate him in this either. He would most likely end up taking the fall for it all. He would be the likely scapegoat, because Bloody Blitz was an intricate system. It ran too deep and what could a handful of agents possibly do to fight it. Zizi did not want the people who were trying to help her, to get entangled with that monster. Upon noticing the doubt and fear flit across Zizi’s face, Novara felt rankled. This was betrayed in the way she swayed a little. “It’s ok… It’s ok.” Nova murmured, to Zizi and to herself. Genzo and Zizi had been brought to her with severe injuries. The first time she helped them, it was out of desperation. They had just been her patients and Ezekiel had convinced her that using the serum would be mercy. And then it became a habit. Nova had questions then and she had questions now, but she did not get a chance to ask them. Zizi had already shared enough and she had a question of her own, one she could not ask Tariq… or worse, Jared. She could not allow herself to feel this vulnerable around them. But Nova had already seen her at her worse. She massaged her right arm with more vigour now as she arrived at an unnerving realisation. “…Nova, what exactly happens to me now?” All this time, Zizi had leashed the fear that leapt from the uncertainty of the situation. And now the leash broke. “I- You… It will never-” She closed her eyes and cleared her throat. Nova could not afford any hesitation marring what she wanted to say. Despite the ambiguity of the future, she would not let Zizi suffer again. Her eyes opened with her usual fierce resolve. “You will never be traded again or belong to anyone again like that. That’s for sure.” There it was again, that conviction, that felt so true that reality crumbled against it. Her radiant hope did not convince Zizi entirely, but the Fighter smiled weakly. Nova intended to do whatever it took, to keep her promise. She could tell that there were more sorrowful secrets buried in the woman’s past and she did not want to try disinterring them. Not right now. Zizi did not need to relive any more horrors. It would not help recover and that was of paramount importance. “And we don’t need to talk about everything right away… You need to rest, and I need to run some more tests… if that’s ok.” Zizi quickly slid lower into the bed, craving the comfort more than she was willing to admit. Her body had not felt the embrace of soft covers and a mattress for far too long. “For the last few days, I thought Ezekiel forgot me and that felt like a blessing… Dying in that cell. This- This feels like a miracle…” she closed her eyes and surrendered herself to Nova’s administrations, this time willingly and trustingly. Nova used the MediScan feature on her CommCube and recorded the vitals and other measures again. And stayed with Zizi till the woman fell asleep.

Tags: @lettuceknighted, @quirkykayleetam

#whump #rescue #caretaking #healing #building trust #difficult relationships #circumstantial friction #oc Jared #oc Akira #oc Novara #oc Zizi #oc Tariq

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diningpageantry · 5 years

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Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343617/chapters/41107136

Chapter 5/11 of Of Wealth and Leisure

Word Count: 3145

Summary: A horseback ride through the countryside results in an unsettling outcome. (CW: very mild violence; described from an outside POV where the person only hears it).

“Do you always take this long to saddle a horse?” His voice reads entirely of mockery and his face is full of amusement, raking his eyes up and down my body as I toss the saddle attop my mare. Of course, he was ready minutes ago; he even prepared and packed away our lunches in the saddle bag. All that’s left for him is settling himself on the horse itself.

I shoot a mildly malicious glare over towards him, strands of curls falling into my eyes as I attempt to look at him teasingly. Ever since my arrival to the manor, I haven’t been keeping my hair as impeccably short. While at home, The Mage advises clean and short haircuts, as to avoid snagging. Therefore, it feels as though I’m involved in a mild act of rebellion by allowing the length of my hair to grow uncharacteristically longer. I can hold it in handfuls, and tug full curls around my fingers, too. It’s quite satisfactory to wipe it away from my eyes--it gives me a sense of unparalleled control. At times, I fear that Mr. Pitch will tempt a pull at it as we fight like schoolboys.

At this moment, though, our argumentative nature has simmered to a lukewarm back-and-forth. Especially here in our current situation, as we finish gathering everything necessary for a day’s ride through the country, do we only keep to a bicker.

At last, the rain has cleared. It felt endless, continuing on for days and days until September hit. Once it finally cleared, Mr. Pitch made the decision to tell me that he was finally ready to show me along the land. To my surprise, he took further initiative into the situation than I had and actually did get Cook Pritchard to pack that lunch.

I may owe this man my life if he continues to bring me food.

We settle ourselves upon our horses and I tip my hat at Ebb. She's smiling from beside the stable doors, giving us a quick wave off as we begin our journey onto a trail leading from their property.

Baz, of course, critiques my riding abilities as we go along.

“It’s a wonder you don’t lead,” he quips. “How long have you even been riding?”

I hesitate with my answer, knowing it’s a tad revealing. Most wealthy children learn at such a young age. “Five years,” I answer truthfully, eyes drawing down to the reins in my hands.

He sends me a look of curiosity, but as I don’t return his questioning gaze, he drops the subject entirely. “Why do you wish to take the trails at all? If you’re not a regular rider, I don’t see why it’s so appealing.”

“I wish to see the lands from the inside, not just the observational fields around it.” My attention lifts back to the world around me, eyes following the hanging branches and lush greenlife around me. “It’s nearly like a fairy tale. I’m shocked that you don’t explore it more often.”

He shrugs casually, a movement I cannot say I’ve ever witnessed him do. In fact, I’m the only person who seems to shrug as so within the household. I consider mocking him for doing so, but then again, it would be self-depreciative in the process.

I decide against it.

“You don’t agree?”

“It isn’t that I disagree. On the contrary, I do think that this land is quite magical, but I have my reasons to not explore it as often.” He pauses before finishing off his thought, biting in his lip and seeming to contemplate his following statement before allowing it out. “I fear what could be inside of it. The unknown, id I may.”

I laugh unexpectedly, then silence myself as quickly as I release the laughter. “You cannot possibly be fearful of the woods, Mr. Pitch. There’s only animals and insects to be afraid of; nothing else.”

He shifts in his saddle, and I watch as his hands grip tighter around the reins. “There’s plenty to fear,” he defends. “There’s always the possibility of people hiding in woods, or creatures we’re unaware of. I never underestimate what I could face.”

My head turns as I stare at him, eyes blinking slowly as it processes that he’s not making a joke, but rather sharing his actual thoughts. I would laugh again, but it’s not quite humorous anymore. It’s rather questionable, and concerning myself over what experiences he’s had that would lead to such superstition feels as though it would unpack more than I believe either of us are ready for.

The silence stretches out, and the only sound between us is the ground underneath both of our horses’ hooves. He seems to focus in on the world in front of us, shocking me into the observation of how hyper-aware he is in this environment. Overly reliant on surroundings and his senses, Mr. Pitch carries the unquestionable air of a man being hunted. At times, I nearly itch in ill-ease of his actions. Others, I find myself glancing out into the wood in silly fear that there would be something, but I only flicker my eyes aside to calm myself with the steadily expected stream of green.

His head partially trails, following the life around us and seeming fixated on something nearby. Clearly, he’s lost in his thoughts and finding something to focus on; a furthered part of his anxieties towards the forest and all that it holds.

I clear my throat, snapping him back into reality as I insert my voice to remind him that I'm here as well. “Care to tell me a bit about the land? What’s the history?”

He blinks a few times before finding his words again. Once he starts, he doesn’t quite stop, rambling endlessly about how long his family’s been there and the history behind it. He’s obviously quite prideful in the the air of his name; those who came before him, and who may be ahead of him. Although, it’s clear that he has a difficult time with the present. Perhaps there’s aspects of that that should be discussed.

I don’t push for any aspects of his life. I shouldn’t; he’s still got a barrier wall between himself and the rest of the outside world, not letting us into his fortress of a mind. I wonder if it’ll ever crumble.

After a point, we find a cliffed clearing overlooking the land around us. It sprawls out, showing a full view of where the rolling hills touch the sky and sink deep back into the ground. It’s absolutely breathtaking.

We dismount, spreading out a blanket and taking a seat with a decent distance between each other as he unpacks the food. I dig into it shamelessly, trying to time myself as I stuff the meal down into my mouth.

I feel his eyes on me, making me squirm slightly in my spot as I stare back. Trying to mock him, I raise an eyebrow much like he would. He makes it seem quite easier than it is; I raise both of mine at him instead. “Is there an issue?”

“You always eat so quickly,” he observes plainly, staring at me. “Any particular reason why you eat so quickly?”

His words make me bristle, growing defensive within seconds. It’s part of me that I’d rather keep hidden; parts that spread rumors, but never get confirmed. Where I’m from. How The Mage keeps me. “It’s easiest that way,” I shrug, looking out over the land as I take another mouthful of my sandwich. I make a mental note to thank Cook Pritchard for the extra serving. “If I eat a lot at once, I can be more productive with my time and get to my next task faster.”

He chews slowly, watching my movements as he analyzes what I’ve said.

I’m not quite expecting his reaction. “I think you’re lying.”

“Pardon me?” I stare at him, expression reading exasperated but body filled with dread. Of course I’m lying. I would rather eat the rock we’re sitting on than tell the truth about my life to my arch nemesis (although, I’m hesitant to call him such now). But, despite my best efforts, he read clearly through my efforts in disengaging the conversation beforehand.

“You and I know quite well that you don’t do anything that would be considered productive,” he says, looking bored for a moment before his face breaks into a grin, telling me that he’s simply mocking me again. I feel myself exhale.

I finish my sandwich and dust off my hands on the cloth we’re sitting upon. “Yes, well, I believe in fast eating to save time,” I say once I swallow, throwing him a look of annoyance. “Unlike some of us who eat as if they own time itself.”

“I enjoy savoring my food.” He lifts his nose snootily, scrunching his eyes and shaking his head condescendingly. “Life should be enjoyed, not rushed through. Luxury is something we can afford.”

The cloth beneath me drags a little as I turn on my hip, facing him with an elbow propping me. “Yes, well,” I begin, voice dropping to a private murmur. “While I can afford luxuries, it’s useless to me to sit around and mindlessly chew for hours. I’d much rather spend such time on other luxuries--more interesting luxuries.” I see his face flush with my words, slowing down his movements to observe my speaking. Between us, his hand drops and rests out in the open. I briefly consider taking it into my own before realizing how odd of an idea it is.

He makes a show of swallowing the rest of his meal, head facing me as his hands prop him up. “I’m allowed my equal luxuries.”

“And what are those?”

To that he laughs, face turning sour towards me. “What, are you saying that you don’t witness me doing anything of my interest within your months living in my home?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head in the slightest. “I’m stating that your so called equal luxuries are unknown. I’ve seen you read, and heard you play your violin, but I barely consider those equal luxuries to other privileges you and I hold.”

As if it were a challenge, he turns his head up as he grows a smirk. “Alright then, Snow. Fair enough. How about I exercise our luxuries and take us out to a play. I’d fancy one this Friday, in fact. We should take a carriage into town.”

My face mirrors his, a smile spreading across my cheeks as I nod. “Why just one? We should go spend a weekend in London and see various shows.”

He grows pinker as he laughs, a brilliant red complementing his soft brown skin. “I’ll take such an offer, Snow. It sounds like a luxurious enough investment of time.” We smile at each other, unsure of whether it’s genuine or an outrageously misunderstood argument turned competition. It’s easiest to go with it anyway, unquestioned as to what the intentions of it are.

I begin to consider what that weekend would entail; a hotel stay, perhaps a shared room. Dinners together. Intimate, city outings. It would be a lie to say that it isn’t absolutely appealing...

With that turn of conversation, though, we wordlessly agree to stand and pack up our picnic. After it’s set away, Mr. Pitch turns to me and exhales. “If you don’t mind me, I’m going to take a quick stop in the woods to take care of business. Will you watch the horses?”

“Of course,” I say mindlessly, still somewhat enthralled with the overlooking view to care to look at him. “Should it only be a second?”

“Yes, yes. It’ll be a snap.”

I hear the crunching of the ground behind me; twigs snapping and leaves rustling, and it grows further with time. It takes an unexpected extra few seconds before I hear startling noises; further rustling of leaves, muffled shouts, and the kicking of underbush. In a rush, I glance to my horse and grab the sword I’d brought (Mr. Pitch had mocked me earlier for my decision to bring it, it’s clear it was the right choice) before charging into the unmarked path within the trees.

The shouts grow louder before I hear a yelp of clear “Help!” in Mr. Pitch’s voice. It draws me in, rushing inwards and slicing anything that gets in my way. When I find him, he’s laying panting and injured on the ground. He hisses in pain, gripping his leg as rustling of the trees quickly sounds as if it’s further and further.

Dropping to my knees, my hands search his body to find injury, which doesn’t seem to be anywhere but his leg (except for his roughed-up shirt and trousers). “Good God, man, what happened?!”

“What do you think happened?!” He snaps before groaning in agonizing pain. “I-I was attacked; I didn’t see who, but he came from behind a-and…” His eyes dart around in a panic, leg still in his grip. While I’m the furthest thing from a doctor, it’s clear that the injury lays deeper than skin.

I shakily stand him up, having him lean entirely on me as my eyes dart around. “Should I look for him?”

“No, dear God, no,” he cries, arms wrapped around me tightly. “Don’t be a tit--get me home, damn you.”

We’re stumbling and completely uncoordinated, but I manage my way through the woods and back to the horses, who seem a bit spooked but still present. I hoist him up onto my horse and climb on in front of him, which leads to him wrapping his arms around my waist without being provoked to. While I’d hate to admit this given our particular situation, but it makes my skin prickle at the sensation of being held.

I snap for the horse to break into a gallop, and luckily Mr. Pitch’s mare has been well trained enough to follow as we rush back down the path towards the Grimm-Pitch residence. It’s somewhat bumpy, and with each hit to the ground, I hear a groan emerge from Mr. Pitch’s throat as he clings to me tighter. This isn’t quite the intimacy of our situation that I’d envisioned, but it’s somewhat acceptable from me.

Bursting into the clearing, workers startle and stare as I push onwards towards the stables and house. Shocked servants start spilling out, trying to get an eyeful of the scene. It doesn’t do much justice to us, though, as we need more than rubberneckers to help. As we pull in, Ebb leaps urgently and drags Mr. Pitch off, finding a seat to settle him onto as she elevates his foot. The flooding consists of everyone--the family, the servants regardless of closeness to him, and even some workers fill into the stables to see what had happened to him.

Immediately, it turns into an investigation. Mr. Grimm hovers over me and glares at me all accusatory as I'm stepping away. He begins closing in, forcing me to back up shakily and spread my arms in case I tumble. My vision blurs, adrenaline overloading me and hitting at such an inopportune time. “What have you--”

“He didn’t do it!” Mr. Pitch breaks in, hissing in pain as his leg gets wrapped. “It wasn’t him, he rescued me. Leave Sir Snow alone.”

I pant, staring upwards at Mr. Grimm as he recoils and stares down upon me before flicking his head towards his son. “Then what in the world happened?”

“Attacked-someone followed us.” His fists clench, exhaling through his nose as his jaw sets while he's breathing out something unheard. “It wasn’t him, father,” he continues audibly, “leave it.”

So he does, leaving me trembling in my spot as countless people fuss over Mr. Pitch and his wounds. In the process, we exchange unsteady glances, to which he doesn’t seem malicious or disgusted, but rather seeking pity and comfort from me as he’s cared over. Someone asks which doctor they should call, pressing ice to his wound as I clear my throat.

“Send a telegram for Doctor Wellbelove. He’s a friend of mine; he’ll treat Mr. Pitch well. Just mention that Sir Snow is sending for him.” That deserves me a thankful exhale from him, face dropping and head rolling down as he flinches in pain and focuses on his somewhat ragged breaths. Eventually, I take a chance to go kneel beside him and look over his injuries as my mind runs through our conversations.

The woods. The way he looked so dazed and unsettled while he looked out among it. As my mind traces back, I can’t help but ponder whether or not there was something he could sense that I couldn’t. If my obliviousness was too heavy; if I should have been more alert the entire trip.

Furthermore, it raises more possibilities, and darker ones at that. Is there a spy attempting to assassinate Mr. Pitch? Was this a failed mission for his throat? And, if so, is it someone on the grounds?

My mind flicks through possibilities, working itself up further before suddenly going static at the touch of Mr. Pitch’s hand against mine. I startle, then raise my head to meet his gaze. When I meet his, he’s staring at me with mild concern as he exhales. “Thank you,” he says, just quiet enough that it’s only me hearing him. At first, I believe I’m mistaken, but the hand still pressed to mine is telling me elsewise.

In a simple returned nod, I smile sadly and chew on my bottom lip. “I am a hero, after all,” I mumble in efforts to defuse the situation, and much to my surprise, it works.

“Always the hero.” He looks down, clearly still in pain but trying desperately to hold it back. “I apologize for this; I suppose it means our leisurely break will have to be postponed to a more convenient time.”

“Suppose I can always go without you.”

“You will not,” he remarks, “and, not to mention, that the theatre will be quite bland without me.” Somehow, despite the urgency and desperation of the situation minutes ago, I smile at him and exhale out somewhat of a chuckle.

“I doubt it will be,” I tease, still grinning from ear to ear as he smiles back.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Ebb at the edge of the stables, by her house. I can’t quite read what her expression is, feeling overwhelmed and chaotic from the moment at hand. The situation was absolutely unexpected; from a pleasant exchange one minute, to so utterly terrible and barely understood the next.

I can’t help but wonder if she’s disappointed in me for leaving him alone. After what he said on the trip there, I can’t quite believe that I had either.

#carry on #fanfiction #snowbaz #fanfic #fic #mine #of wealth and leisure #victorian au #simon snow #tyrannus basilton grimm-pitch #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #baz pitch #simon #baz #hehe the story picks up from here babes

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