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tommarvoloriddlesdiary · 1 year

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Love prompt #18 (why can't you just accept my help?), Harry time travels back to when Tom is in his early Hogwarts days before he discovers his identity and is having a hard time.

thank you for giving me a prompt! this was fun, and it got longer than i intended. honestly, it could be even longer 🤦 but i decided to cut it off. i hope you like it, anon! and if anyone else wants to send a prompt, please feel free. you can make your own or pick from here.

“Up late again, Riddle?”

Tom didn’t easily startle. He supposed it came from growing up in an orphanage where the walls were thin, and there was no such thing as privacy. With no locks on the door and no way to stop whoever from entering whenever they wanted. So when Harry Potter had entered the common room in the dead of night and hovered by the alcove to the dormitory stairs, watching and contemplating whether or not he would say something, Tom had known immediately.

He had felt those green eyes staring like a cool rain on the back of his neck. Something about them was profoundly unnatural, especially now in the dying light of the fireplace, the sparse candle-lit lanterns, and the single stick Tom had beside him for reading.

Tom expected their world-weary sombre during these times of war, but there was something greater to their depths. Much like the Black Lakes’ green-tinged water from the window on the far side of the common room, hinting at what could be beneath the surface but so vast that once one tried to see past the few tens or so metres in front of them, they only found deep inscrutable darkness.

Tom turned away from Potter’s never-ending green and continued to read through the never-ending book before him. Picking a poison, his thoughts supplied unhelpfully. “No, Potter. I am obviously a figment of your imagination.” Tom felt Potter’s careful approaching steps pause and couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, “It’s rather revealing that you think of me enough to consider that a possibility.”

Potter huffed, his steps louder with his ire towards Tom, “I don’t think about you, Riddle.”

“Then why are you here?” And though Tom asked it with an air of indifference, he was curious.

Potter was odd. He arrived at the start of the year with little to no fanfare: an introduction, a pat on the back, and a timetable of classes. He blended in with the Slytherins and was welcomed with passing intrigue; after all, a mysterious Potter child appearing out of the woodwork so late in his magical education was something to pitter about. However, his confidently revealed halfblood status hadn’t earned him any favours or lasting interest.

And with his odd attachment to Tom, of all people, Slytherin House’s poor little orphan mudblood—Tom’s jaw clenched at the thought—Potter indeed hadn’t remained coveted company.

Potter fell into the seat across from Tom, a low-backed inky-black tufted velvet armchair, and shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. When I got up to wash my face, you weren’t in bed. I thought-“ Potter’s mouth moved in odd shapes like he was making words but couldn’t produce their sounds. Eventually, he gave up with another smaller shrug.

Tom’s gracious mood was steadily declining. He wasn’t Potter’s pity project. He didn’t need a minder. “Potter, your misplaced feelings of concern or whatever odd obsession you have with trying to be my friend are unnecessary and unappreciated.”

It had only been once during Potter’s time here—but clearly the boy was holding onto it much longer than Tom—that Tom had an…unfortunate after-hour run-in with some of the older Slytherins. He had given as good as he got and begrudgingly acknowledged that Potter’s spontaneous arrival and subsequent assistance had been a significant factor in Tom’s more-than-minor but less-than-major injuries.

It didn’t mean he had to be grateful to Potter or anything. He certainly wasn’t grateful Potter had seen him so battered and weak. So stupidly helpless.

It hadn’t helped that after the incident, Potter, who had mainly been avoiding everyone and especially Tom, had become his unrelenting shadow. And given Tom’s vicious nature and Potter’s clear competency in Defense, they had only become further ostracised in their House. Though, somewhat pleasingly, the avoidance seemed more out of fear than disgust.

Potter frowned, “I don’t get your problem, Riddle. What’s the big deal? Is it so bad that I like hanging out with you?”

Hanging out? More like hanging around, Tom sighed. “You don’t like ‘hanging out’ with me. And the ‘big deal’ is you clearly have some sort of saviour complex. You aren’t interested in who I am or what I’m doing,” and Tom rathered Potter to stay that way, “you’re just latching on to someone you think is hapless. Making yourself feel better about your own life and situation by ‘helping’ me.”

Tom glanced up from his text, Potter’s face was comically agape in horror. He continued, “I’ve seen you talking with that Hufflepuff half-giant. It’s the same for him. You like outcasts because you know that with your own halfblood status in the Wizarding World, you’ll never truly be accepted even though you’ll get much farther and have greater opportunities readily available than any of us. You enjoy that sparkly look he has in his eyes when you talk to him, and you want me to treat you with the same sort of awe and admiration for daring to stand by my side and associate with someone so far ‘below’ you.”

Tom’s chin held high throughout his little speech. Confident in his deduction of Potter’s inner thoughts and machinations. But then Potter started laughing.

And laughing. And laughing.

He laughed so long and hard that Tom feared someone would come and find them. Students hating him was one thing, but Tom had nearly every professor eating out of the palm of his hand and would like to keep things that way. He hissed, “Potter will you cease your incessant laughter.”

It took several more moments and several large, inhaled breaths before Potter could manage to pull himself together. And when he did, it was simply to shake his head and say, “Riddle. For someone so arrestingly smart, you are an idiot.”

Tom was struck speechless. He’d never been called an idiot before. And never by a person barely passing something as simple as Divination, of all things.

“Why can’t you just accept my help?” Potter asked after a small beat of silence. “I’m probably the only person around you that doesn’t have shitty intentions. And I am interested in you and what you’re doing.” He stood up from the chair to pick up one of the other tomes Tom had scattered on the table before him. “I know you’re trying really hard to learn more about yourself. That you think you aren’t just a muggleborn. I believe you.”

Tom blinked once, blank-faced. Potter believed him?

Potter flipped quickly through the pages of the genealogy book Tom had discarded as useless, with no trace of the name Riddle anywhere. He stopped suddenly and turned the book towards Tom, holding it open on his lap, the spine of the book against his stomach, “You talk to the snake carvings, and sometimes the portraits with snakes scattered around the dungeons and some of the upper floors when you think no one is looking. I’m looking.” Potter points to a single name: Marvolo Gaunt. “Parseltongue is a Slytherin trait. Extremely rare in England. Only one family left alive is known to speak it.”

Tom’s eyes, which had been staring at the name in shock and wonder and elation and confusion, found Potter’s again and saw no expectation. No mischief, ridicule, or pride in showing Tom the errors of his desperate searching. Tom saw no building exchange, no intelligent, craftily prepared trade for Potter’s revealing of Tom’s most sought-after answer.

Tom simply saw hope. He saw Potter’s open and encouraging face. He saw Potter’s desire for Tom’s happiness—not his appreciation or gratitude.

At the realisation, something warm and coiling had settled in the centre of Tom’s chest. And suddenly, those fathomless green eyes were the clearest shards of sea glass, exposing the wonders of wreckages and treasures and the unexplored if Tom would only dive in.

#tomarry #tomarrymort #harrymort #pov: tom #my fic #1.3k words #prompt ask #this was fun #i hope you like it #i'm not sure if it'll meet expectations 🫣

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amethystpath-writes · 2 years

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P2 Not Your Treaty

(NOT A PR0MPT)

Part 1 here

A second part was requested almost as soon as I posted this story…here it is seven months later. I apologize. I hope the anon who requested this is still around 😭

******

“Will she not follow?”

Villain rolled his eyes. Not at the lord- gods, he knew better than to roll his eyes at a lord. No, Villain rolled his eyes at the door behind him, the one that shut loudly with a thud, and with no tiny footsteps behind him. Hero remained outside, probably still in the damn tree.

“She will,” Villain promised. “Eventually, she will have no choice but to follow me wherever I go, wherever I please.”

As Villain strode to the head of the table, the same lord opened up. “What worth is she if she cannot accept even marriage? It is the role of a princess to prepare for courtship, yet she could never lift a teacup to her own lips. How could she ever help a kingdom- desperate or already prosperous?” This particular lord was an old man, one once close with Villain’s father, the king. He was used to advising, to speaking when no one wished to hear his opinion- which was heinous more often than helpful. His grey hair did not make him wise.

“I do not need her for tradition. You know that.” Villain straightened the sleeves and shoulders of his top as he took a seat. “Hero is worth more with her fire than with an easy obedience.” He shrugged lightly- as to not ruin the tidiness which he just achieved. “How will the rest of the lands know of our power without seeing what alignment the princess suffers through? They know her well enough to know she desires defiance. She climbs trees now,” Villain explained, “but soon she will be painting them red.”

Noticing another lord, Villain asked, “Don’t you agree?”

The lord, who jumped with the fright of being addressed, drew his hands together and began picking his nails. If it weren’t for the fire crackling behind Villain, the whole room would have heard the lord’s fingernails ripping. “W-with which part, Your Highness?”

“Well, with any of it,” Villain stated. His own hands were folded in front of him. The way the prince held himself was just so slightly inhuman, so calculated and meticulous, that it unnerved every person but one. Hero. For now, though, his strategically straightened back, his folded hands, and his unblinking gaze would get him his way. “I am not so sure you have listened to a word spoken since I walked in. Do you care to share your hidden thoughts?”

Knowing this was no question at all, the lord spilled. “I apologize,” he began. “My mind was occupied by unrelated matters.” Admittance could never excuse his former or present absence. The lord was always gone, always ‘occupied’ as he so called it, and although the prince was forgiving, Villain was growing weary; it was hard telling when someone was plotting against the crown versus simply keeping their head down beneath that of authority. The lord- or boy, rather- was young, his hair still vibrant with colour despite the anxiety he felt under his prince’s prying eyes.

Villain rose a brow- nodded in the boy’s direction, a prompt for him to continue sharing. He did:

“I was thinking, Your- uh- Your Highness”- he kept his head ducked down, only occasionally making eye contact with his higher-up- “that if the king is ill, and there is no male heir to the throne, then Hero will never…” The boy lord cleared his throat and continued picking at his nails, which were more closely considered skin at this point. “Then Hero will never follow you home. She has sisters to care for, ones she already cares deeply about.”

“You are too sympathetic.”

“He might be right,” the older lord cut in. As always, Villain didn’t care for his advisor’s opinion, but he listened, knowing he would get a mouthful later if he didn’t. “If you want the princess to learn cooperation, you must learn compromise.” He continued before the prince could argue back. “You want to charm the other kingdoms, not terrify them. You think showing them a bruised princess from a falling kingdom will make them like and respect you? It will only bring retaliation against our legacy.”

‘Our legacy.’ Oh, how I would love to sew your mouth shut.

“If she wants to stay here, wed her here. Become the king of a broken kingdom and show the rest of the lands how capable you are of building it anew. That will earn us prosperity.”

“The whole reason for our being here was to bring her home and make her my queen- to strike an alliance for the benefit of trade.” Why would Villain ever stay in this wretched land of wolf claws and fallen trees? Fallen trees like broken crowns.

But the old lord presented another good point. “If you let one of your brothers take the throne of our kingdom, you will still have your trade, and more. You will have your homeland’s local benefits, this land’s local benefits, and whatever trade happens between the two.” A crooked smile raptured his face and he continued, “And if you come to resent your brothers for their own uprising, well, you will be the one with a glorified image- stepping in the way you are to help a saddened princess repair her kingdom. How glorious of you to volunteer taking the reigns of a land in shambles. You will be a god, Villain.”

With perhaps the most fortunate, coincidental timing, the door leading outside opened, and in stepped Hero. Her eyes were puffy, even from across the room. The princess’ sleeve was torn, exposing her tanned and olive skin. To top it all off, the body of her dress was littered with mud and vibrant green grass stains. “My branch broke,” she explained. “I want a place to sit that is not rock or hard dirt.”

“By all means,” the boy lord said, “take my seat. I need a breath of fresh air, anyhow.” With a curt nod, the lord dismissed himself from the table, leaving Hero in the wake.

#not a pr0mpt #To my professor who saw this when it was just dialogue-- I finally wrote the second part!#No one has ever made me more excited to write than my Intro to Creative Writing professor #but I was his last class before retirement. Always hopeful he still reads my blog and gets the same enjoyment out of it as before.#not your treaty #medieval #medieval writing #medieval story #hero x villain #hero x villain story #hero x villain snippet #hero x villain drabble #heroes and villains #arranged marriage #of sorts #forced marriage #that's closer I suppose #royalty #royalty writing #royalty whump #royal hero #royal villain #In all actuality I write royalty more often than anything else. I have reached the crowd which appreciates this but I don't know how #Because who honestly ever looks up the tags I use??#royalty writing?#does royalty writing even make sense??#prince #princes #villain prince #hero princess

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mycharacterdump · 10 months

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Marseille, Francia 6th Century A.D.

Word travels fast in the newly conquered land of the Franks. In the oldest city that is built upon cobblestone and bloodshed, Marseille, settled initially hundreds of years before the Romans were ousted from Gaul, a murmur in a tavern ignites folklore that unspools into truth. Rumor that a volcano has erupted in a far away northern land warps the perspective of the smallfolk that inhabit the seaside town. They are quick to paranoia, although the Pope Saint Agapetus I quells the worries of those most vulnerable and seeking redemption, there is no denying that some God is enraged by the politicking and gossiping meandering that the human race has submitted to rather than their favor. The sky blackens in the course of a week, leaving everyone cloaked in a shroud of darkness where even the sun cannot break through to nourish the crops that eventually die a slow, terrible death. Famine quickens in the province and before anyone can catch their breath in the poisoned air, a mysterious fog overtakes the streets. All hope is surrendered; people are left perpetually on their knees, hands clasped in prayer, lips forming hymns and verses they think will save them from what is the inevitable clutch of death that’s already stolen their food, and eyes shut as they dream of better times. In a house placed on the seaside, a family of four resides, one of the few in Marseille that hasn’t yet succumbed to starvation or ashen lungs — all because one father has taken the reins into his own hands.

Lucien was born in the Year of Our Lord 505 A.D., thirty years prior to the catastrophic eruption that separated the world from its mother sun. Before him came his brother Dante and sister Avril. His mother, Estelle, he could recall, was always a kind woman. She extended a hand to all those who asked for it and provided a shoulder of comfort to rely on, something a young Lucien utilized despite his father Hugo’s reservations about men displaying their softer emotions. She sang to him in Hebrew and taught him everything she knew in Latin. She employed him in her garden and in the kitchen, down to the seashore for fishing and even, late in the night, embroidery in her own solar. By the time he was old enough to take on the world by himself he was more than equipped in multiple facets of life to make a good living on his own, however he didn’t fly far from the nest when the time did come. He remained in Marseille, wise enough to know he would never have learned enough from his mother, and at his father’s behest he accepted a job as a barrister alongside his older brother, representing the people of the city in court.

While the job bored him terribly, he knew better than to rebel against the status quo. He still allowed himself the simple pleasures of life that was taught to him by his mother, like staying up late into the night completing the finishing touches on a luxurious embroidering on which he utilized pearls and quills that he purchased from the wealth he’d accumulated as a barrister. He felt closer to his mother this way, as even though she lived not but five minutes down the road, the older he became the more they were torn apart by his father, who thought it better they were in more frequent contact considering their shared careers. She still had Avril, anyway, who had difficulty finding a suitor from the time she was a young lady. Avril was always a spitfire, much to their father’s chagrin; too good for the men that dwelled in Marseille and even the ones that ventured in from far-off places for her hand. It wouldn’t be long, however, until he reckoned their father would grow weary of her games and force her to marry someone and procreate as to secure their bloodline. And then their mother would be left alone in that house for days on end while his father went drinking and whoring around the city. The thought unsettled Lucien, but he did his damnedest to unburden himself of matters that should’ve no longer involved him.

Alas, his worst dreams would manifest themselves soon after his twenty-fifth birthday when his sister was put on display at the small gathering held in the hall of the manor where they grew up and introduced as the future Marchioness of Toulon. Her betrothed, the Marquess Cecil of Toulon, was a prickly little thing — and while Dante found it bemusing that she was matched with her diametric opposite, Lucien felt a sting of resentment on her behalf for who their father had chosen for her. He acquainted the Marquess and gave his best wishes to the newly engaged couple before he made haste to speak with his mother regarding her status now that her last child would be leaving their manor.

“Thee w'rry oft and without causeth,” said Estelle, stroking his pale cheek with a loving hand. “I shalt p'rsev're as I at each moment has't.”

Lucien released a heavy sigh from between his lips. “I knoweth thee shalt. Yet still remains that I feeleth in mine own chest yond thee needeth me in these coming dark days.” came his reply, which evoked a soft smile upon her blushing cheeks. Not even his father’s frequent cruelty could steal away her natural glow.

“Counteth all joy, mine own broth'rs, at which hour thee meeteth trials of various kinds, f'r thee knoweth yond the testing of thy faith produces steadfastness. And alloweth steadfastness has't its full effect, yond thee may beest p'rfect and completeth, lacking in nothing,” quoted she from the Book of Hebrews, recoiling her hand and leaving behind the coldest flush upon his face.

He wandered home alone that evening, deep in percolation as he passed by all the pubs and dance halls that were alive and swelling with sweet music. Above him resided the constellation Pleiades, the Seven Sisters, which he could identify from what his mother taught him at a young age whenever he first became aware of the heavens. Several of the most prominent male Olympian gods had engaged in affairs with the seven heavenly sisters. These relationships resulted in the birth of their children: Maia, eldest of the seven Pleiades, Electra, Taygete, Alcyone, Celaeno, Sterope, and Merope, the youngest of the Pleiades. After Atlas was forced to carry the heavens on his shoulders, Orion began to pursue all of the Pleiades, and Zeus transformed them first into doves, and then into stars to comfort their father. The constellation of Orion is said to still pursue them across the night sky.

The most memorable myth involving the Pleiades was the story of how these sisters literally became stars, their catasterism. According to some versions of the tale, all seven sisters died by suicide because they were so saddened by either the fate of their father, Atlas, or the loss of their siblings, the Hyades. In turn, Zeus, the ruler of the Greek gods, immortalized the sisters by placing them in the sky. There these seven stars formed the star cluster known thereafter as the Pleiades.

Pleiades and Orion had also been mentioned in the Book of Job, which is where Lucien first heard of them: Can you bind the beautiful Pleiades? Can you loose the cords of Orion? Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons or lead out the Bear with its cubs?

His head hung low and he thought of Avril, who may not have proven herself worthy of subservient husband but at the very least was deserving of one that wouldn’t smother the flame she had carried since she was a little girl. What would become of her if she had decided to take matters into her own hands? Would she be given a place among the stars like the seven sisters? He sorely hoped so, and that night as he knelt at his bedside, hands brought together in prayer, he whispered a hope to God that she may find happiness in this life before she surrendered herself unto the next one. He didn’t feel a movement within him much like others claimed to have whenever they spoke to God, but he assumed this was simply because he hadn’t been as prudent about attending church now that he wasn’t held to the standard by his mother every Sunday. He would try again the next week. And the next. And the next.

A fortnight passed before Lucien received invitation to the ceremony that would take place in Toulon, in one of the oldest churches built in all of Francia. It seemed to be extravagant already by the expert calligraphy and the weight of the ink on the parchment, even stamped with an intricate house sigil. He conversed with Dante about whether or not he’d be able to attend, but he was swiftly assured that their father would be making arrangements so that they could come as witnesses. And, all within three days’ time, the paperwork he once drowned in was offloaded and he was escorted into the countryside in a wealthy carriage that his father paid handsomely for their desired maximum comfort. Lucien was even gifted a new crimson dyed linen tunic to wear for the occasion, which his mother said looked very dapper on him — though couldn’t help but comment that it was extraordinarily unlike him. Despite their comfortable seat in the upper echelon of society, he nor his mother were inclined to indulge in the finer things offered to them.

The ceremony was as proper as it could’ve been. The service was drawn out a length two hours so they could hold a sermon, and by the end of the afternoon his sister had become the Marchioness Avril of Toulon. She seemed more pleased by the title than enamored by her new husband. The siblings retired to a corner of the ballroom at some point, passing around a shared goblet of claret imported from Bordeaux and murmuring among themselves.

“Thee may survive us yet, Marchioness Avril of Toulon. Thy husband howev'r seemeth that gent cannot withstandeth coequal a dropeth of wine,” remarked Dante with a hearty chuckle.

Avril visibly restrained herself from snorting, a very unladylike exhibition of the wildness that need be plucked out of her root and stem. “Shouldst seeth what that gent is liketh at which hour I poureth mead in his goblet.” snickered she in return.

“Silence, h're that gent cometh,” said Lucien as he occupied his lips by pressing the goblet against them, swallowing a mouthful of the wine as the Marquess Cecil of Toulon approached the three with a dopey smile that made the most handsome and gentlemanly Dante waver in his manners.

“Tis an hon'r to host thee all h're on such a bless’d day. I doth desire f'r thy valorous wishes and praise f'r the life I intendeth on providing thy sweet sist'r,” spoke the Marquess Cecil of Toulon, reaching out so he could slide his hand into his wife’s. She stiffened at the touch but didn’t recoil, knowing better than to deny her holy husband something as undemanding as a hand to hold. “The lady hast madeth an honest sir of me forsooth, yond is c'rtain.”

Lucien forced a smile and raised the goblet to him. “We trusteth thee shall maketh an honest mistress of h'r in returneth, Marquess Cecil of Toulon.”

And so he did. Within a year’s time they had produced two children, Irish twins, as they called it, and made proud Hugo who felt his decision to wed the couple was among one of the best he’d made in his life. Now, his sights were set on Lucien, as Dante had proven himself a bachelor that need no wife what with his years of experience apprenticing as a barrister while his younger brother preferred to remain at home alongside their mother. Lucien dreaded the day that he would be met with a proposition to marry a woman who he would likely have nothing in common with, however before that day could come a grand rattling shook the earth and darkness was cast over the skies.

The world has ceased to turn. Ash sullies the crops and a neverending winter comes to eradicate all those that do not have the wealth to protect themselves from the harsh conditions.

It’s the Year of Our lord 536 A.D.

Lucien’s thirtieth birthday came and passed, though no celebration was held in his honor, nor did he anticipate one. The entire earth is overshadowed by famine and death, and one of the many casulaties that takes place during this time has been that of his mother. He has never escaped a courtroom meeting so quickly before once catching word of her illness, fleeing the town square and running on foot to reach their manor and be at the bedside of Estelle. His hand clutches onto hers, which has grown cold and frail. She can hardly lace her fingers with his, having grown too weak in the last day to do much at all except for writhe in her own agony. They still have food reserves left from the last harvest before the eruption, but she has something different, something more sinister — a plague. One in which there are no cures or preventatives. Boils have broken out all over her skin, threatening to burst at the gentlest touch, and her husband is no where to be found within the manor, which enrages Lucien.

He remains at her bedside for three days and three nights, reading to her from her own Holy Bible and multiple works she’s always had stored nearby on her nightstand. He reads all the passages she’s underlined with ink, assuring her that, in good time, God will heal her if she persists in her faith, though the light in her eyes begins to fade blink by blink and his own belief has begun dwindling the more she suffers without any sign of recovery.

“... Blessed is the sir who remains steadfast und'r trial, f'r at which hour that gent hast stoodeth the testeth that gent shall taketh the coronet of life, which God hast did promise to those who is't loveth that gent,” quotes Lucien, his voice wavering with each word that leaves his trembling lips. Unexpectedly, he feels a cool palm rest upon his hand and he looks up from where he was trying to focus on the pages with watering eyes. Looking back at him is Estelle, whose poise is as graceful as ever, even as she withers, and he pauses so she may speak.

“Mine own timeth is near,” says Estelle. “Thee might not but alloweth me wend and beest with God anon.”

Lucien feels more tears sting his eyes, shaking his head in protest. “I cannot alloweth thee wend anon.”

“Hoc excitatus lucifer solvit polum caligine, hoc omnis erronum chorus2 vias nocendi deserit,” sings Estelle in a raspy voice. Roused at the note, the morning star, heaven's dusky veil uplifts afar: night's vagrant bands no longer roam, but from their dark ways hie them home. “Gallo canente spes redit, aegris salus refunditur, mucro latronis conditur, lapsis fides revertitur.” New hope his clarion note awakes, sickness the feeble frame forsakes, the robber sheathes his lawless sword, faith to fallen is restored.

Her eyes flutter shut and she squeezes his hand as tightly as she can muster. “Find thyself an angel. To protecteth thee whilst I am gone to beest with our Heavenly Fath'r.” says she.

Tears trickle down Lucien’s face as he watches his mother, her voice fading away and her grip on him loosening with each breath she pulls in. At last, she gives her last breath into this cursed world, and falls limp against the mattress. Sobbing, Lucien leans against her and refuses to let her go. It isn’t until he feels something cool against his palm that he moves again, unfurling his fingers and seeing that she had unclasped her gold necklace and placed it in his hand. He sobs again.

Hours pass before he is discovered by Hugo and Dante, who force him off of her so he may not contract the plague that took her from them, though he wishes he will just so they can be reunited once more. Rather than escort him into another room, however, a cowl is forced over his head and he is dragged forcibly from her bedchambers. He resists at first, beyond confused as the two men talk among themselves. Words are exchanged that he doesn’t quite recognize, none of them having been taught to him by his mother, and eventually he loses enough oxygen to where he can no longer remain conscious.

He has one final dream while he’s unconscious. In a field that’s pouring with daylight, Lucien reaches out for Estelle’s hand, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as they touch and her warmth is restored to his memory. There are no boils on her, her skin soft and smooth as it was when she was the epitome of health, and her eyes shined brightly without any glare. His arms wrap around her smaller frame and he squeezes her, feeling the blood flow through her veins and keep her alive. As she pulls away, he sees in her gaze a reflection of all their best memories, and a happiness washes over him that he hasn’t felt since he was a small child.

By the time he wakes, an intense pain has engulfed his body and he can’t bite back a blood-curdling scream. His vision is blotted whenever he opens his eyes — he feels cold, colder by the second, and as he tries to catch his breath he realizes that the pull of air he takes in isn’t necessary. The stillness that reaches all corners of his body offsets him but it doesn’t feel as unnatural as it should. And, as he moves his lips to release a whimper, he can only taste the metallic tinge of blood in his mouth, paired with the sharpness of two pointed canines. Wwhat had happened to him? He struggles against the binds he now realizes have been adjusted onto his wrists, tuggling and wrestling before a pair of strong hands pin him to the wooden board he’s been restrained on. His vision begins to clear and above him he can see the age lines of Hugo’s face come into perspective. Eyebrows cinch together and he relaxes slightly, at the very least knowing he’s with someone he knows.

“Welcome back, Lucien,” greets Hugo.

“Back?” echoes Lucien, who manages to sit up on his elbows.

Hugo gives his son a wide-lipped grin and holds a mirror up for him to see — except when he peers in expecting his reflection, he’s met with nothing at all, something that properly startles him.

“God’s bones!” exlcaims he as he scatters backwards, Dante catching him before he can fall off the table. “What hath happened?!”

“I has't did cure us, we shalt visage nay m're mortal toil from this world,” comes Hugo’s reply. “Mine own son, we art did save.”

When he continues to question them, he’s given honest answers: Avril’s husband succumbed to the same plague, and before she could cope she was stolen away from her two children and underwent the same transformation as her brothers and father. She’s still recovering. They are no longer human, affronts to nature and God Himself, but that need not matter. They don’t answer to anyone but themselves from here on out. The world is theirs, ripe for the taking, and they will take it — piece by piece.

___

For fifteen hundred years, Lucien lives as a vampire; a believed to be mythical creature that subsists by feeding on the vital essence of the living. Undead creatures that often visited loved ones and cause mischief or deaths in the neighbourhoods which they inhabited while they were alive, though he cannot say he dwelt in Marseille for longer than a decade after his initial Turning. He’s traveled the world ten times over, witnessing the rise and fall of dynasties from Tokyo to Constantinople. His whole life, however, has yet to prove itself worthy of existing at all. While he’s studied and become a scholar of many arts, none of it seems to hold any substance in the grand scheme of things.

In the early twentieth century he and his family took on the surname Jensen, one of many they’ve had over the centuries, and he’s had it attached to him ever since. Lucky Jensen, they call him. Sometimes it makes him feel like a completely different person, and he doesn’t mind it.

In folklore, vampires wear shrouds and are often described as bloated and of ruddy or dark countenance, markedly different from their true gaunt, pale physique. This has scared off plenty, however there are a few women (and men, mind you) that find themselves attracted to his particular allure and have fallen head over heels for him. He didn’t understand it at first, having plenty of trouble grappling with his new identity even after centuries of practicing, but once he finally settled into his own skin he’s come to accept that he may be desirable after all.

It takes many potential suitors before he finally finds the one that he can properly imagine a future with. She’s much smaller than him, a whole foot and a half it seems, olive-skinned with the most enchanting brown eyes that he always seems to lose himself in. She has a stutter but her voice is soft and sweet like marmalade, and she reminds him of the kind of life he once lived in Marseille; that in which he never had to think twice about his actions, he could move through life in peace, knowing that all would be well in the world if he kept his head up. For millennia he’s resided in the shadows, and now he’s become brave enough to face the light once more.

Her name is Manon. It’s French for star of the sea. He feels that completes everything he’s worked for all these years.

In truth, he’s terrified whenever she falls pregnant. He thought it impossible, and because of it he hides the reality of their child’s paternity from his father, who doesn’t seem surprised that Manon lay with another — even though Lucien knows it’s entirely unlike her. Regardless, he’s relieved that Hugo doesn’t suspect a thing and they carry on with the pregnancy, which nearly takes her life as their son is ripped out of her in a witch’s basement in the city of New Orleans. He’s only lived in Louisiana for a little less than a decade, but he knows he can make a proper home out of it with Manon and their son — Spencer. Already fussy, already far too much for her to handle on her own, which is why Lucien takes on the brunt of his ceaseless anger and discontent with the world. He can’t entirely blame the child; he craves blood and he’s been fed milk since the day he was born.

He ages quickly. Quicker than Lucien can keep up with at first. In the span of six months Spencer has grown to be a seven year old child, and he does his best to keep him away from Hugo so that no concerns are raised. They manage to survive decades on their own, and before Lucien knows it Manon is aging even faster than Spencer did and he has to watch her wither away just as he had his mother.

Time moves as it always does, as much as Lucien wishes it wouldn’t. The years tick by and people he considered good friends once begin to fade one by one until all he has left is his family. He doesn’t mind like he thought he would — but he dreads the day he’ll lose them, too, knowing as a full-blooded vampire he is truly immortal. Even Spencer will one day leave the earth, even if he seems to think he’s invincible, and his children as well. Then what will become of Lucien? How can he possible ever start over with someone else after Manon has shown him all of what he could want in the world, and then some? The thought is paralyzing and something he’d rather not think about too intensely.

Despite all odds, Spencer produces seven grandchildren for him and Manon. With a witch, of all people. Their children undergo normal growth spurts, unlike most vampire hybrids, potentially at the will of magick like Lucien assumes. He finds himself particularly close to the eldest, Margaret, or Maisie. She reminds him of his mother. She has a fascination with the stars much like Estelle did, and she’s twice as studious. However she experiences more roadblocks than most, which only draws him closer to her. She keeps her distance from most of the family, minus her mother, who can calm anyone with a few reassuring words, but Lucien persists much like he was always taught.

On Thanksgiving evening, Lucien finds her on the shore not far from where his beachhouse resides. Everyone else is still inside, celebrating her engagement, while she occupies herself by stargazing. He can remember late nights he spent as a child on the coast of France, staring up at the sky and wondering what his place in the universe was. Seems the apple doesn’t fall very far from the undead tree. He meanders down the steps and to her side, taking a seat beside her.

“I would be bonded with your Nan, you know,” speaks up Lucien, startling Maisie who hadn’t picked up on him approaching. “Sorry. I forget sometimes.” apologizes he

Maisie reaches for her implant, which she’d peeled off her skull so she could have a few moments of peace, and places it against the side of her head again. “What was that?” asks she.

“I would be bonded with your Nan,” repeats he for her with a weary smile.

“... Why aren’t you?”

He gives a shrug. “I always thought it unnecessary. I figured I was more than enough to keep us both safe, and… Well… I was afraid of the risks. It seemed she was already taking so many just by being with me. Having your father. I wish I had, though.” admits he.

“You still can,” reasons Maisie.

“I may,” entertains Lucien. “Seems more essential everyday.”

Maisie’s brows furrows at him and she cocks her head sideways, not understanding what he’s implying. He doesn’t elaborate however, just leaning back on his palms and gazing up at the sky. He recognizes the constellation and a faint smile appears on his lips. Cassiopeia, easily recognizable for the prominent W asterism formed by its five brightest stars.

“Do you know this one?” asks Lucien, though he already knows the answer as she nods. “What about the story?”

She affords him a smile in return and shakes her head politely. He’s certain she knows, but he likes that she’ll indulge him anyway.

“Cassiopeia was the wife of King Cepheus of Ethiopia. Once, she boasted that she was more beautiful than the Nereids. The Nereids were the 50 sea nymphs — much like your boy — fathered by the Titan Nereus. They were enraged by Cassiopeia’s comments and appealed to Poseidon to punish Cassiopeia for her boastfulness. Poseidon was married to one of the nymphs, Amphitrite. The sea god obliged and sent Cetus, a sea monster represented by the constellation Cetus, located in the same region of the sky, to ravage the coast of Cepheus’ kingdom. Cepheus turned to an oracle for help and the oracle told him that, in order to appease Poseidon, he and Cassiopeia had to sacrifice their daughter Andromeda to the sea monster. Reluctantly, they did so, leaving Andromeda chained to a rock for the monster to find. However, she was saved in the last minute by the Greek hero Perseus, who happened to be passing by, saw Andromeda and rescued her from the monster,” explains he.

Maisie leans her head in her hands and watches him with a blissful smile. She loves being told stories, even ones she’s heard before.

“Perseus and Andromeda were later married. At the wedding, one of her former suitors, named Phineus, appeared and claimed that he was the only one who had the right to marry Andromeda. There was a fight and Perseus, desperately outnumbered, used the head of Medusa to defeat his opponents. One look at Medusa’s head turned them all into stone. In the process, however, the king and queen also met their end because they did not look away from the monster’s head in time. It was Poseidon who placed Cassiopeia and Cepheus in the sky. Cassiopeia, the myth goes, was condemned to circle the celestial pole forever, and spends half the year upside down in the sky as punishment for her vanity.” finishes he with a fond grin, looking back down at his granddaughter. “... My mother told me that story a long time ago.”

She blinks slowly at him, realizing he’s hardly ever spoken about his mother before. Only in passing, and never for long. “What was she like?” wonders she.

Lucien stews on the question. It seems impossible to sum up Estelle in a few sentences, but less so when he’s near Maisie. “... Much like you, honestly,” answers he. “Kind-hearted. Strong. Persevering. A taste for the unconventional, and a great love for others. She was just as taken with the stars as you are, in fact.”

Maisie can’t help but smile more at this, teeth showing. He finds it painful to look at her fangless, that harsh reminder that he couldn’t protect her like he should’ve, however he pushes passed it.

“You look like her, as well,” adds he. “You have her smile.”

She reaches up and touches her mouth as she’s suddenly conscious of her features. He chuckles at this and an idea comes to him suddenly. He stands up and tells her to wait, which she obeys, remaining in the sand as he hurries back up to the beachhouse. He threads through the hallways until he reaches his bedroom, where Manon has already retired after an exhausting night with their family. He reaches for a box that he’s kept underneath their bed for as long as they’ve lived here, sliding his fingers over the mahogany before lifting it open and plucking out the only item that had been left inside.

Before leaving, he leans in and presses a kiss against Manon’s head, his gaze lingering on her as he exits the room and narrowly avoids conversation with anyone else as he hurries back out to where he’d left Maisie. Of course, she’s right there, in the same place she was before, staring up at the sky and waiting patiently fo Lucien’s return.

He sits beside her once more and holds his hand out. “Give me your hand,” instructs he, to which she slowly extends her arm and unfolds her palm for him.

She feels a cool metal pool in her hand and she seems confused at first before he pulls away and she sees a gold necklace. Honey brown eyes widening, she holds it up closer so she can see the finer details. She seems in awe of such an old, fragile thing, seemingly plucked from outside time itself.

“It was my mother’s,” says Lucien softly. “I’ve not been able to let go of it all this time. But… Now that you’re on your own journey, I feel it… It should go to you. Perhaps give you some good luck. You’ll need it.”

Maisie swallows as she looks the necklace over, enamored by it. “Can you…?” she trailed off, and he smiles while taking the necklace and placing it around her neck, clasping it into place.

“There you go,” he almost whispers. “My little angel.”

#lucky — character study.#maisie — character study.#self-para #5.3k words

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redorich · 3 years

Text

to those who carried on

A fic for @petrichormeraki and their Hermit!Tommy AU.

-------

The hermits know Tommy as a quiet young man who is very sad and contemplative. The more time they spend with him (against his will, but they know he needs the company) the more they learn of the little details. His favorite block is cobblestone, he likes building towers, and apparently his favorite woman is the Queen. They don’t ask why he wears a smiley mask even though he never seems happy. They don’t ask why he hides important things in his ender chest. They don’t ask why he wears a shattered compass on a chain about his neck.

(Once, he died in lava and lost his absolute mind. He was so upset about the compass that he didn’t even mention the stack and a half of diamond ore he had on him. Xisuma ended up manually rolling back the server just so Tommy could have it back.)

As time goes on, the tremors in Tommy's hands grow lesser. His dull blond hair seems a bit brighter, his bruises fade quicker, he doesn’t look quite so skinny-- he spends his time serenely building, resource gathering instead of running and fighting. He has a sense of humor under all that trauma, which the hermits unfortunately find out after another massive-scale prank war thought to be instigated by Grian actually turns out to be Tommy's fault.

Tommy starts swearing more. Doc gets the stink eye from Stress for this, but Doc insists he’s never once sworn around the young man. (That’s an absolute lie, but it wasn’t anything Tommy hadn’t heard before. Tommy thinks Doc is remarkably unoriginal in his cursing. He does take note of the German ones, though.)

Inviting Tommy to PvP minigames can be touchy, they learn. He likes to fight, but he fights like an animal with nothing to lose. Grian once chanted, “It stays in the pit!” and everyone present had to spend the next five minutes wrangling Tommy’s soul back into his body from wherever it’d floated off to.

Tommy likes to glide with his elytra. He claims he’s never had one before, but he flies like such a natural that a few people have their doubts. On a dark desert night, with dark blue eyes watching the night sky, he confides to Cub that it reminds him of the way his dad used to fly. He hates rockets, though. He does not confide to Cub that it reminds him of what his brother did to his best friend. He says enough that Cub can guess, though.

Scar gets fed up with Tommy’s creeper holes and makes Tommy help him fix them. At first, Tommy has no clue why Scar is breaking out things like coarse dirt and birch leaves and making the ground all fancy, but he’s not afraid of a little hard work and Scar makes it fun. He learns a lot about terraforming that day, and awkwardly comes back a few days later asking if Scar needs any more help terraforming. Tommy still hasn’t built a real base, not by Hermitcraft standards, but the small hill he’s built his dirt hut near now has a very beautiful, if amateurish, waterfall. He doesn’t tell Scar about this, but Scar finds out anyway. Tommy wakes up one morning to find that someone has left a shulker box in his house. Instead of iron-gripped paranoia, he just feels wonder that someone would give him a gift-- to the hermits, a single shulker box is nothing. To Tommy, it’s everything.

The shulker box contains coarse dirt, birch leaves, and a silk touch shovel.

Tommy helps Xisuma mine a giant hole in the ground near bedrock, because he realizes that he’s never thanked the admin for getting him his compass back. Well, that and the fact that instamining with a haste two beacon and an efficiency five pickaxe is a novelty. Xisuma lets him keep the cobble, since everyone knows it’s Tommy’s favorite block, but also insists he keep some of the other blocks like andesite and diorite. He pats Tommy on the head and tells him to talk to Bdubs about building a house some time. Tommy nods. He's taken aback by how tall Xisuma is, completely contrasting his mild nature. He reminds Tommy of Wilbur, on one of his good days before... Before. Not Ghostbur, though-- the admin is much too alive.

Tommy waits too long, so eventually Bdubs comes to him. The man is silly and outrageous, playing everything for laughs and unexpectedly tender. Bdubs plays up how beautiful he thinks Tommy’s hideous dirt shack is, then offers to help him build a house that’s better. For Tommy, building a house means settling down, accepting that this is his home now. Bdubs doesn’t know this. Tommy builds cobblestone dicks while Bdubs tries to lecture him about depth and block variation. Nothing gets done and Bdubs feels like he might have failed, but come next week Bdubs is flying over the area and sees the dicks are gone; so is the dirt house. In its place is a spruce-and-cobble cottage nestled near the tiny waterfall. Off to the side, he’s made a cozy doghouse for his fox, Theo. Bdubs doesn’t know how close that fox came to being named Fundy.

He spars with False, and she very pointedly does not mention how his stances are uniquely suited to a piglin. There’s only one renowned fighter who’s a piglin, after all. It's Tommy’s story to tell, if he ever does, why he’s seen enough of the legendary Technoblade’s fights to pick up on his stances, yet he’s not experienced enough to know that they don’t suit him. Instead, False gives him different stances suited more for tall, skinny people like the two of them. She’s got blond hair and blue eyes just like him. (Not that she’d know. She’s never seen his eyes, hidden behind his mask as they are.) Every now and then, he imagines her as an older sister, and the one time he says so, she smiles. When Tommy’s at home, looking at his own distorted reflection in his waterfall (he’s improved it since he built it), he muses that their eyes aren’t the same, their hair colors are subtly off. It’s close enough, he thinks.

Stress dies from fall damage and Tommy goes out of his way to pick up her stuff, because the hermits do these things out of the kindness of their hearts. The thought never even crosses their minds to steal. It crosses his mind. He doesn’t do it. Stealing from Stress would be like stealing from Niki.

He shows up at Cleo’s base unannounced and demands to see the “cool shit”. He is appropriately enthused by the giant armor-stand-bugs. She tries teaching him her armor stand magic, but it doesn’t really sink in. It’s okay, she assures him, most people don’t have the knack for it. He does, however, learn that buttons make excellent decorations. He also learns how to braid hair, bribed by ice cream. He is terrible at it, to the point where Joe has to come by to help the two untangle her hair so Tommy can start again. Watching the two bicker over capitalism and six million armor stands and a whole host of other inside jokes he doesn’t get, he thinks he’s starting to understand what friendship is supposed to be like. Joe and Cleo don’t see him clutching his compass. He and Tubbo weren’t too far off from this, given their circumstances. Maybe...

Maybe Tubbo can be forgiven.

Tommy makes minigames of his own, ones that don’t just kill you and steal your stuff. He builds things that are pretty instead of just functional, brews potions with Stress and only calls them drugs once (again, upsetting her is like upsetting Niki. Best not done), and sets up chicken bombs above people’s bases instead of just lavacasting them. (As Grian saw the hundreds of chickens slowly raining down upon his mansion, he got such a peculiar look on his face that Tommy feared he’d fucked up. The shorter, stronger (much stronger oh god why is he so strong despite being so small) man nearly crushed Tommy’s lungs in a hug, proclaiming how proud he was of Tommy. Tommy was proud of himself for not accidentally murdering Grian out of reflex. Was this what healing was like?)

Yes. It is what healing is like. Tommy knows this because that wound gets ripped open again. Tango shows him how to build the most obnoxious redstone-powered noise machine the two can think of. Tango digs a small pit, and asks Tommy to throw down his axe. Suddenly, Tommy’s in Logstedshire again; it’s not Tango asking, it’s Dream. His hands don’t shake when he tosses his axe into the pit, followed by his sword and his armor. It isn't until he’s placed the TNT down that Tango grabs his wrist and asks him what he’s doing. Tommy’s eyes clear enough that he can see past the blond hair and freckles. Tango isn’t green, he’s red. He's shorter than Dream, and his worried eyes are unhidden. Tommy shudders, then tells Tango everything.

Tango has no pity for Tommy, just understanding and sympathy. He doesn’t push Tommy to talk about it, but when Tommy’s done telling his story, Impulse and Zedaph show up. They all pretend that Tommy’s voice isn’t hoarse, that they all didn’t conveniently happen to look away when Tommy took off his mask just long enough to wipe his eyes. The men bake a cake together, fool around with honey blocks, and don’t talk about it.

Tommy knows very little about redstone, considers himself more of a builder and a fighter than an engineer. Still, Mumbo’s living base is inspiring, and Tommy often hangs around the man’s industrial district just to watch Mumbo work. Mumbo knows that Tommy hasn’t purchased a day pass, but it’s nice having someone around to talk to while he works. It’s not like Tommy is stealing anything. (Tommy totally steals from Mumbo’s industrial district storage system. The man’s farms are so efficient that he doesn’t even notice, so Tommy assumes it’s fine. What Mumbo doesn’t know won’t hurt him.)

Lava still isn’t his favorite thing in the world. He stays far away from it, instead of imagining what it would be like to hurtle towards it. Ren doesn’t really notice this, but he does notice that Tommy doesn’t seem to like his mustafarian base. On a spur-of-the-moment whim, Ren whips up some absurd plotline in which he is a lone weary traveller seeking refuge at Tommy’s base from strange alien overlords. The two have fun together, and the young man cracks more absurd jokes about it than the hermits have ever seen him do. When Ren leaves a week later to return to his own base, Tommy keeps being absurd, if a bit more subdued without someone to play off of. He builds a shrine to the “prime log”, which grows more elaborate each day. Beef and xB pretend to be his acolytes, despite having no clue what a “twitch prime” is.

They can’t see his face, but the smile in his voice is a far cry from the despondency he once wore like a heavy cloak. He is so much more animated and alive, full of motivation. He builds an entire island in three days, and hand-delivers an invitation to each and every hermit for his beach party. Everyone shows up, even those with packed schedules (Iskall) and those with introverted tendencies (Etho). Tommy is nearly moved to tears when they show up in groups of twos and threes, as though he hadn’t expected anyone to come. There aren’t enough chairs for everyone, but there is more than enough cake to go around. Tango brings drinks, Impulse brings meat to barbecue, and Zedaph makes an elaborate jump-powered grill. Keralis brings way too much confetti and several handfuls of cheap, obnoxious party noisemakers. Stress brings Tommy a crown made out of alliums. It shines far less than his brother’s gold crown, and it’ll die in a few days, but he wears it all night and keeps it in his ender chest until it withers away.

He spends five days teaching himself to make flower crowns. Even his best attempt is awful, nowhere near as pretty as the crowns Stress makes, but when he gives it to her, she takes off the one she was wearing and wears his until it falls apart.

He dies fighting a creeper on Grian’s behalf, and doesn’t even panic, because he trusts that however many times he dies, no matter how stupid or ignominious or revolutionary or important, Xisuma will always let him respawn.

He spends a grand total of nine diamonds to buy a single plot of land in the shopping district. He builds a cute little bench facing the sunset, with warmly glowing street lights on either side and a small garden. At the end of the bench he places a jukebox, and buys every single disc that Beef’s music shop sells, including Pigstep. He sits on the bench while Mellohi plays and watches the tiny silhouettes of his friends flying in the evening sky. Tommy looks alone on that bench, even if he seems happy, so sometimes other people stop by to sit with him. Scar declares the bench area a public park, since everyone likes it so much, and refunds Tommy his nine diamonds straight from the throne.

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lonely-lost-soul · 3 years

Text

First Lady of the Court

Part 3: Ghostbur (C!Wilbur Soot x reader)

A worn journal was opened, the pages faded and yellowing, a pen was placed on the parchment and the owner began to write. The sun rose over the horizon, and the wind nipped at the writer's skin, but they didn’t feel it. They didn’t feel many of life's sensations anymore, sometimes he felt warmth but it was always fleeting. He titled the page:

"Things I Remember", by Ghostbur

-The smell of bread

- L'Manberg

- The Revolution

- Bullying Tommy (he's a child)

- Sparring with Techno as a kid

- The wind

- Being president

- People cheering for me

- Fundy growing up

- Niki

- (Y/N) becoming my first lady

- The van

- Tubbo building everything

- Phil protecting me

- Sally the salmon

- (Y/N) the new love of my life

- (Y/N) adoring Fundy and treating him as her own

- Philza stabbing me to death with a sword

- A large explosion

-(Y/N) crying for me, I don’t like when she’s sad

- The taste of salt

- Air in my lungs

- Winning the election

- A ravine

- Techno's armory

- Books

- Tunnels

- Arrows

- ./..

- I don't know

The ghost’s head snapped up to attention, up until a few months ago he was lost in a void of darkness. Pieces were coming back together for him, he was once Wilbur Soot the president of the country he fought and died for, but now he didn’t have a purpose. He wanted to find Fundy, Tommy and Phil let them know he was here and alright, well alright for a ghost. But most importantly he wanted to find (Y/N), her cries wouldn’t leave his head. It was bad, a bad, bad memory, he’d taken to holding pieces of blue to make him feel better, but even that didn’t help his mood.

Eventually, Wilbur had found Fundy, who wasn’t that thrilled to see him, much to his disappointment. When he found Tommy he was slightly more thrilled and Phil seemed to be relieved yet mournful, Wilbur didn’t understand why, he did a good thing. However he had yet to find her, Phil seemed to be the only one who knew but he was giving him nothing. He didn’t know why was it because you didn’t want to see him? The thought made him want to cover himself in blue and beg for forgiveness. He managed to find a brand new buddy in his mourning, a blue sheep he had dubbed Friend. You would love her, (Y/N) adored sheep she would love Friend, she could be a forgiveness gift. Yet, nobody would tell the ghost where you were no matter how much he begged and pleaded, he watched as his once-prosperous country got rebuilt. Tubbo was doing a fantastic job as president, everyone seemed happy and Ghostbur accepted that fact.

A few days ago, Ghostbur sensed something was wrong. Phil was acting weirdly distant and even though Tubbo was trying to dodge his questions, he couldn’t fathom what was going on, until he saw you. You had come in wearing Alivebur’s old jacket and Ghostbur immediately froze, your hair was slightly messy and you looked tired. You were still you, same gorgeous, beautiful you, if his heart was still beating it would’ve skipped a beat. The only difference he could find was that your eyes looked deader than his own, and he was a ghost, it made him ache terribly. He wanted to float towards you, to welcome you with open arms but for some reason, he hesitated. He watched as Phil made his way over to you, he wrapped you in a hug and you hugged him back, the two made some small talk before Phil rubbed the back of his neck. Your brow furrowed and he watched you blink in surprise, you looked over Phil’s shoulder and right through Wilbur. The ghost would’ve flushed if he had blood, instead he settled on fiddling with the cuffs of his sweater before holding up a hand in a wave. You stumbled back away from him looking over at Phil who gave a little nod, Wilbur watched you shake your head and his heart sunk. His father reached out to you and your face scrunched up, you were hissing at him, clearly pissed off. Phil whacked you on the back of his head and you glared at the older man, Wilbur felt a small nudge on his arm, it was Friend. He took a shaky breath and ran his fingers through her wool, at least she had his back, when he looked up again you were marching over to him.

God, you were hot when you were mad.

“(Y/n)! Darling! It’s good to see you-”

“You son of a bitch!” You spat at him, eyes suddenly blazing with life and fire, Ghostbur felt himself falter and shrink into himself. “You think you can just come back here after what you did to us! How you treated us, how you treated me!” Ghostbur’s face fell, he didn’t remember hurting you, he refused to remember that memory, but the way he clutched his blue said enough. “I loved you! I wanted to marry you!” You choked out suddenly deflating as tears began to well in your eyes, you cursed and covered your face with your sleeve. “I cannot believe I’m crying right now.”

“You need some blue?” Wilbur said in a soft, tender voice different than you last remembered. You looked out over your sleeve finally taking in his ghostly appearance, he was wearing his big, round glasses, eyes a soft grey. Blue seemed to be pooling in the edges almost like tears, he had a shaky smile on his features, the yellow sweater he wore was one you’ve never seen before, a large red gash sat on his chest. He watched you swallow thickly and take a step back from him, “I don’t remember what happened to make you hate me so dear.” His voice quivered and he heard you whimper, “But I am so sorry...you can call me Ghostbur, I want to be different from Alivebur. Though his love for you still lives in me.”

Ghostbur watched you let out a heart-wrenching sob as you fell to your knees in front of him. You were clutching the L’manburg pin on your lapel, knuckles white, hands shaking in petrification. He floated beside you and wrapped you up in his arms, the hug wasn’t unwelcome but it was cold, Wilbur knew you’d feel no warmth from it but he hoped it’d bring you some form of comfort.

“I missed you. So much,” You admitted with a sniff, and Ghostbur couldn’t help but smile sadly.

“I missed you too,” He ran a hand through your hair and you leaned into the apparition's ghostly touch. Ghostbur glanced up at Phil who had a tense smile on his face as he nodded slightly at the ghost, it read don’t hurt her again, and Wilbur nodded. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you, you need to meet Friend!” His eyes lit up a little as he looked around for his blue sheep, “You’ll love her!”

“I’ve been living with Fundy,” You answered his question and his brows furrowed, but Fundy had told him he had no idea where you lived. “We’ve been taking care of one another, just like I promised you we would,” You responded flatly, your voice had a flat affect and Wilbur shuffled uncomfortably in the air.

Where was your spark? Your lust for life and the good things? Was this his fault?

No. No, it couldn’t have been, he refused to accept that outcome.

Alivebur loved you just as much as Ghostbur did, he felt that love so deep in his being it was almost suffocating. So, he’d never hurt you, you don’t hurt the people you love and that’s a fact. So why were you so sad?

“That’s weird. Fundy said he couldn’t find you!” Ghostbur huffed, shaking his head at his son's actions, “My silly, little champion.”

“Ghostbur don’t call him that, he doesn’t like it.” You stated gruffly crossing your arms and his frown only deepened,

“What do you mean he doesn’t like it? Of course, he likes it, he loves it!”

“No Wil he doesn’t. Stop it.” You hissed and he flinched, your face fell a little and you turned away from him. You shoved your hands in the pockets of the jacket, “I need a smoke.” You muttered and his jaw dropped,

“That’s bad for you! You know that!”

“So what? It makes me fucking feel better. You’re not my Wilbur. Stop pretending you give a shit about me.”

“I do care! I love you!” He argued desperately, “I know I’m not him. I can never be him but that doesn’t mean I love you any less. His love transferred to me, please...give me a chance.” You looked at him up and down and he’s never felt more terrified in his entire existence, he needed your hope, he could fix you.

“You don’t understand how much he hurt me.” You whispered completely vulnerable, “he went crazy, blew up a nation, and left me alone.”

He. Meaning Alivebur, Ghostbur was glad he was distinguishing the difference between the both of them. He didn’t remember doing that to you, after all, Ghostbur didn’t do that to you.

“I’ll never leave you alone. I can promise you that, with my whole heart I swear it.” He took your hands within his own, he knew you could barely feel his touch. You closed your eyes for a minute before reopening them,

“I’ll give you one chance. One. So help me god, if you ruin that chance I will never speak to you again. That’s a promise.”

Ghostbur swallowed thickly, nerves prickling at his entire being, “I won’t waste that chance, my dear.” You gave a stern nod and rubbed the back of your neck with a tired sigh,

“So...Friend?”

Ghostbur’s entire demeanor changed as he introduced you to the blue sheep that had taken a rather strong liking to him. The sheep nuzzled at your chest sniffing at your clothing choice, you hesitated a little before running your fingers through her wool.

“She’s very soft.”

“I know right!” he chimed wrapping his arms tight around his sheepy buddy, he buried his face in her wool. Ghostbur saw a weary smile spread across your face which made him smile back at you in return.

Maybe this could still work out for the both of you.

Months went by and you had set up residence outside of New L’manburg, everyone understood why you couldn’t make a permanent home out of the new country after everything that occurred there. In between watching over an exiled Tommy, Ghostbur would come by and visit you, even though you hated to admit it the ghost of your former lover had won you over. He was just so innocent so unlike the man who blew up his own country, so much like the goofball you had originally fallen in love with, you were enraptured. When New L’manburg blew up you weren’t surprised, there was a dull ache in your heart when you heard the news from a sobbing Ghostbur but you couldn’t feel sympathy. What you did feel sympathy about though was Phil’s uncaring attitude towards Friend, it was the first time you heard Ghostbur get legitimately angry.

It scared you more than you wanted to admit.

Even so, you confronted your former lover; he didn’t like sadness and tried to push the feeling away. You tried to comfort him the best way you could but he insisted he was fine opting to take his blue and forget his sadness. That was another thing, his quote on quote blue, it never did sit right with you. Hurt, sadness, and pain are hard emotions to face but they create character and depth and ultimately shouldn’t just be forgotten so easily, after all, how will you ever learn from your mistakes if you don’t experience sadness. Ghostbur didn’t want to hear your reasoning and still took towards using the blue, you eventually gave up trying to convince him otherwise.

You were sitting outside on your porch, rocking on your porch swing a cup of cocoa in your hand. Ghostbur was sitting beside you, head on your shoulder humming a soft tune to himself,

“Darling?”

“Hm?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Ghostbur had asked so innocently it made your heart leap into your throat. Thoughts of Wilbur and his betrayal flashed across your mind, you wanted to scream and say no. That you’ll never let someone like that hurt you again, you were too strong, you opened your mouth but the hope in Ghostbur’s eyes made you close your mouth. This wasn’t the Wilbur you knew, this was Ghostbur, sure he was the ghost of Wilbur but they were so different. Ghostbur made you happy, he made you remember what it was like to be a good person, made you remember what it was like when you first met Wilbur. He made you smile and laugh, and he genuinely adored and cared for your happiness. You found yourself uttering a soft okay before your brain could comprehend your decision, the smile that lit up across Ghostbur’s face was illuminating. He floated over to you and cupped your cheeks, his pale hands were freezing, but it felt good against your scalding hot cheeks. Ghostbur’s eyes softened as he stroked your cheeks with his thumbs, he leaned forward and captured your lips in a soft kiss, the kiss was cold but not unpleasant. You felt him melt against you, and press desperately on to your lips, you couldn’t help but let out a little giggle you felt him pull away. He had the cutest pout on his pale lips,

“Don’t giggle at my kisses!” Ghostbur sounded so offended, you only laughed harder. “Stopppppppp,” he whined leaning against you dramatically.

“I’m sorry Ghostbur.” You covered your mouth with your hand, “You’re just too cute.”

You watched him freeze at your genuine compliment, a smile broke across his features,

“No, you’re cute!” Ghostbur cooed floating around you and wrapping his arms tight around your waist. You leaned into his touch with bright red cheeks,

“You’re a goofball,” You whispered softly, he nuzzled his face into your hair,

“I love you.” You froze in his arms and tensed up, reality crashing back onto all at once. Did you really kiss your dead lover's ghost? The lover who was a fucking asshole to you and blew up an entire country.

Not a girl boss moment.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Ghostbur was quick to add, “I know how hard this is for you. There’s no pressure with me my dear, I just want you to know how I feel.” He pressed the sweetest of kisses to the side of your head. Tears gathered in the corner of your eyes, not out of sadness, out of shock. You couldn’t believe Ghostbur was once Wilbur, the same man you yelled and screamed at you before his death, Ghostbur was wonderful. Ghostbur was kind and sweet, gentle and tender, one day you’d be ready to say you love him, just not yet, not when everything is so fresh.

“Thank you Ghostbur. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“Anything for you my dear.”

Months turned into years and you had officially fallen in love with your clingy ghost and his blue sheep. You knew he loved you to absolute bits, there were many occasions where Phil and Technoblade came up to you and begged you to get Ghostbur to stop gushing about you. You only turned red and smiled fondly, they scoffed but ruffled your hair, overall both were happy to see you smiling again. You hadn’t kept up with the dramas of the SMP, all your information was from Ghostbur, which happened to be not all that reliable.

You loved him but he was so naive, Tommy and Tubbo had defeated Dream, taken two of his cannon lives, and locked him in Sam’s prison. When Ghostbur told you a smile overtook your features, finally the bastard was getting what he deserved.

Isolation.

Tommy was growing closer with Ghostbur again too, which you couldn’t help but be happy about, he too deserved to heal from the trauma Wilbur had inflicted. You trusted Tommy, even when everyone else didn’t you tried to have his back and showed you he cared in his own weird way. Which mostly meant not stealing your shit, which you weren’t complaining about, today, however, he seemed tense. You both were walking the Prime Path on your way back to your abode, Tommy was loud and rambling, but they were different from his usual ramblings.

“Tommy?”

“What is it, women? I’m in the middle of my heroic story!”

“Are you alright?” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes and saw him go rigid. He cleared his throat shaking away his nerves,

“Fuck you talking about? Of course, I’m okay bitch. Don’t interrupt me again!” He scoffed nose high in the air, you narrowed your eyes and he shrunk under your gaze. “I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, you thought about his resurrection and assumed it had something to do with that, your gaze drifted to the white streaks littering his hair.

“Hey...it’s okay. Just know I’m here for you,” You assured with a smile. You reached up to squeeze his shoulder, he looked shocked at the affectionate gesture,

“Obviously I know that! Don’t assume things bitch!” Tommy shouted shaking off your hand, you shook your head with a smile and let Tommy continue his story. If the young boy wanted to tell you, he would on his own terms. That night Ghostbur had come home absolutely shaking with excitement,

“Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo said we’re going on an adventure tonight!” Ghostbur was absolutely glowing, you couldn’t help but smile faintly at his antics.

“Don’t have too much fun.” You chastised teasingly, ghostbur giggled in delight as you pressed a kiss to his cold skin. “Stay safe, don’t let them bully you too much.”

“They don’t bully me,” he huffed but he leaned in for another kiss. Ghostbur had discovered he loved your kisses, even though they were probably cold to you all he felt was warmth. If he was a hybrid like his son his tail would be wagging, and if he was alive he’d be bright red. “I love you (y/n), of course, I’ll stay safe. I promised you I’d never leave you remember?”

You flushed and nodded, “I remember. I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Until then my dear!” He took your hand within his own and kissed the tops of your knuckles. You flushed pink and he sent you a cheeky grin,

“Get out of here loverboy! Don’t keep the children waiting!” You shouted as he floated out the door with a giant wave,

“I’ll be sending you kisses!”

“Ghostbur oh my god, go already!” You giggled with a fond roll of your eyes, he laughed loudly and floated out the door.

You should’ve told him you loved him. It’s okay, there would always be tomorrow.

You were getting ready for bed when Tubbo called you over the walkie-talkie, he was frantically apologizing and pleading for you to come to the crater that was L’manburg. Tommy then stole the walkie talking and started shouting about Ghostbur and your heart sink into your chest. He didn’t make a whole lot of sense but you put on a coat over your pajamas and ran in the direction of the once-prosperous nation. When you got there Tubbo and Tommy were a mess, Ranboo was trying to calm them down and Friend looked uncomfortable.

Where was Ghostbur?

You opened your mouth to call out to the boys when a pair of arms snuck around your waist. They were warm and real, pale hands caressed your abdomen,

“Hi, darling. Did you miss me?” Warm lips handed on your neck, “I missed you.”

Wilbur was back.

~~~ @blossom-702 @mayempress @thatguythatsshy

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crescentsteel · 3 years

Text

Keeping a Secret - Part 5

pairing: Tsukishima x f!manager of Sendai Frogs genre: sexual tension/crack/fluff/slow burn wc: 6.8k

[a/n]

Let me know if you want to be part of the taglist uwu

AO3

Part 4 || Part 6 || masterlist

“Your lips aren’t disgusting,” Tsukishima says quietly, but loud enough to reach your ears. You did hear him the first time though. You just didn’t understand what he meant so you brushed it off as garbled words induced by your sleep-deprived brain.

You didn’t expect him to contradict the subtle insult you unconsciously threw at yourself. From his reaction to your suggestion a while ago, you’d think he’d be glad that you instantly discarded it instead of pushing it further.

You pull back just enough to see his somber expression meeting your baffled one.

“I thought you didn’t want to do it again,” you mutter softly even though the kiss snapped you out of your drowsiness.

“I changed my mind,” he simply says.

“Uhhh. Care to elaborate?” you ask, still confused as to what his change of mind entails. Does he now agree to your earlier proposal? Or is he just saying that he doesn’t mind kissing you again?

...Wait, isn’t that the same?

Okay, so apparently your mind is still fuzzy and not digesting the situation clearly. His closeness isn’t helping either.

Maybe you’re actually still asleep and you’re having sleep paralysis on their sofa. In just a matter of seconds, Tsukishima’s face will turn demon-like and scream at how moronic you are for dreaming about this.

“You’re allowed to kiss me when it’s just the two of us,” the boy sitting in front of you announces.

Tsukishima tries not to look away so you wouldn’t think he feels awkward agreeing to your suggestion the same way you offered it. You look way better and more alert after he kissed you so he’s expecting you to say something sassy to get back at his brutal words.

Instead, you wrap a hand around your throat. Before he can even process what you’re doing, your hand is already joined by the other.

“What are you doing?” he asks both confused and worried as your hands tighten on your neck, but you don’t answer. He only confirms that you’re indeed choking yourself when you start gasping for air.

“What the fuck!” He hurriedly yanks your hands away from your throat, gripping each wrist and pulling them away from one another.

You inhale sharply from the absence of your hands blocking your windpipe.

It didn’t work. You’re still in sleep paralysis and with absolutely no idea how to get out.

You close your eyes and dejectedly lean on his chest. “I’m too tired to tell if this is real or a poorly conjured dream. Demon, begone,” you mumble while feebly knocking your head against him.

“Tsukishima will think I’m an idiot,” you add.

He usually doesn’t care about the aftermath of his words. The more they get under a person’s skin, the more it amuses him. But you seem to have really taken his words to heart this time, and he hates the fact that he’s bothered by it. He’d rather be annoyed by you than plagued with guilt.

He admits he was being a complete dick earlier, but he didn’t expect it would get to you like this, to the point that you’d even think you’re dreaming.

He sighs, accepting that he needs to deal with the consequences of his sharp tongue. “You’re not an idiot, y/n,” he softly says. You lift your gaze and look at him like he’s grown two heads. “So stop acting like one already,” he spurs on, unable to help himself as his true nature immediately returns.

You detach yourself from him as life returns back to your eyes. “Okay, I’m not dreaming. You’re definitely Tsukishima.” You shake your hands, probably to shake off the lethargy from your nap, then slap both your cheeks with your palms.

You steady yourself as you face him again. You verify the vague exchanges you two had with one question. “I take it we have a deal then?”

He holds your resolute stare, trying to come up with some set of rules but weariness is already hitting his cognitive capabilities. However, there is one that’s extremely necessary for the both of you to follow.

“No one should know about this.”

You scoff at his answer. “No one will know about this,” you repeat his words with a more convincing variation. So despite the insane premise of the arrangement and its lack of detail, he agrees.

“Deal.”

Tsukishima heads straight to the kitchen as soon as he gets home. In spite of the audacious agreement you now have, neither of you felt awkward when he walked you to the main road to see you off. Once again, you were right. Accepting that he is also attracted to you somehow cleared his head. He still doesn’t like it, but it’s better than constantly being irritated at the strange pull you have on him.

Since you’ve proven yourself to always be right, he’ll give this a go. It’ll only be until the end of the project anyways, which won’t be long from now considering the timetable you laid out.

As he gets a pitcher of water, he sees Akiteru approaching the kitchen as well. He moves away from the fridge to make way in case his brother is going to get something from it. But Akiteru passes him by and leans on the counter next to him instead.

He pours himself a glass while growing prickly of Akiteru’s not-so-subtle staring.

“If you’re going to say something, just say it,” he snaps.

Akiteru laughs lightly at his displeasure. “She’s very lovely,” his older brother comments randomly, and yet he already knows Akiteru is without a doubt talking about you.

Lovely?

His mind instantly goes back to when you were: (a) dancing like a crippled fledgling; (b) squawking like a dying seagull to imitate a crocodile; and (c) choking yourself because you thought you were dreaming.

“If an alien in a human suit is lovely, then sure,” he answers dryly as he returns the pitcher back to the fridge.

“She’s really just a classmate?” his older brother probes.

Akiteru has been insinuating for a while now that he should get a girlfriend, as if not having one will cause him to miss out on this ‘great’ experience of life. So now that he’s finally brought someone home, Akiteru had decided in his head that you’re a potential romantic partner.

“How many times do I need to answer that?” he responds sourly.

His brother smiles apologetically, but his face shows a regaled glimmer. “Sorry, Kei. I must have misunderstood since I don’t kiss my classmates on the lips.”

He stills right as he was about to bring the glass to his lips.

He did not hear Akiteru’s steps back then. If he did, he’d quickly give himself adequate distance from you. He’d blame you for the distraction, but you weren’t really doing anything outrageous at that moment. You were actually unobtrusive and reasonable for the first time. It was him and his guilt that preoccupied him well enough to not notice Akiteru.

He finishes his water and leaves the glass on the counter. “Goodnight,” he says without looking at Akiteru as he hurriedly goes back to his room.

It hasn’t been an hour since you two made the deal but someone -- worse, his own brother, has already found out. His only consolation is that Akiteru doesn’t really talk with his social circle so there’s no need to be worried. Also, Akiteru is not really the type to babble about stuff like that.

The disadvantage is also the same as its advantage, it’s Akiteru. He might get all excited and continue assuming that there’s more to the two of you than this limited agreement, when the truth is you’re just two individuals who agreed to make out in secret.

But that’s something he wouldn’t dare reveal to anyone, most especially to Akiteru.

When he reaches his room, he immediately texts you.

‘We meet in your place next time.’

Hopefully, Akiteru will forget whatever he saw tonight if you don’t come back.

Surprisingly but not really, you and Tsukishima are getting along swimmingly since you made the deal. ‘Swimmingly,’ meaning he still ignores you and regards you as a pest during practice. During your private meetings, however, he is agreeable.

It still seems unbelievable to you when you actually think about it. You and Tsukishima exchanging kisses when no one’s around? You’d have a good laugh if someone even suggested that idea to you before you shared that first, completely unintended kiss.

It is indeed comical, how you two would sit across each other, and with only a certain glance, both of you already know what’s up. Eventually, it became a bother to stand and go over to one another just for a kiss so you two sit side by side now.

Tsukishima is funny though. Sometimes, he wouldn’t act upon it because he expects you to take the initiative. You don’t mind doing it, but it’s fun to see him all bothered while trying to study.

“Tsukishima, you look weird. Are you okay?” You feigned concern even though you clearly know why.

He didn’t spare you a glance at all and just mumbled, “I’m fine,” while typing.

“Hmmm, alright! I’m done so we can wrap up now,” you let him know as you started fixing your stuff up. You thought that he’d hold on to his dumb ego and follow suit since you’ve finished cleaning up, but he still hadn’t done anything.

You held back a smile when you felt him grab your arm. You swiftly composed yourself before turning to his direction.

“What?” you ask like you don’t have a clue.

He glowers at you. “You know what.”

You pursed your lips to the side as you gently shake your head. “I am very confused right now,” you acted persuasively.

He puffed tempestuously before he grabbed your nape and roughly descended down on your lips, utterly disregarding his unnecessary pride. You willingly reciprocate it. You latched your fingers in his wrist beside your cheek as you responded to each suck and nip of his lips.

When it ended, you smiled into his mouth which effectively gave you away.

He harshly pulled himself away from you. “You fucking knew,” he muttered furiously.

You scrunched up your nose and grinned mischievously as you gently tapped his cheek. “Of course, I knew. See you tomorrow at the match, Tsukishima,” you said, gesturing to his scattered belongings.

Needless to say, he was extra salty with you during the match with the Lions. But hey, at least they won the game.

However, despite the Lions now out of the picture, your workload isn’t any better because winning only means needing to prepare the next opponent’s profile. You’re just a bit thankful now that unwarranted and unexpected kisses are no longer bothering you since the two of you acknowledged the stupid attraction you have for each other.

Still, that doesn’t mean that your body has magically recovered and you’re no longer stressed all of a sudden. Because you are. You are stressed as fuck. With your academic load also on the line, you can’t rest yet.

You’re starting to feel overwhelmed and whenever that happens, you succumb to your one coping mechanism: stress eating.

You’re about to meet Tsukishima but you have a few minutes to spare, so you head to the nearest cake shop. You buy a mini cake for yourself and one slice for Tsukishima. You don’t feel like sharing yours so you just get him his own.

With a paper bag in hand, you see Tsukishima waiting for you by your dormitory’s entrance. You waste no time and ask him to follow you even though he probably already knows where exactly your room is.

One would think that when the door closes, you two would jump on each other’s arms and just get on with your deal, but nah.

You two get to your usual seats with your mind solely on the cake you bought as both of you take out your notes and laptop.

After you pull up the journal you need to look at for the day, you eagerly bring out the cake.

‘Hnnnngg,’ you groan internally. The cake’s design is so pretty that you almost don’t wanna eat it. But of course you will. You’ve never had strawberry shortcake from that shop before, so you’re curious to taste if it’s as good as it looks.

Just as you’ve been ogling at your cake, you catch Tsukishima staring at it as well. “Do you want some, Tsukki?” you ask before you give the slice you got for him.

“Why would I want something childish?” he asks back with a scowl.

“I don’t see how a cake is childish but okay.” You would’ve felt bad, but you’ll have the extra slice for yourself anyways so it’s not really that bad.

Normally, you would like to savor the pastry while doing something fun, but you don’t have the time for it right now. You’ll just eat it while doing your assigned stuff for the day.

For someone who thinks cake is childish, he keeps glancing at you with tiny hints of envy every time you take a bite. When he sees you catch him peering at the cake, he instantly flicks his eyes back to his laptop.

To verify your hunch, you moan exaggeratedly the next time you take a spoonful of the cake, instantly earning you a menacing glare from the blonde across you.

“I’m sorry. It’s just so good, you know. The bread is so fluffy. The cream is not too sweet. The strawberry filling has actual bits of strawberry.” You enact a chef’s kiss after your detailed remarks.

“Amazing. Best I’ve ever had. 10/10 would recommend and buy again,” you give a positive review before getting another slice.

When you get another spoonful, you groan again and roll your eyes for added effect. You look at Tsukishima and you can tell that it’s getting to him. Yet, he’s still not saying anything. He only keeps staring as if silently imploring you that you should let him have a taste as well.

As if you’ll bend to his will just like that.

“If you want some, just say so,” you taunt him with a smirk as you scoop the last spoonful in the plate, giving him not much time to swallow his pride and ask.

Before you can put it in your mouth, he stops you. “Fine,” he says as he grits his teeth. “I want some.”

Tsukishima really is funny. It’s only cake but he sounds so angry and embarrassed just because he asked for a tiny piece. How can you not tease him just a bit more?

You take the remaining piece and move beside him. You get the spoonful of cake, extending your arm and offering it to him that way.

He looks at the cake and then you. “I know how to eat,” he enunciates coldly at your attempt to spoon feed him.

You shrug it off with an ‘okay,’ then proceed to withdraw your hand so you can have it for yourself.

“Wait.”

You comply and let your retreating arm stay in place. A faint pink tint surfaces on his cheeks as he leans down and takes the cake from the spoon with his mouth. When he starts munching on it, he looks away and slump a little while savoring the small remains you gave him.

You press your lips together to repress a smile cause you know he’ll be even more embarrassed. But holy crap, Tsukishima is so cute like this! You want to take a picture of him right now and just ogle at how adorable he is when he’s this flustered.

The Sendai Frog’s nastiest middle blocker, standing at 6’3, likes strawberry shortcake. You’re reeling internally at your astounding discovery.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he snarls with the tiny blush still on his face.

You can’t help it anymore and give him a tight-lipped smile. “Nothing,” you squeak out from how hard you’re trying not to gush at his cuteness.

He suddenly regains his composure as he narrows his eyes while studying your face.

It’s your turn to be conscious from how he seems to have discovered something about you as well.

“What?” you ask warily.

You’re completely caught off guard when he puts a hand on your shoulder and lunges down. His lips capture the skin just beside the corner of your mouth, delicately sucking on the skin before brushing his warm tongue against it.

You go rigid on your seat at the totally unexpected action from him. It’s not even a kiss but you feel goosebumps prickling your skin while the air you’re breathing gets stuck in your throat.

That’s all he does then hoists himself back up, his features devoid of any emotion as if he didn’t just do something bold. His hand on your shoulder goes up to spot he just licked and strokes it with his thumb.

“You eat like a ten-year old,” he says blankly.

Just like that, the situation is reversed. He now has the upperhand while you’re completely frozen as your mind helplessly tries to come up with something, anything, to hide the fact that you’re a complete muddled mess on the inside.

But nothing. Your mind does not work and all its attention is still on the little stunt Tsukishima pulled just now.

Being the manager of the Frogs, you’ve always seen them as cute little puppies you need to take care of. You’re the one in charge of them so you always feel like you’re the one in control. The sense of control is even more reinforced with other male athletes getting swept away with your antics during matches.

Even with the several kisses you shared with Tsukishima, it’s only now that you’re rendered utterly disconcerted. Your lips start to tremble while your brows contort with horror from the foreign feeling that’s creeping on your whole body.

Fuuuucck, you curse silently at your mind’s incapability to come up with a solution to handle the situation.

To make it worse, the corner of his lips start to tug up, forming a smug grin that suits him ludicrously well.

“You okay, y/n?” His pompous demeanor lets you know that the question is not out of concern. He is very much aware of the effect he has on you. He’s just milking it.

And it’s fucking working.

He drags his thumb to your chin and tilts it up to get a better view of your features growing even more at loss by the second. “What’s wrong, hmm?”

You press your quivering lips together as you harshly avert your gaze from his. “Nothing,” you say too softly, losing the playfulness you had not long ago.

“What’s that?” He pretends to not hear it.

Seems like you’ve had enough because you swat his hand away from your chin and cover your whole face with both hands.

His grin spreads wide from your surrender as a chuckle escapes his throat. To entertain himself even more, he pries your hands away from your face. It’s easier than he expected since your wrists are like twigs with no strength in them.

Your face is a furious shade of rose as you glare at him with both shame and anger. You try to retrieve your arms but he’s obviously way stronger than you. “Tsukishima, you smooth li’l shit, let go of me!”

With that, he releases you as he cackles from your remark. He can now see the merits of acknowledging the inexplicable magnetism between him and you. Now that he doesn’t have to feel conflicted about it, he can relish breaking your previously impervious defenses by teasing you this way.

There wasn’t even any cake on your face. He just made it up to get back at you for toying with him like one of your dumb admirers.

You give off one enraged puff then you go back to face your laptop. You try to look fine but you’re trying too hard. He can tell that you’re still bothered by it even when you’re focused on your screen now.

He gets back to his own as well, the same grin he had earlier still there. He thought you’re going to keep ignoring him for the rest of your meeting, but before he can even focus on his own task, you awkwardly slide him the paper bag you had.

“I actually got you a slice in case you wanted one,” you huff timidly while meeting his surprised gaze. You don’t say anything else and get back to working.

That was… thoughtful of you. You got him one even if he didn’t ask for it. And despite teasing you like that, you still gave it to him. If it was him, he wouldn’t have bothered.

He gets the cake and saves it for later at home. He’d like to enjoy it alone away from your cheekiness, ridding you the chance to make fun of him the second time.

When he looks at you again, you give him a brief glance before settling in to do your assignment. He does the same since you two have frolicked enough for the day.

He had learned something about you from your former meetings: you have unbreakable focus when you start concentrating on something. You don’t talk. You don’t fiddle with your phone. You don’t even peel your eyes away from the screen unless you’re checking something on your notes.

The remarkable thing is how efficient you are. You work fast and come up with decent output. He’s seen it both in your write up for the project and in the reports you give to the team.

It’s almost impressive, if not for its inevitable downside: you run out of steam just as fast, which is what seems to be happening right now. He’s ignored the first two yawns he’s heard from you, but he can’t dismiss the third consecutive yawn.

He looks at your direction and confirms that you’re indeed starting to drop your attentiveness. Your eyes are becoming lazy and you’re just pressing your keyboard too hard one key at a time.

“Oy, it’s still early for you to be sleepy,” he scolds you.

You tap your face, a futile attempt to wake yourself up because your eyes are still dazed when you look at him. “It’s the cake. I overfed myself and now I want to sleep like one.” You groan as you realize your mistake. “No worries though. I just need coffee,” you mutter.

He slams his palm on the wooden surface of your table. “Do not get coffee,” he warns almost threateningly. He does not want a repeat of what happened the last time where you’re one wheeze away from death because of your damn coffee.

“But I need it,” you protest.

“No, you don’t. What you need is rest.”

“Don’t wanna. It felt weird last time. I don’t like slacking off when someone else is being productive,” you insist further.

He sighs irritably at your obstinacy. There’s no need to rush because you two managed to get back on the schedule you set, but then again he understands why. You’re trying to get as much shit done before your responsibilities become too much for you.

That’s probably how you’ve been getting by for the past three years, being a university scholar while managing the team. If being a student while being an athlete is already difficult for him, how much more for you who has grades to maintain while working as well?

If it were anyone else, they’d have exploded from the humongous amount of work that entails. Yet, you come to the gym with that carefree attitude of yours like you’re not burdened in any way. In all the times you’ve met with him outside the gym, not once has he heard you complain about it.

You don’t whine. You just do what needs to be done.

It’s something worth respecting, to say the least. But you should really rest when your body tells you to.

“I’ll stop doing the report and watch volleyball clips from last year’s Olympics. Take your nap,” he says.

Your face brightens up at his suggestion. “Can I watch with you?”

“No.” The point of him watching is so that you can rest easy, not for you to join him. However, the look on your face tells him you won’t budge unless he lets you watch with him.

“I swear, it’ll do me better than a nap,” you press on.

He rubs his temple with irritation as you leave him with no choice but to agree. “Fine.” You squeal at his approval and scamper to his side.

He opens his folders of volleyball clips he’s yet to watch while you tuck your knees together the same way you did last time you watched documentaries for your project.

Halfway through the first clip, he feels your head bump his shoulder. He peers at you from his peripheral and sees your hazy eyes fighting off sleep. He doesn’t say anything and just waits for your drowsiness to successfully take over.

By the end of the first video, he feels your head bobbing forward which he can no longer ignore. “Can’t you just go to your bed and sleep?” he asks almost desperately.

You fix your posture and open your eyes again. “I’m fine.”

He rolls his eyes and gives a resigned huff as he skids his laptop to your front. You shoot him a puzzled look while he positions himself behind you.

“Continue watching then.” He scoots closer until your back is pressed to him, effectively caging you as he extends his legs on your both sides. There’s no use trying to convince you to sleep when you’re this stubborn. So, he’ll just provide you the means to do so.

You frown at him which he answers with a raised eyebrow. In the end, you just shrug it off and go back to watching.

Just as he anticipated, you’re already unconscious in a matter of minutes. Your head falls back to his chest. He lets you settle deeper in your sleep, watching you unconsciously find a position you’re most comfortable in. By the time the second video ends, you’re no longer wiggling around and have found refuge on the front of his shoulder with your arm loosely wrapped around his bicep.

Although he did say that he’ll slack off with you, he sees no reason to uphold it now that he’s finally got you to rest. Unlike you, he works at a normal pace. He needs to continue doing his own tasks so when you wake up, he’s already done as well.

He carefully reaches for his laptop and closes the video currently playing. He gets back to working on the current draft of the project, feeling the strain on his back with nothing to support him while you lean against him.

He shouldn't be doing this. There is no reason for him to be inconvenienced this way by you. This isn’t part of the deal.

But seeing how you’re working so hard yet still face everyone else with that vexatious cheerful smile of yours, he deems you deserving of that serene look on your face while you’re peacefully snuggled within his grasp.

Just as he allowed you to kiss him, he also allows you to hold on to him like this.

“Hey, number 17!”

Tsukishima hears someone yell. He’s sure that it was him who’s being called because he recognizes the voice. It’s someone from the Jaguars, the team they’re up against after winning against the Lions the previous game.

Still, he’d like to pretend that he doesn’t know it’s him the other athlete is shouting for. The gym is filled with other number 17s from different teams anyways. He can easily dismiss it.

However, he hears his last name not long after, automatically singling him out from the other players who also wore his jersey number.

Even though he despises small talk, it would be rude to ignore other players when they specifically call for him in public. Not that he bothers about what other people think of him, but more about how he represents his team.

In high school, he didn’t care at all. But things are different now in the professional level. He’s forced to engage in insignificant nonsense with other players.

He just hopes that this time it won’t be one of those times and that whatever this is is actually important

He turns around lazily and sees not one, but two Jaguars approaching him. It’s their starting setter and their pinch server. “I thought you couldn’t hear us, dude,” the setter says. He doesn’t reply and just stands his ground while waiting for what they’re going to say.

“Anyways, mind if we ask the number of your manager?”

It’s worse than nonsense. They approached him because of you.

They turn towards each other and simper at how they seem to think that it’s a genius idea to ask him instead of you.

“You can ask her yourself. She’s just over there with the rest of the team,” he passively suggests. He’d be glad to lead these two poor hopeful souls if they want to. He’s sure you’d be more than happy to entertain them, in your own kind of way.

“Nah. We know how she disses everyone. That’s why we’re asking you, Tsukishima-kun,” the pinch server counters.

He’s the least protective of you compared to the rest of the team. He doesn’t care if you flirt all day long with these people or if you give your number to every single person here at the stadium.

But whatever these hoodlums the idea that he’ll be the one to give your number to them? It’s not his to give. It’s yours. “It’s not really my decision to make,” he responds.

“Is she really that good of a manager that you won’t share her?”

He would’ve not perceived anything out of it if not for the malicious grin that surfaced on the setter’s poor excuse of a face. The two athletes step closer and speak in a volume only for him to hear.

“Come on now. Don’t tell us you guys are not touching that hot piece dangling itself in front of you.”

‘Lowlives.’

That’s the most fitting word he can describe these two uneducated imbeciles who talk like you’re a slice of meat. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially you who madly dedicate yourself out of actual interest and affection for the team and the sport.

Yet, these two fucking dimwits are insinuating that you’re available for him and his teammates to sleep around with. It’s more than just disrespect. It’s an absolute mockery of the effort and commitment you have for the job.

It’s not his place to be angry. He’s not the one being slighted. But the image of your exhausted features fighting off sleep to do the report of these scumbags in front of him makes him want to do something about their blatant lack of intelligence.

“Don’t look so scary now. We’re not going to steal your manager. We just want to know what it’s like to have a hot one managing us,” the setter once again proves his brainlessness to Tsukishima, successfully provoking him to do what he’s been itching to do.

He offers them a too-pleasant smile that he gives to people who are about to get a taste of his snide irony. “Sorry, but it’s not really my problem that no one wants to manage a bunch of unsightly goons.”

A vein on the setter’s temple looks like it’s about to pop out as his hand yanks Tsukishima’s collar.

“The fuck did you say?!” The setter of the Jaguars lashes out, quickly losing his temper amidst the public gymnasium.

The feigned smile on Tsukishima’s face is replaced by a genuine smirk as the two dimwits react exactly the way he wants them too. Although he can rile them up even more than he did, something tells him that these peabrains will actually resort to violence if he does so.

They’ll definitely be held out from playing the game if they do get violent, but so will he if he gets involved.

Even though he looks unmotivated and lazy, he actually likes being on the court. And if he’s going to be honest, he looks forward to blocking the tosses of the setter who’s clutching his shirt at present.

“You shitty blocker,” the pinch server backs up his teammate.

The shift of attention from you to Tsukishima doesn’t surprise him at all. From slandering you, they quickly move to verbally attacking him. His eyebrow twitches up from the remark but doesn’t bother responding to it.

Why would he when he’ll just prove them wrong later? Instead of engaging with these two, he should be getting back to the rest of the team to get ready for their match.

He’s about to grab the setter’s wrist to yank it off him when a set of feminine fingers beat him to it.

“My, my. Thank you for wanting to be friends with one of our players, but he really needs to warm up now,” you say with congenial sympathy to the upcoming competition.

They seem to have forgotten that you’re the reason why they approached him. The setter releases Tsukishima’s shirt with a glare before the two Jaguars walk away.

“Bye, bye! Let’s get along well, yeah??” you shout and wave at them way too enthusiastically. You probably didn’t catch them talking about you, which is a good thing because you didn’t need to hear that kind of horse shit.

You put a light hand on his shoulder, making him anticipate a lecture from you for dawdling around. But you only tell him that you two should go back already.

As you both turn around, the smile on your face drops while your grip on his shoulder tightens.

“Did it bother you that much?” he asks as you both walk back to the court.

“You bet it did. The gall of them to call you a shitty blocker, those fuckfaces. I swear to God, I would’ve,” you take a sharp breath then slowly let it out as you take your hands off him. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. It’s just the usual gibberish talk among athletes,” you say to yourself, more than to him.

“What about what they said before that?”

Your brows scrunch up as you try to figure out what he’s talking about. “You mean when they assumed I’m sexing everyone from the team? Nah. I know some people think I’m a slut because I’m too sexy for their lame asses. I’m used to it so I don’t really care about crap like that,” you explain way too casually.

He thought that at this time and age, people would be a little more progressive with how they think. Apparently, he was wrong. He’s always observed how you put yourself out there, entertaining any flattery that’s thrown at you. It’s also very obvious how open you are to showing affection for the team.

But he didn’t think people would have such indecent assumptions about you. What surprises him even more is you’ve been aware of it for some time now. Still, you continue being yourself.

“But Goooood. Their childish shit talking really pissed me off.” Your previous attempt to calm yourself down fails as anger graces your features once again.

“Promise me something, Tsukishima,” you tell him a few steps away from the court.

“What?”

“Up your blocking game and win. I want to see those fucktard’s faces pulverized with defeat,” you announce as you seethe with fiery determination.

“There’s no need to promise,” he says calmly before the curve of his lips form a subtle yet definite grin. You immediately get his message as you mirror the arrogant pride on his face with a smirk of your own.

—

You’re not particularly competitive. Even as the captain of your own team before, you did not play to win. You played with your very best because you want to experience all the sport has to offer.

Maybe that’s why you stopped playing and decided to be a manager. You love the sport, but not as an athlete. You just love pushing people to their potential and being their support so they can give their all during matches.

Although you do like winning, you’re not hellbent on it. As long as the team gives their everything and you see them at their best, you’re happy with that.

This match is an exception.

At 23-24 with the Sendai Frogs on their match point, you’re clutching your notebook way too hard that the pages become crumpled and the edges dig in your palms.

When you saw Tsukishima earlier approached by the two Jaguars, you didn’t intervene immediately. You were near the area, watching and listening as to how things will unfold. You didn’t hear much of their mumbled conversation, but you caught enough words to put together that it was you they’re talking about.

You do gain a lot of attention, but some of them are not exactly wholesome. Apparently, being outspoken and open equates to being easy to bed.

You just wish they said something more interesting because you almost yawned at how unoriginal their speculation is. You fucking around with the Sendai Frogs? Groundbreaking.

What amused you though is Tsukishima’s response. Right at that moment, you wanted to kiss his snarky mouth. Not because he defended your honor, but from the clever snide comeback he quickly spat at their faces.

Your amusement was quickly ruined when one of them laid a hand on him. You didn’t care that the fuckfaced setter did it in public. Even if he did it with no one around, your blood still would’ve boiled. But when he said that Tsukishima was a shitty blocker? The palm of your hand itched to get roughly acquainted with the opposing setter’s face.

If this isn’t a tournament, you would’ve had a hard time deciding whether or not you’d have done it. But since this is a tournament, you can’t do that. You need to be civil and maintain good relations with every team, even if some of their members lack basic decency and proper manners.

Luckily, there is a way to get back at them: that is to win this match which has got you to the edge of your seat as soon as it reached the 20s of the second set.

With Tsukishima, Eiji, and Kogane in front, there’s nothing to be scared about. It’s just that you really want them to score that last point already.

The ball gets to your court and is received by Kogane, effectively cutting out your most optimal set-up to attack.

“Tsukki!” Kogane calls out. Tsukishima runs to the center of the court, right in front of the net. The opposing blockers observe him to predict who he’s tossing the ball to, only to leave him completely open as he dunks the ball to the Jaguars’ side of the net.

You were sure it happened fast, but the pounding of your heart made it seem like the ball hitting the ground was in slow motion. You wait for the referee’s signal, hoping that there were no misplays on the Frog’s end that would prolong the game.

The referee whistles and extends his arm to the Frog’s court, letting everyone know that it’s your team’s win. Cheers from team members themselves roar inside the gymnasium, soon joined by the applause from the audience.

You’re supposed to check the losing facade of the Jaguars, but the joy and relief of winning floods you that you completely forget about how they insulted your clever middle blocker. You leave your tally notebook on the bench and rush to the court along with other members.

You’ve always been impressed with Tsukishima’s blocking skills, but to win from his offensive mindfuckery with the other team just sent you to a whole different level of being proud. So it’s him you first go to.

Without putting any thought to it, you wrap your arms around his waist. You don’t mind that he’s sweating and that his body heat is emanating from his skin. You’re too thrilled that he scored the winning point to even care.

“Good job, Tsukishima!”

Right after saying it out loud, you feel him tense beneath your touch. You lift your gaze up to him and meet his eyes which are wide from shock and panic. Immediately after, your eyes do the same when you realize what you’ve done.

The loud cheers from the team have stopped. You slowly turn your head to see why, even though you already know the reason.

It’s like a paused scene from a movie where everyone completely halts whatever they’re doing. The only difference is they stopped with their attention completely on you, specifically on how your limbs are enclosed around Tsukishima’s waist and your cheek flat on his chest.

Shit.

You’re hugging Tsukishima in public, in front of the whole team.

Part 4 || Part 6 || masterlist

taglist (those crossed out can’t be tagged)

@ameliaxo @suikrem @akaashisslave @tsumurai @loving-unicorns106 @flairlust @geektastic84 @anaiss97 @berna-dette @just4readingfics @suteorra @xxekitten69xx @simp4tsukkii @music-is-all-i-need @keshinslittlegirl @raspberrysunshinebby @iminlovewhaikyuu @pdiddy11 @lightyagamami @sailorscout1902 @lovershaikyuu @expectonothinfromme @finnydraws @namelessidentity @hqbeesun @yatoatyourservice @mrkozume @suzuyamitsuki @celestialarchiveshq @yongboxerrr @gomenpudding @kutiekoge @fizzfrick @flamingosis @korean-bbq

#tsukishima x reader #tsukishima smut #tsukishima fluff #tsukishima angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #haikyuu smut

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nincompoopydoo · 3 years

Text

PAIRING, BAGELS, REPEAT

— HYMN OF THE LOVESICK ; PART 5 / ?

( gif from this beautiful gifset by @knightwayne )

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x reader

WORD COUNT: 2k

SUMMARY: Alfred definitely knows something about Bruce that you’re not willing to think about and Bruce has an epiphany that changes the way he sees you.

A/N: Guess who forgot which day pbr is usually posted? This idiot here. God, I’m sorry and this chapter can be boring. Next chapter will have a lot more going on, I promise. Also, this might end in the next chapter or two. Enjoy, folks.

WARNINGS: Kinda dramatic because I’m dramatic.

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Driving through the Wayne estate gives you a sense of much-needed peace. The never-ending tunnel with walls of identical colossal pine trees as you faintly hum to Aretha Franklin over the low whirring of the running engine. It’s a quarter to noon, and the sun doesn’t seem to shine in the city of Gotham—clouds of grey constantly shield its optimum shine, only to ever allow rays to seep through the gaps in the moving Autumn wind. You don’t mind it and you never did, growing up in the city left clouds unnoticed to you unless it signified the arrival of a thunderstorm. Weather and nature are the least of your concerns but you would appreciate it now and then.

The tunnel of trees comes to an end as a clearing of extensive fields emerges into view. What is left of the Wayne Manor still stands with ostentation, despite its skeleton along with its dignity rotting away to be eventually consumed by mother nature herself. There’s a sense of eeriness to it; you find it odd how a building could seem so alive at times, like it's watching you, despite its apparent decay.

You turn your head away and focus on the road.

A glance at your hand on the wheel, you’re reminded of last night, when his hands held yours—it burns at the mere thought of his gentle touch. And the drive home, silent with the occasional glances and small smiles. You recall how the passing streetlights cascade hues of orange on his wearied expression and how his eyes were bright when they flit to your figure in the passenger seat for just a moment. Something must have changed between the two of you, but you can’t quite tell what. Maybe it’s your undying love for Bruce. Maybe he feels the same way. You snort to yourself, alone in your car, one can only dream but it doesn’t mean they all come true. Bruce may love but he doesn’t commit. You can’t commit too. Now, you’re starting to believe you’ve been lying to yourself.

The glasshouse comes into view as you steer around the bending road and into the driveway. It contradicts everything the manor was but only shared its sense of glory. You like the glasshouse, less deafening and structured with the purpose of bareness and vulnerability but its dark furnishings keep it grounded and secure. Its sense of balance tricks your mind into thinking you’re stable. His car is still around, parked by the porch but you don’t see him, ambling around the household.

Switching off the ignition, you snatch the paper bag from the passenger seat and clamber out of the car. Darker clouds begin rolling from afar, your hair flying in the strong wind. A storm is coming, you’re sure of it. One of the rare times it rains during the season. You dread the thought of having to drive back into the city and across Westward Bridge. Driving over bridges built over the water in the rain scares the heck out of you.

As you swing the car door to a close, you hear the shuffling of feet amongst leaves behind you. Alfred, with a barrel of chopped wood—stocking up for the winter. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes albeit startled by your sudden presence. He mentions your name with endearment; you greet him with a small smile. You always liked Alfred. You enjoyed his company.

“What a pleasant surprise seeing you here,” he says, pushing the barrel aside as he nears you. “I’m afraid you just missed Bruce. He left for Metropolis an hour ago—duty calls.”

You nod, ignoring the clench in your heart. He hadn’t told you anything but frankly, you weren’t expecting him to anyway.

“Well, I just came by to drop off this,” You lift the paper bag, swaying it a little within your grasp. “As a thank you gift, you know.” Alfred smiles at this, gestures towards the house in a beckoning manner. “Come on in, I’ll make you some tea.” Before you could even protest, he’s gently guiding you to the door by the shoulder. It’s hard to say no to Alfred, especially when he offers tea.

Your mind wonders as you watch the drizzle of rain form ripples in the lake. You sit on a chair with a contemporary structure to it; it digs into your lower back, due to your bad posture. Uncomfortable but nice-looking and great armrests. Contradicts everything a chair should be. Alfred emerges from the kitchen with a black ceramic mug in hand, steam from the brewed tea lingering above it. He holds an identical mug, for himself. With two hands, you clasp onto the mug with acceptance, a radiant appreciative smile upon your lips. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.” Alfred shoots you a look of disdain, “I’ve told you many times, Alfred is fine.” Taking a sip, you shake your head, a smile still lingering. “No way. I have too much respect for you to call you by your first name.” Alfred mirrors you, settling for the chair to your right, swiftly sliding the scatter of papers to the corner of the table. You find it easy to fall into a natural conversation with the older man—the two of you are mutuals after all of a certain billionaire. Yet, Alfred is more of a father figure, having practically raised Bruce and you, well, it’s complicated. It always is. You don’t know where you stand in his life, and you're not sure if you want to know.

“Anyway, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” It’s true. The usual sight of the butler sauntering around the glasshouse or somewhere in the Wayne Estate was absent during the last two weeks. Alfred is always around, his disappearance was glaring, impossible to go unnoticed.

He shifts in his seat, placing his mug on the table, teaspoon moving with a soft clang. “I was visiting family back in England. I appreciate that you have noticed my absence,” An eyebrow raises, your laugh comes out more like a huff. “Always, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Family. Mother. Dinner—you remember the dinner with your mother on Sunday night, and you’re the host. The host hasn't decided on the menu for tomorrow’s meal. Oh God, it’s tomorrow. Procrastination is your friend but your family’s expectations for you aren't. If you pop enough wine bottles, maybe she'll be too drunk to be disappointed by the end of the night.

And the wedding. The mere thought makes you sick. You don’t want to bring a date, but you don’t want to be alone. Weddings, love, couples—it makes you tick. It’s a glaring reminder of how your love life is an absolute disaster and your inability to maintain relationships. It’s hopeless, you’ll die a spinster and everyone lives happily ever after.

“Are you alright?”

It’s funny how those three words have been the most frequent words you would hear from those around you. You appreciate the concern, really, but you can’t help but feel there’s a stronger and deeper meaning to those words. It’s a question of assurance, a reality check, and a realization that you might be broken. Everyone is broken—in their own ways.

Although you seem reserved to some people, your tendency to open up about your issues to those close to you contradicts that though you instantly regret it. Especially when people tell you to change. You hate change. It’s terrifying.

You pause, suddenly feeling...fidgety. Yet, in the words of Bruce: In Alfred, you trust.

Remember, keep it light. You don’t want to haul all this luggage of yours onto an aging man. He’s already got Bruce’s luggage.

“My cousin’s getting married in two weeks and,” you sigh, he listens intently. “And as pathetic as this sounds, I really don’t want to go to it alone.”

Your words are direct, straightforward and you sound like a whiny teenager or the main character in a Wattpad story but truth be told, there’s an underlying meaning to it and you know, Alfred knows it. You just don’t want to admit it.

He takes a beat, assessing your sentence like he’s a therapist, wanting to select his words carefully. “Well, I don’t think you’re pathetic. It’s...understandable,” he flashes you a pointed look and you find yourself straightening your back. “Why don’t you ask Bruce?”

Your brain must have short-circuited at that moment.

Oh, hell no. Not in a million years.

You’re shaking your head, laughing nervously. “No, no. No. Never. I couldn’t possibly ask him to do that. He’s already done so much for me—”

“You’ve done a lot for him too.”

A pause, words stuck in your throat. You just look at Alfred through confused eyes. You’re not sure what that means. He’s staring at you with a knowing look. You sigh, shaking your head in denial once more. “No, that’s...that’s not true.”

It’s almost infuriating how stubborn you can be sometimes that it’s even irritating yourself. You’re staring at your fingers, playing with the tag attached to the teabag by a thread. As far as you’re concerned, Bruce is...the greatest friend you’ve ever had. Through thick and thin, he’s been there for you. He’s always there. It’s partly the reason why you have fallen for him in the first place. Hard. He’s easy to love when he wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s rare but it’s beautiful. You almost feel ashamed to be allowed to see him in that light.

“Bruce will do just about anything for you,” Alfred says calmly as he watches you avoid eye contact. “And I know, you’ll do the same for him.” You throw your eyes at the older man as he cops you a look. Your heart is beating so fast, so thunderous, you hear it in your ears. He’s right and you know it. That accidental kiss to your forehead on the night you asked him to come for the play comes back to mind in a flash. It feels like a mark on your forehead, it feels like it’s burning.

“Would you like a scone with that?” He’s pointing to your tea and with that, he’s off to the kitchen once more, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s late—a quarter to four in the morning. He spends most of his nights in the Batcave, hidden away from all the sounds and tumult of the world, shrouded in the darkness as the light of the computer screen cascades on his tired eyes. He ambles through the glasshouse, weary feet against hardwood floors, body begging to lay on grey sheets though he dreads a vacant bed.

He strains his eyes peering into the gloom when he perceives a paper bag, sitting idly on the table by the window. Nearing it, there’s a yellow post-it note stuck onto the bag and under the gentle light from the moon that reflects against the lake, he can make out words written on it.

It’s from you.

Thanks for coming to the play. I would have bought you something else, but I’m really broke. Sorry. I owe you one.

A drawn heart follows it. It’s tiny. His chest feels warm.

He should have recognized the paper bag because inside, there are four bagels. Four Asiago bagels. He laughs, it comes out more like a puff of hot air, feeling the warmth that resides in his chest spreading throughout his body.

Then, it hits him like a bullet to the heart. The impact is strong, powerful. Your impact on him is strong, powerful. There’s no mystery to his feelings for you but at this moment, he’s completely certain. For the first time in life.

He loves you.

Bruce staggers into the chair, hand carding back the strands of his hair. He can’t keep doing this to you. Whatever the hell is going on. Your friendship, the...stupid agreement. He wants none of it because it feels like he’s constantly going around in circles.

But what do you really want, Bruce?

TAGLIST

@raineeace

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman #batman x reader #bruce wayne imagine #batman imagine #bruce wayne x you #batman x you #alfred pennyworth #justice league

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

The Handmaiden🌹1

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: Princess Madeline has left her homeland to marry a king. On her journey, she has brought her most trusted handmaiden. Little do either of them know how perilous their new home will be.

Note: Alright, here’s another medieval AU ft. King Steve. His darkness will build as we go and we’re gonna ride those vibes, thots. I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Madeline was the fairest woman you’d ever seen. Her strawberry blonde waves flowed like water down her back and shoulders. Her jaw was etched by the gods themselves and her lips were soft to the eye and as you guessed, the touch. Her eyes were like gems and her figure was graceful and lithe. Her voice was a melody and her laugh like the pluck of a string.

How could she not be perfect? Porcelain and precious. She was a princess. The eldest of Eddor.

It would be unnatural not to envy her. Not to compare your ordinary features with her extraordinary ones. Not to measure your circumstance against hers. You had grown up in her shadow. Once a playmate, now a maid. You served as her closest companion and attendant. A mere servant, you were but another accessory among many.

Your jealousy was not spiteful. Many a peasant lived a life worse than yours. You did not complain or want. It was the order of things. The world as it was.

She was serene, often intimidatingly calm. That day, you could see the nervous tension in her cheek. Not many others would notice but you did. You didn’t blame her. She was to meet her betrothed at last. A man more than ten years here elder; of the few men grander than her in prestige; a widower and king.

You stood just a few steps away, hands folded and head slightly bowed in deference. If she needed you, she would call to you. You were glad for the camouflage of your low standing. Among the foreign court, on such a significant day, you were nothing; just another witness.

Your journey was long. A month at sea, a fortnight in a draughty northern castle, a week upon the road, and finally you were in the capital; Halder’s Arch. A night spent awaiting the first meeting and a further hour for the king’s appearance. The other servants were growing restless; Madeline’s ladies, too.

It would be a sad and heartless act to send a princess out upon her own. Sybil and Lucille were the only noblewoman to accompany Madeline. They were to remain at the foreign court and seek their own suitors. Her guards, her priest, and her physician were also among the party as well. Her retinue was finely outfitted.

Finally, the doors shifted and the armoured guards hit their staffs on the stone to announce the arrival. As the hall opened up, you held your breath as Madeline did the same. She raised her chin slightly and rose with the rest to receive her betrothed. A line of lords preceded their king, hidden by the group of men.

The Princess of Eddor was announced first. Her crest bearer spoke loudly for all the people to hear. Then it was the king’s turn. Steven, first of his name, son of Stewart, ruler of Anglhem and its territories. The lords broke and formed two rows as they stood at attention.

King Steven strode between them, as proud and stoic as the princess he would wed. You kept your chin down but watched him below your lashes. His dark blonde hair was thick above a trimmed beard. He wore a simple golden crown without stones, his jacket a turquoise brocade slashes with citrine. A chain of golden links hung from his shoulders with a single sapphire upon it.

It was simple but bespoke a man of intent; of standing. His simplicity said it all. You suspected he dressed for the occasion; a very deliberate impression for his future wife. The capital, the castle, the lords, did not suggest a ruler without extravagance.

The king stopped before Madeline and bowed to her; she curtsied to him in kind. He seemed pleased as he took her hand and kissed it. His eyes flicked all over as he considered his new wife; his second. The first had come to a tragic end during a summer plague not two years past.

“Princess,” He greeted. “It is a privilege and a pleasure to meet you at last. The painter did you an injustice for no canvas could capture such beauty.”

“And you, my king,” She said evenly. “I did hear of a handsome and noble king but the accounts do leave much untold.”

You were always rather amused by such empty courtesies. These words were rehearsed and recited without thought. It was what was expected. A princess could not come off as appalled by her suitor, even if she were, and a king could not be disappointed in a princess, even for a crooked nose or blotchy complexion. It was all an act. You did not envy the fallacy of status.

Your eyes wandered as the royals went about their performance. The audience was rapt and marvelled at the perfect pair; a stately king and a beautiful princess. You bit down to keep from grinning wryly. Your amusement was stifled completely as your eyes were caught by a pair most unexpected.

As Steven was offered a chair to sit with his queen, his gaze strayed from her. You withheld your surprise and assured yourself he was merely distracted by the portrait behind you or perhaps a nick in the stone. It couldn’t be you. Servants were like windows; transparent.

His brow twitched and he looked back to the princess. Her ladies were dazzled by the king’s stature, the lords were pleased by the princess’ grace. All seemed to be in a trance; all but those who held their attention.

Madeline held her veneer only because the cracks could not be noticed by strangers. Steven’s matched hers though you saw no flaw. You only saw a man sure of himself because he knew what to say. To him, it was a ritual, each step another closer to the end.

You straightened at the subtle signal from the princess. She wanted wine. You went to her and took the ewer from the table beside her. You filled the king’s goblet first and presented it to him with a bow. He took it and you repeated the steps for the princess. She thanked you and you didn’t miss the king’s eye. He was watching you. Why?

You resumed your vigil along the wall with the other servants. Your gown differed from no other. The blue-grey wool was plain enough that it could’ve been another stone in the wall. Your cap hid your hair and no ornament sparkled at throat or wrist. You lowered your head as the king turned his goblet in his hand and gazed over at the princess.

You wanted to laugh at yourself. It was preposterous. He hadn’t looked at you for any reason but what you offered; a cup of wine. How could one ignore a figure right before them? You did long for it to be over for the sake of your weary mind. Your travel had left you endlessly exhausted. It was clearly affecting your judgement.

Yet, you peeked up again and the king squinted over at you. You blinked as he grinned and leaned back. He drank from his goblet and returned his gaze to Madeline. She presented him the letter sealed with her father’s crest. He accepted it and she seemed not to notice his wandering eyes.

Maybe because they did not wander. Maybe because he had been thinking and they averted to follow his thoughts. Or he was listening and did consider her words as he considered the room.

You twined your hands together behind your back. You were trained, you were patient, you were attentive. You could bear yet another royal meeting. You could cling to your duty and see it through. You only had to resist the nagging fatigue that caused your mind to drift.

You needed to focus as the princess’ goblet was empty.

🌹

The wedding was already well-prepared. Both parties had settled their arrangements long before that fateful meeting. Steven and his advisers had the date, the feast, the ceremony, all plotted carefully for the next week. Madeline had her gown in her trunk and her virtue intact. Or so it was written in their betrothal.

The princess seemed pleased with her husband. That night she watched herself in the mirror as you brushed out her hair. She touched her long neck and her fingers trailed down to her collarbone. She let out a wearisome sigh.

“Do you think he was taken by me?” She asked. “He was cordial but a marriage cannot survive on cordial.”

“I’ve never known a man who wasn’t taken by you, your highness,” You dragged the bristles through her lush strands. “A king could not hope for a better princess.”

“Oh, so they say,” She preened. “I am told he sent his painter to at least a dozen courts to paint their princesses. Then he was presented with their likeness and he chose me himself.”

“And you were deemed the worthiest to share his crown then,” You said. “I see not how he could be disappointed.”

“And I cannot say I am,” She smiled and batted her lashes. “He is very handsome. I feared when they said he was older than me.”

“He doesn’t appear to suffer from it,” You assured her. “His step is as sure as any youth.”

She was silent as you finished brushing out her hair and you parted it. You began to braid her long tresses before she found her voice again. When she was thoughtful, she was often plotting.

“And the wedding night?” She ventured quietly. “Do you think he will be pleased with me then?”

“I… am certain he should be,” You said stiffly. “I see not how any man cannot be pleased with his wife in such a way.”

She giggled and played with the buttons of her sleeping gown. She eyed you and looked away guiltily. You tilted your head at her and tied up the end of her braid.

“What is it?” You asked.

“Oh, you know,” She stood and turned to you. “I was always told servants were more experienced in those matters, but you are always so modest.”

“As I have served you loyally, when should I have had time to take experience in such matters?”

She laughed and pulled a stray thread from your cap.

“Much too loyal,” She chided. “Let us retire for the night. This kingdom is still strange to me and I do wish to know it better before I am bound to it entirely.”

🌹

Madeline was not to see her betrothed again until the wedding day. Their separation was tradition and ensured the legitimacy of the marriage. Thus, the princess could only emerge from her chambers when she was assured the king was engaged and the corridors were clear.

On the first day after their introduction, she took to the gardens, dewy with the early spring dampness. The second she explored the wing within which her rooms were. On the third, she was warned to stay in as the king was to attend to the wedding’s final arrangements. She was irritated by her exile but not unhappy. It would end soon enough and this would be her castle to reign as she wished.

As you had since you were children, you slept beside her and woke before her. You touched her shoulder and advised her to wake but she stirred only a little. You dressed and left the lanterns unlit as the sun streamed in through the windows. You hid your hair beneath your cap and allowed yourself a moment of vanity as you adjusted your skirts in the mirror.

The best way to rouse the princess was food. You closed the heavy door behind you and greeted the guards who stood in the corridor. Lawrence and Hal were selected by Madeline’s own father and had served her since she was a girl. You knew them well and they were little disturbed by the mousy maid upon her duties.

You carefully counted the corners as you still found the castle unfamiliar and confounding. The day before, you’d become so lost, you had to ask another servant how to find your way back. You loathed a repeat but it was likely as you already felt entirely displaced.

You came upon the lower floors where the kitchens resided. You were confident that your destination was close but found yourself in a hall you’d never been before. A round door was open to the cool morning air and voices mingled with the scent of horses. You cursed under your breath and looked back over your shoulder. You must’ve turned the wrong way at the stairs.

You were kept from righting your course as the voices grew louder and a shadow appeared in the doorway. A lord, vaguely familiar from among those who had accompanied the king, strolled through as he laughed over his shoulder. You skirted against the wall and bowed your head in deference.

You peaked up through your lashes as he was followed by another. You recognised King Steven as he yawned behind his hand.

“You disturbed me so early for--” He complained but paused as his eyes fell upon you. “...nothing.” He finished slowly as he nodded at you.

He carried on as he caught stride with his companion who reprimanded him for his grumbles. They were bawdy and the king took no offence to the remonstrance. You kept your head down until you heard them turn the corner. You wondered little at the reason for the king’s visit to the stables; you only wanted to retreat before the stench lurked in any further.

#Steve Rogers #king!steve #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #medieval au #au #fic #series #dark!fic #dark fic #the handmaiden #mcu #marvel #captain america

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sjjdkdkwo · 3 years

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Stephen probably ends up with a longer lifespan from his experiences, and probably ends up having to endure watching the few people he’s kept close die, and succumb further into the lonely lifestyle he’s subjected himself to. At least that’s what he thinks. The first time Thor knocks on his door, it’s after Tony Stark’s funeral.

Stephen had caught him stealing quick glances his way but thought nothing of it. Now though, standing awkwardly at his door fidgeting in place, Stephen doesn’t know what to make of him. So he lets him in. Thor accepts but tells him he won’t stay for long, he’d only wanted to speak to Stephen briefly before he left. Stephen notices that Thor regards him with an odd somewhat torn look, almost like he wants to ask a question but doesn’t know how to go about it. Stephen doesn’t push though, and eventually Thor asks him if he’s all right. Stephen frowns, because he’s not use to being asked that question these days by anyone except Wong on occasion. He reassures Thor that he’s fine, only for a doubtful look to pass Thor’s face. Before he can say anything though Thor goes on, talking about Tony briefly and everything that’s happened. Stephen answers where he can, not providing much but enough not to let Thor think he doesn’t care. He does, but he’s just so tired. He thinks Thor must noticed because suddenly he’s cuts himself off and asks something Stephen should’ve expected but didn’t in his weariness. He can’t help but soften as he listens to Thor’s voice quiver as he turns to look downward and lets the words tumble out of his mouth. He wants to know if there’s anything Stephen can do for Loki, because of course he does. Stephen doesn’t bother mollifying his answer and tells Thor a simple no.

Thor only nods quiet and still for a moment before looking back up with his usual smile. His eyes don’t match it though but Stephen doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think anything he has to offer could ease the pain behind Thor’s eyes in that moment. He thinks that’s it and that Thor will leave then but he doesn’t. Instead he says something that further perplexes him. He invites him to go on his journey to the stars with the rest of the guardians. Stephen almost laughs at the absurdity of it before he realizes Thor is serious. When he asks why Thor merely says he thinks Stephen wouldn’t be bad company to keep. Stephen only gives him an awkward pat on the shoulder and tells him as tempting as the offer is; his life is here, performing his duties under the Sanctum. Thor accepts and tells him he’ll see him again, and this time with a bright smile. After he leaves Stephen only allows himself a brief moment to ponder the oddness of the encounter before arrives to inform of more work needed to be done. Stephen pushes the thought away completely and doesn’t think on it again. He has other things to worry about.

The second time Thor knocks on his door, Stephen doesn’t expect him either, and so soon too. But there he stands, still as scruffy and shambolic as when he’d last seen him with the same bright smile. Stephen lets him in again, more out of curiosity this time than out of courtesy. When Stephen asks why he’s stopped by Thor tells him Steve Rogers has died. Right, Stephen knew, he’d heard it from the grapevine. He hadn’t gone to the funeral this time, and he was certain he wouldn’t have been welcome if he had. Many of the heroes still aren’t ready to forgive him for what happened, for what he did. Stephen doesn’t bother trying to change any of their minds. In all the futures he saw, it never ended well when he did. Still it doesn’t answer Stephen’s question as to why Thor is here and he tells him so. Thor only shrugs and invites him to go on the journey to the stars with him again. Like the first time, Stephen is at loss for words. He wants to ask so many questions then, and so many thoughts flutter through his mind. But Stephen doesn’t have time to entertain any of them, and instead politely declines just like the first time. Thor doesn’t falter, still smiling and telling him he should go then, promising to see him again. This time Stephen does think on the matter later, when he’s alone in bed, and wonders if Thor really will return.

It’s a long while before Thor knocks again, Stephen is Sorcerer Supreme now and his duties have doubled tenfold. Stephen starts to wonder if somehow Thor knows when he’s home, or if he’s just lucky enough to catch him when he is. Thor looks different too, neater and better kept than he had, but the look on his face tells another story. This time Thor tells him Bruce Banner has died, Stephen already knew. The way he says it leads Stephen to believe they held a deeper relationship than Thor did with the previous departed, so he doesn’t say anything and instead nods. Stephen can’t help but reach up to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, like the first time and Thor offers a small smile of thanks. Stephen can see his eye are watery and turns away to let him catch his bearings before regarding Thor again. And like before Thor invites him on the same journey to the stars. Stephen offers him a smile this time when he says no, and Thor nods like he knew what his answer was going to be and turns to leave, promising to see him again. Stephen finds himself hoping that he will, just the tiniest bit.

The years go by and it dawns on Stephen that he hasn’t aged, whereas now he’ll blink and suddenly the person in front of him has gone completely grey and has a face full of wrinkles. Even Wong is looking older; Stephen tries not to let that bother him. Stephen continues on with his duties, working in the shadows and offering his assistances when needed. More heroe’s pass away, some not from old age, and by the time he realizes all the original avengers have died. And each time without fail Thor comes knocking on his door with the same offer. At one point Stephen sees he’s just as surprised as he is that he remains untouched (physically at least) by time too. Sometimes he stays to a little longer for admittedly pleasant conversation, and through his visits Stephen learns that even some of the guardians had reached their expiration, and the remaining few had disbanded not long after more than half had passed on. Thor was travelling alone now, only occasionally stopping by earth to reassure himself the rest of the Asgardians were well and cared for, and apparently to come see Stephen. Still Stephen comes to regard Thor’s visits with something in between sadness and happiness, the first because his visits always mean someone has died, and the second because Thor is one of the few familiar things left in Stephen’s life. He doesn’t age like everyone else, the same as ever. Just like Stephen. He doesn’t stop saying no to Thor’s invitations though; Stephen has other matters to attend to. So Thor becomes an afterthought, only resurfacing when he hears news that someone has died.

When Wong dies, it’s the first and only time Stephen refused to answer the door when Thor knocks. Distantly wonders how Thor even knows his friend has passed, but he’s too consumed in his own grief and despair to really think on it. Thor stops knocking after an hour anyway. When he later opens the door to make sure, he finds flowers on the doorstep, lilies to be exact. He takes them in and settles them on what used to be Wong’s favorite table and tries not to break under the grief, instead pushing down all his sorrow and returning to his duties like always. He wonders if Thor will stop coming by. He doesn’t. The years go by and Stephen keeps saying goodbye, and in turn Thor, without fail, always shows up at his doorstep with the same offer. And Stephen always answers the same.

Saying goodbye to the cloak is one of the hardest things he does in his life, something he never thought could be possible. But when his last loyal companion is torn to shreds Stephen is torn with it, because now Stephen is truly and utterly alone. Somehow Thor finds out, because he’s knocking on his door again. Stephen is quick to say no this time, and Thor accepts it but not without embracing Stephen before he goes, with the same promise to return. And Stephen wonders what else he can lose. It’s only later that he realizes Thor had appeared because he deemed the cloak important too. Stephen thinks about that for a long time after, but like always pushes it away eventually to focus on his duties.

When he loses the title of sorcerer supreme Stephen mourns again, for the loss of something that was integral to his identity for a long time, for failures that led to it, and for the people who suffered through them. He won’t stop fighting, and he won’t turn his back on the universe, he knows he won’t, but now more than ever though he feels out of place amongst the vastness around him. When Thor knocks this time, Stephen the first thing he asks is who died this time. Thor gives him a sad look before replying, “Your spirit did, Stephen.”

When Thor asks him to come along this time, Stephen says yes. He has nothing left after all.

Being on Thor’s ship is…an experience. There’s nothing wrong with said ship, it’s fine as far as ships go (not that Stephen has much experience in the matter but well). But it should’ve come to no surprise really that their first month on the ship would be uncomfortable. Neither of them actually knows each other, not in a way where they can comfortably navigate around the other without worrying about stepping over certain boundaries. And if Stephen is being honest with himself Thor is, not what he expected. Through a few of the other heroes he’d created an image of Thor in his own head, loud, boisterous, humorous in nature. Overall what Stephen would categorize as “a fun guy to be around”. Yet the man he sets off into space is none of those things, he doesn’t lack in kindness or manners—the result of growing up a royal and a prince Stephen thinks—but he’s quiet instead of loud, and doesn’t jabber on like so many had told Stephen, and if he jokes then Stephen’s certainly never noticed. No, Thor is…muted, reserved and more often that not Stephen can catch him looking off in the distance for hours on end. It’s not unnerving just, unexpected and Stephen begins to wonder how long Thor has been alone. How long he went without a single person to talk to.

Still, Stephen doesn’t mind because Stephen doesn’t talk much either, unused to company now after so many years immersed in his own solitude. And somehow that works in their favor, eventually allowing them to at least work around each other well enough that they don’t argue. It’s not long before Thor takes them to their first destination; Stephen expects it to be a pit stop to gather supplies. Thor never actually told him what his plan was with bringing out Stephen to journey with him, he starts to suspect he doesn’t even have one. He’s confused however when he finds that the first planet they make it to is somewhere not only practically off the map, but also barren of people or anything signifying any form of intelligent life. When he asks Thor why they’re there he only tells him he’d figured Stephen would enjoy the scenery. He’s not wrong, the planet is close enough in resemblance to earth that Stephen can enjoy a sense of familiarity but different enough that he can bask in the wonder of something new. Thor leads him through a dense thicket before they find themselves in small clearing. He joins Thor when he moves to sit and figures now is as good a time as any to ask why Thor had invited him to join him in the first place.

Thor only shrugs; waiting a beat before he tells Stephen he’d felt something resembling a connection of sorts between them, so many years ago after they’d defeated Thanos, saw something in Stephen that he understood, and found unfair. Because after all was said and done, Thor was grateful to Stephen and he found he couldn’t hate him too. Something about Stephen told him, there was a person who could use a little kindness. When Thor looks his way Stephen thinks he knows what he means to say: You say the future and somehow still ended up losing too, and I didn’t want you to think it was all your fault. Stephen says nothing, instead looking off into the distance as Thor shuffles around him for a minute before getting up to wander the clearing. Stephen doesn’t follow this time. He returns after while and plops down next to Stephen again, and starts digging into the dirt next to him. Stephen looks on, curious to see what he’s doing and watches him carefully tuck in a small seed into the dirt before covering it back again and pressing firmly over it. Stephen gives him a questioning look and Thor merely smiles softly before looking at him and tells him maybe if they’re lucky, something will grow from this.

Their journey goes on; slowly they grow even more accustomed to each other, enough to survive living on ship together. Stephen learns that Thor rarely sleeps and instead keeps to the main controls on the ship most of the time. Even when he looks like he’s going to pass out from exhaustion. Stephen finds himself worrying on occasion when Thor stumbles out of his seat and offers Thor help sleeping. Thor always refuses. Stephen also begins to notice certain changes around the ship; Thor makes little changes here and there to accommodate Stephen’s hands. Interestingly enough though, Stephen never catches Thor looking at them, though he knows they shake more now after years of abuse and strain on them. He appreciates the sentiment in private though, grateful to Thor for not saying anything on the matter. It’s not any easy topic, even now after so many years. And Stephen begins to find Thor’s company is comfortable, and Stephen makes do.

He keeps noticing new things about Thor in their time together, like how often when he speaks to Stephen it feels like he’s not really there, like he’s speaking to someone else. It unnerves Stephen when he first realizes it, and he keeps a closer eye on him. Conversations with Thor aren’t common enough for him to have to constantly think on the matter really. Still, as more time passes his perception of Thor changes completely, in the future he’d seen he never lingered much on Thor and in the ones he did he and Thor never became close enough for him to learn what had actually happened to the other man. So when Thor enters a sudden panic when something hits their ship, Stephen is lost. He watches Thor’s breathing pick up as his eyes widen. Watches him look franticly as he shakes before he starts mumbling something beneath his breath. Watches him lose control as he starts calling out names, Stephen doesn’t know any of them at first until he hears Thanos’ name, and then Loki’s and he can connect the dots. The statesman. Thor thinks he’s on the statesman again and is being attacked. And Stephen’s heart aches, because it’s who Stephen is, and he sets about helping Thor. He knows better than to make sudden movements, and knows especially not to touch Thor as he cries out. Instead he calls out to him, gently but loud enough to get through, telling Thor it’s not real, they’re not on the statesman and Thanos is dead. He doesn’t mention Loki. He helps him breath through it, before having him describe their surroundings once he starts to come back to. When he’s sure Thor is done with the initial panic he settles down, he’s already decided he’s not going to leave Thor’s side for anything in that moment. Thor says nothing, huddling into himself and staring off into the distance. Stephen doesn’t push him though, he understands.

Later Thor apologizes, for the incident and for not telling Stephen. Stephen doesn’t want him to, but he knows better than to dismiss him. He’d often done the same thing in the past too. So he lets Thor speak, and listens as he explains that since the statesman, ships and he don’t mix well. Before he can question what they’re doing on one Thor tells him how New Asgard hadn’t been any better. It’s one thing to panic alone on a ship where no one can hear you; it’s another to do so in front of the people who expect you to watch over them. He also tells Stephen that the guilt had been to much, it didn’t matter that they’d won, he’d never gotten over the feeling of failure from losing so many of his people, his friends, his brother. And after some time being in New Asgard he’d also come to the realization that he just couldn’t be around people anymore, at least not like before. Large groups sent him into a panic, and so hiding away with korg and miek in his small home had been easier than walking amongst others. He’d only pushed away his anxieties when Bruce and Rocket had come because he’d refused to fail a second time, and Thor had learned he’d been a surpassingly better actor than he’d thought he’d be. He tells Stephen he’d thought going with the guardians would be ok, they weren’t a big group and Quill’s ship had been no statesman. But he’d parted ways with them after the first episode he’d experienced. He hadn’t been able to go back though, didn’t feel right amongst the others, and in some odd way he felt almost comfortable to allow himself to go mad by himself in space. Like Loki had. And understanding passes through Stephen, this is Thor’s penance for failing everyone he cared for.

Stephen doesn’t tell Thor he doesn’t deserve his own self-inflicted punishment, because Stephen is no better in this regard. He knows well what it’s like to find pain a better alternative to guilt. He thinks Thor knows this too, and starts to believe perhaps Thor was right, they had more in common than he’d thought. Still he refuses to let Thor suffer alone after, and instead sets about placing wards all around the ship. When Thor questions him he merely says this way they can both get some sleep. From Thor’s smile he thinks he knows what he means to say is “you’re not alone anymore and I’m going to help you”. He starts taking his own shifts at main controls much to Thor’s protests, but Stephen shoots him a look and he accepts. Thor still doesn’t sleep as much as Stephen thinks he should, but he’ll get manage that somehow too.

After that, something shifts between them. At least on Thor’s part, he speaks more than he used to and while the dazed look in his eyes never leaves, Stephen begins to see less of it. They spend more time together and travel to more places, Stephen always taking into consideration the new information Thor’s shared with him and carefully watching his reaction whenever they have to interact with other species, and watching over the ship constantly to make sure they don’t hit anything that can send Thor into a panic again. They start sharing personal stories, and though there’s hurt in his eyes Stephen finds that Thor enjoys speaking about Loki and their past together. Stephen in turn shares stories of Donna and Victor, letting Thor know he’s also been faced with the final moments of a sibling and not been able to do anything about it. Thor appreciates the sentiment. Everything is all right for a while, until it isn’t again. And one day, Thor learns what fourteen million six hundred and five futures can do to a person.

Thor had known something was there, hidden behind the mask of indifference and calm collect. Like him, Stephen often got a faraway away look in his eyes when he thought Thor wouldn’t notice. But Thor was more astute than people often gave him credit for. And even years ago during Tony’s funeral could see something was wrong with Stephen, only to watch him fall apart further and further through everyone of his visits. Thor wasn’t used to talking, after so much time alone. And it seemed Stephen hadn’t even noticed that the only time Thor did was when Thor caught him slip off into something akin to despair, if only to offer a distraction. But unlike Thor, Stephen had dealt with more people in the years since Thanos, and he soon realized Stephen had more experience knowing how to conceal his own troubles. But unlike then, Stephen’s privacy is rather limited on Thor’s ship, and for a long while he gets away with it. Until at one point he can’t. Thor starts to notice something is off when he mentions their coordinates and what solar system their entering. Stephen suddenly becomes stiff and he swallows before excusing himself to his room. Within the next days he takes to meditating more than usual, and Thor tries not to worry. He offers conversation here and there, but unlike before Stephen’s replies are short and far in between, and Thor tries not to push. Stephen goes to sleep one night and Thor is glad to see him get some rest, settling back into keeping watch like usual.

Thor doesn’t think anything of it when Stephen stumbles out of his room, turning to greet him until he notices the alarm in his eyes. He makes his way over to ask what’s wrong when suddenly Stephen is trying to attack him. He barely manages to avoid being hit when Stephen starts attacking again. Thor doesn’t move to attack back, but defends himself nonetheless, trying to speak to Stephen in between each hit he receives. He realizes what’s wrong when Stephen mentions Thanos, and Thor changes tactics. Much like Stephen had during Thor’s panic he follows the same steps, waiting until Stephen can come to, trying to remind him where they are and that Thanos is dead. When Stephen returns, unlike Thor his face only scrunches up in confusion before he realizes what he’s done. He’s quick to stumble through and apology before overlooking Thor for injuries and Thor wonders what’s just happened. Stephen seems perfectly fine now, and when he asks Stephen just looks away abashed. Thor learns that use of the time stone had given Stephen lasting damage, and that on occasion he’d forget what time line he was in. Usually not common problem on earth, in space it’s a different story. More often than not Stephen never came back to earth, and he’d undergone his worst timelines when he’d been off world. Thor feels guilt settle and offers to return Stephen back to earth, worried that his time with Thor will hurt him more than anything. Stephen agrees, he doesn’t want to burden Thor or risk hurting him, he’d been in a lot places after all and that means its bound to happen again. Thor is quick to squander Stephen’s assumption that he’s any sort of burden though, reminding him that he’s also broken and instead asks Stephen if he wants to go.

Stephen hates himself for saying it, because he hates the thought of causing anyone trouble, but the answer is no. Because he’s come to enjoy Thor’s company, his gentle demeanor and their long conversations into what he assumes is night. He likes it here with Thor, finding new places even if it means crossing old painful ones. More than anything he finds himself admitting it in his own mind that he likes Thor. And when he looks at Thor he sees him beaming over him with a large genuine smile and he wonders if maybe Thor has started to like him too. And like that things start changing even more. Thor starts brining up facts and events that have transpired in between the days that go by, so Stephen can always remember what timeline he’s in. He starts making Stephen tell him if a certain planet of solar system brings back any unsettling thoughts and memories, starts taking care of Stephen too.

They get better at living together, at being together. Through their shared traumas they learn what to avoid what helps, and eventually they learn how to talk about something other than Thanos, than the other heroes and everything that’s hurt them. They learn how to enjoy things together. Thor starts to smile more, and Stephen starts to see bits and traces of the person people once told him about, except he’s not exactly the same no, but Stephen likes him all the same. Thor learns that for all his snark and quick wit Stephen is actually quite funny when he wants to be, and finds himself laughing at his subtle jokes. And before they know it, they’re not just making it work anymore.

They visit many places; more often than not they fall into trouble. Because even now at the end of the day they’re still heroes and their need to do what’s right often has them facing off evil tyrants, or space pirates, or whatever it may be that’s causing terror amongst the starts that day. Sometimes they argue; it’s only natural that they would eventually. Sometimes it’s Stephen’s fault, sometimes it’s Thor, and really he hadn’t meant to forget Sakaar or the grand master, it wasn’t his fault he hadn’t been blessed with eidetic memory. Together they manage to overcome everything that comes their way though, growing fonder and fonder of each other as the years keep passing by. Sometimes they make contact with earth, because for all his guilt and self-loathing Thor still thinks about his people everyday and often calls the Valkyrie to make sure they’re ok. In the same manner Stephen is always communicating with the other sorcerers and magic users around him, he may no longer be sorcerer supreme, but there’s not one person who practices magic who doesn’t know the name Stephen Strange. But there are new heroes now, and it seems that earth simply has no need for them anymore. It’s ok though, they have each other and that feels like enough.

At Thor’s suggestion they go visit their first planet together again, and to Thor’s delight the little seed he planted has grown. Stephen smiles too, because seeing Thor content and jovial makes him joyous too. And he learns to appreciate these quieter, simpler moments among the ones that have them battling out in full force and fury, they’re combined power a fierce force to be reckoned with. Because there are still sinister things beyond them, and Thor and Stephen refuse to turn a blind eye when they can help. Unfortunately it also means Stephen has something new to worry about, because Thor has no concept of self preservation and given he’s a “god” he’s usually the one standing in front of Stephen to take a hit. The first time it happens Stephen yells at him for an hour while he tends to his injuries. Thor only laughs because he’ll keep doing it again if it means keeping Stephen safe.

Thor is upset to learn Stephen is the same if not worse. He knew from other’s that Stephen had undergone less than ideal routes of magic in the past to save someone. Seeing it first hand and the damage it does to Stephen’s body is different though. And the first time Stephen performs dark magic in front of him he nearly passes out. Stephen thinks when he’s stalking up to him; face turned down in a frown it’s to deride him for his methods like so many others had done in the past. He readies himself for fury that he expects will follow, and for Thor to tell him he no longer wants him in his company. But before he knows it Thor is throwing his arms around him and demanding he never put himself through something so awful again. Stephen is glad Thor can’t see his face, because he’s pretty sure his eyes are watering. Thor refuses to let him out of his sight for at least a week.

Eventually they do return to earth, things happen and evil forces are active once again. And Stephen almost doesn’t recognize his old home. Things have advanced far more than the last time he’d been there, and he wonders how long it’s been. At hearing it’s been two hundred years since his departure he nearly panics, because he can swear he’d just been there not a year or two before. Thor is there to offer his reassurance, telling him he’s bound to be in for a few surprises now that he won’t age like before. Stephen can only nod in disbelief as he tries to navigate through earth now. By now nearly all the people they once new are long gone, and the ones that are still around had never been close enough to either of them. Still Stephen takes pleasure in visiting the sanctum once more along with Kamar-Taj; he’s welcomed with open arms and Thor convinces him to stay a little longer after they’d dealt with their evil foe. At Stephen’s suggestion Thor also visits New Asgard, surprised now how much it’d blossomed and grown and when he sees the Valkyrie he hugs her tight, thanking her for all she’s done. When Thor isn’t near, she thanks Stephen too, because now Thor is no longer alone.

They eventually leave earth and return on their voyage. Apparently they’ve become quite famous up in space, much to their grimace and surprise. Even so, while Thor’s initial anxieties of being on a ship never ebb away, he finds himself learning to enjoy their time on the ship if only because it’s just the two of them there. Stephen finds himself feeling the same way, and even though there have been and are times he tries to push Thor away—if only because his self hatred never leaves him—but Thor never lets the words get to him. Because he understands Stephen, and most importantly, Stephen is his friend.

When Thor asks him to teach him magic Stephen makes a face. Because technically Thor already has magic, not in the way Stephen does, but it’s magic none the less. Thor waves him off though, he wants to learn magic like Stephens…like Loki’s he says much quieter. They weren’t tied by blood, and Thor didn’t have much to remember him by, and this feels like a good enough way to have a part of him with him. There’s something else there, between the words that Thor refuses to say and Stephen’s eyes him suspiciously before he agrees and makes sure their next stop is somewhere more attuned with the mystic arts. Thor turns out to be a devoted student, studying every chance he gets, cheering softly to himself when he performs even the simplest form of magic. It makes Stephen smile. With time his magic develops into something steadier, more powerful but never seems to use it during battle, and the fact never fails to mystify Stephen. When he finally does use it, Stephen wishes he’d never taken the time to teach him. Stephen like usual, is not one to follow rules, so performing dark magic again is not out of the question. The fact that he hadn’t been prepared enough for the onslaught of energy or the strain it puts on his power however is unfortunate and he collapses. Before he can accept death though, he finds himself awake and, somewhat well? He’s certainly not on the brink of death anymore at least, and that can’t be right. But then he turns over and finds an equally half drained Thor next to him, trying to keep awake. When he looks down at the Thor’s hands and the markings there it makes sense. Magic energy transfer.

Thor had wanted to learn proper magic so he could help Stephen. The thought is as heartwarming as it is infuriating and Stephen doesn’t know whether to hold or yell at Thor and settles on both. Thor pays him no mind though, cradling him back with all the care in the world and reassuring himself that Stephen is alive and will live on another day. Stephen stops yelling eventually, but it’s a long time before he can let go.

They keep going then, letting the year’s bleed through and growing closer and closer. The first time they have to part ways is torture, but Stephen is needed amongst the sorcerers again, and Thor finds he can’t leave the planet under attack alone without help. Through the magic Thor now has though, they can connect better, and they worry a little less about whether or not the other is alive. When they reunite, the first Thor they do is run toward each other and embraces. Thor scoops him up and holds him close and Stephen lets him because he’d missed him too. They try not to make a habit of separating often after. Over the years they keep visiting the tree Thor had planted, it’s grown large and tall and when Stephen looks up at it then at Thor he thinks he was right, something did end up growing.

One day Stephen is surprised to learn Thor has a new favorite magic trick when he walks into the main control room, and instead of Thor finds a little red snake curled up in his seat. He knows Loki had a preference for the form, and when he asks Thor tells him he thinks he knows why now. It’s much easier being small when the world seems so big. And from then on when they have to travel through crowded places Stephen can be seen with a little red snake curled around his neck, little head tucked carefully under his chin, murmuring soft words of comfort to it as they pass by. The comforting weight reminds him of an old friend, and Stephen finds himself enjoying when Thor takes on the form too.

It’s been a few thousand years when they pass through the spot. Thor freezes up and tries to breath though he familiar fear that enters him as they do. It doesn’t take long for Stephen to know why. This is where the statesmen had been attacked, where the Asgardians died. Where Loki died. Stephen is about to tell him that they can turn back when he feels it, the familiar sensation of magic. It should come as no surprise; sometimes traces of magic could linger in one spot long after someone died, the energy and emotions settling in one spot. So Stephen grabs Thor’s hand, giving it a tender squeeze before reaching out to pull in the bit of magic and let it flow through him, and right into Thor. And Thor can feel it, can feel Loki. His final emotions, from the fear he’d felt when facing Thanos again, to the agony he’d felt when he saw Thor get hurt, the pain, and suffering and finally, the love. The love for Thor that even through out everything that had occurred, has remained steadfast and strong. And before Stephen knows it Thor is sobbing for his brother, for his family, for his people and everything in between. And thanks Stephen, for gifting him the relief of knowing that even with everything that had transpired between them, his brother had loved him too. Stephen takes it back then, he’s glad he’d taught Thor proper magic after all.

Stephen doesn’t know when it happened, but after some time he comes to staggering realization. He loves Thor. Not in the traditional sense, not any way he’s loved anyone else. But in a way that transcends any human comprehension of love. Somehow Thor had managed to worm his way into Stephen’s world and someone precious to him, and the thought scares Stephen because he wonders if Thor feels the same way. When Thor holds him tight after a battle though, close and unyielding like he never wants to let Stephen go though he thinks he knows. Thor loves him too.

So when he finds that Thor’s hair and beard have started going grey he panics. Because Thor is not a god, he is born, he lives, and he still dies just as humans do. Just as Stephen doesn’t know if he can anymore. When he points this out to Thor though, he only laughs, and asks Stephen if he’s looked in a mirror lately. When he does, to Stephen’s delight and happy surprise, he sees he’s aged too. His hair is completely white, and there are wrinkles that he thought he’d never see. He thinks it must be odd to be happy to grow old, but more than anything he’s happy this means he won’t have to live an eternity without anyone else, without Thor.

Thor keeps aging, but so does Stephen so he’s not as afraid anymore. They find that less people need their help anymore; there are newer and newer people to save the day as time goes on. It’s almost like the universe is given them permission to go, to rest now. And suddenly it dawns on them just how tired they both are. And they find themselves settling back on their first planet, making a home for themselves there. Alone, just the two of them for it seems in all their years together no one but them have stopped by here. Their days are quiet, and more often than not they merely talk or sit simply enjoying each other’s company. It’s enough, and they don’t need much else. They haven’t for thousands upon thousands of years.

Stephen thinks it’s unfair that Thor should die first. During his final moments though he doesn’t dare cry, not as Thor says goodbye. Because he wants Thor to know how much he’s enjoyed his friendship and love more than he wants him to know how much he’ll miss it. So he smiles and bears through it, smiling with Thor until his last moments. And then Thor tells him he loves him, and promises to see him again just like he had in the beginning and closes his eyes forever. Stephen hates that he hadn’t gotten to say it back almost as much as he hates that Thor is gone. And Stephen cries, for the first time in a very long time, over Thor’s body. Because he loved Thor, and Thor had loved him back. And Stephen is alone again.

Stephen buries him next to their tree. He thinks it’s only fitting. And everyday without fail he sits underneath it speaks to Thor. He knows it’s pointless, Thor has passed on, but a part of him still hopes that somehow Thor can hear him as he tells him about his day; about the flowers he’d taken to growing his tree, about how much he misses him.

He’s lying beneath the tree when he falls asleep, the gentle breeze around him lulling him to sleep. Only to be awoken by a knock. Stephen grumbles first, because he’d been sleeping damn it, before he realizes two things. One, he was completely alone. And two, Stephen was outside. So he opens his eyes in alarm and panic only to realize he’s not beneath the tree, and he’s not on their planet. He’s…in the sanctum. But that shouldn’t be possible, the last time Stephen had been there had been about three hundred years ago. He takes in surrounding, feeling odd and reasonably worried when he hears the knock again. And that’s another thing, even if he was in the sanctum no one knocked on Stephen Strange’s door. No one except…oh.

Stephen is running before he knows it, almost trips over himself as he rushes down the stairs and flings open the door. And it’s him. Thor. He looks younger, his face free of wrinkles and his hair no longer white, but his smile is warm and bright as he looks at Stephen and Stephen flings his arms around him and clings to his friend with all his strength, sobbing into his shirt as he tells Thor he loves him too. And Thor holds him back. And Stephen is so happy he barely registers that this must mean he’s dead too, because he has Thor again. Thor who’d come knocking on his door so many years ago, Thor who’d never stopped knocking even when Stephen turned him away, Thor who’d taken him away from his own misery and gifted him with new purpose and a second chance, Thor who’d never let Stephen pushed him away, Thor who loved him, wholly and completely.

Later he’ll find everyone else. Will twirl Donna in his arms and embrace Victor and tell him he’s sorry. He’s find Wong, and hold him as he thanked him for staying by his side for so long. He’ll see his old teacher again and tell her thank you and this time he’ll take the time to learn more about her. He’ll find Tony Stark and he’ll apologize only to have him brush him off, he’ll find Christine and his parents and everyone who’s ever given Stephen Strange purpose.

But right now he’ll cling to Thor. His last friend in life, and the first friend to greet him in death. Because when Stephen had nothing left, Thor gave him everything.

And Thor will stay by his side, like always.

#stephen strange #doctor strange #Thor #thor odinson #this is really long and pointless but like #I've been thinking about these two for days now #I think they have a lot more in common than they probably think??#Thor is ooc I guess?? by the movies standards probably #but to be fair I didn't love how they handled his trauma :')#not really a drabble #just a really long thought about them #this probably isn't coherent aha #but I'm tired so #Space buddies au #Lost of spelling and grammar mistakes in this one tbh

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genyathefirebird · 4 years

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Day Six (Oct 17th) ~> any headcanon headcanon: that they only die when they accept that they want to go, aka Lykon lives (and he uses that knowledge a millennium later)

this ended up being a whole fic with an AU of the film’s bar scene, so it’s under the cut or you can read on ao3

He feels the pain endure far longer than normal for a wound that on any other day would have healed itself up.

"Lykon? Lykon!" Andromache reaches him first, where he's been dragged and sprawled out on the back of the cart, caught wrong in a fall, caught unawares, and he doesn't want her to feel any guilt for this.

It's been a tickle of a thought at the back of his mind, something that he's never quite banished.

Perhaps. One day. Maybe. All things end, do they not?

They do indeed. And in the sluggish thudding of his heart, it comes back to him, along with a tentative peace.

"It's time."

Quynh shakes her head and she's filled with a fear that he can feel too. She clenches her hand around his arm and holds on as if she can ground him.

"Andromache," Lykon whispers, feeling her press against the wound and the flow of blood, trying to staunch it with her bare hands. "Andromache, it's time."

"No."

There is a disbelief in her eyes that he thinks he's not seen before, and he thinks it could be true. She's older than both of them and weary of her long existence, but maybe she never truly entertained the thought that she could, one day, die. They speak of other things, doubts and fears, but he had a different kind of tiredness gnaw away at his heart for some time. It was one that he had struggled to put into words.

A wetness falls onto his arm as his breathing turns shallower. When Lykon turns his head, he sees the tears rolling down Quynh's cheeks, and his heart aches deeper than any injury.

He doesn't want to leave them.

He has spent so many shining moments with his sisters. They have raced from sea to sea and explored old and new horizons together, fought so many dazzling battles, and it had filled him with an indescribable joy to think the three of them could continue to do that forever.

His smile widens, even while he tastes the blood in his mouth.

Quynh's grip tightens on his arm as she whispers, "You can't."

"No, Lykon. Not now. Please." Andromache's hand brushes his cheek.

He thinks his heart might break with the love he feels for them.

They are more than family; they are three strands of life tied together and have walked together for centuries. It has been the greatest gift of his life to know them. He doesn’t know how he can leave them.

His heart does not break; instead it beats stronger, and he groans in pain as the wound across his torso slowly begins to knit itself back together.

He does not want to leave them.

The wound begins to shrink under Andromache's tentative fingers. The flesh grows back, inch by inch, burning painfully as though he was being sliced open over and over, until the feeling dulls and he's able to move. The blood flow lessens too, and Quynh tears of sorrow begin to turn to ones of joy.

It ends up being the longest of all his healings. It had not been as painstakingly slow since he first discovered that death could not claim him, and there is no lack of understated awe when he finally is able to run his hands over his unmarked skin.

Scrambling into the cart, Quynh falls beside him to pull him close and screams at the sky, her happiness mingling with the sound of birds squawking as they take to the air. Andromache follows, face tucked close to his neck. Her hands grip so tight, they could have left bruises.

Lykon merely closes his eyes and holds them tight. "It's not my time, not yet."

…

The years pass them like leaves on the wind and water in the stream; they cannot turn the tide of time. But they walk on together, and their small family grows as Yusuf, Nicolo, and Booker find them.

A new millennium eventually dawns and exposes a fault line buried deep in Booker that puts them in a new danger and brings back old fears. But their newest arrival, Nile, with her gritted teeth and her open heart, helps swing things to favour them. After the harrowing events in London, they pile into the car and drive away.

The space is too small, seven of them wedged into the vehicle, and there is a tension in the backseat that sits somewhere between a black hole and the eye of a hurricane.

It will take some dug in feet to keep their family from falling in.

Quynh picks at the dried blood on her wrists and Lykon reaches around to place his hand on hers to still the movement. It had been one unsettling experience after another since they had been dragged out of the Charlie safehouse, and there would be long nights fending off nightmares to come. But for now, she says nothing from her perch on his lap, only looks over at Andromache, at the wound on her shoulder, and Lykon feels her shaky breaths against his chest.

He lets his forehead bump up against the back of her neck and thinks, we've been here before, perhaps it is her time, if she wishes.

Although he's about to say something, it's Nile that beats him to it after her feet kick up against a mini first aid kit tucked under the driver's seat.

"Andy, I can patch you up if you pull over."

"No, we need more distance. That scene back there is gonna attract attention." She guns the engine and merges lanes, heading out of the city.

"Andromache, let her help." Lykon mutters, echoed by a hum from Nicky.

It's a credit to her stubbornness that she holds out for another ten minutes. Then she pulls over on the hard shoulder on a slip road and all except Booker clamber out to stretch their legs. When it's time to move again, Lykon is waiting. He shakes his head and gently turns her back around to sit with Quynh in the front seat before hopping into the driver's side himself.

Later, around the table in the corner of a pub that they had visited when the floors and walls were freshly laid, the stifling silence returns and their drinks do nothing to loosen their tongues.

"This," Andromache twists in her seat, twists her lip too, and looks on at all of them with a heavy mixture of guilt and grief. "Nothing like this has ever happened to us before."

Nile holds her untouched glass in her hands and sighs, "Is it...because of me?"

"No, it's not you." Booker leans back, his whisky swallowed in two quick mouthfuls. "It was me, wasn't it."

A harsh chuckle escapes Joe's mouth.

Nicky's head dips, "It doesn't work like that."

He speaks from experience and a regret that transformed into good fortune. For the two of them, fate's invisible hand could do favours, perhaps, if the wind blew right and somewhere far down the line there was good waiting to come out from it.

Booker snorts, "Maybe not for you."

Beside him, Quynh shoulders tense up. Her hand remains clasped around Andromache's, but he can see the look in her eye, recognising it from an almost-forgotten memory of a day nearly a millennium ago when they came close to losing him, and he, them.

One he still carried with him as the counterweight to centuries of immortality.

"No." Lykon speaks, reaching out a hand across the table towards Andromache. "This has happened before."

In her newness, Nile is quick to ask, rather than shying away. "When?"

Booker only stares, and then slides his chair back, as though he's considering leaving the table, having heard the story before.

"Do you remember?" Lykon asks gently.

It's Quynh's free hand that reaches his first, but Andromache's follows, and he gently holds them both, careful of the bruised knuckles and split skin that are taking their time to heal.

Shaking her head, Quynh's voice is equally soft. "I do. But it wasn't the same. You were only slow to come back to us."

He leans forward, casting deep into his blurry memories, and thinks, wants to believe, that this is not the hand that fate had dealt them. "It's been a long road, Andromache. I had been tired once, as you have been these past years. It settled in my heart, and I thought it was my time."

"It wasn't." She breathes out slowly, fingers twitching under his.

"I hoped it wouldn't be."

"You seemed at peace with it."

"A little, or so I had thought." He lets his lips slide up into a small smile. "You were both so scared, so sad. I think that hurt more."

Andromache's eyes water at the returned memory. "I didn't think we could die."

"It may be your time, or it may not." The tremor in Quynh's voice belies a glimmer of hope, and it ripples around the table.

"What happens now? Is there something we can do?" Nicky asks, his hand reaches to cover theirs in the middle of the table.

Joe's are next onto the pile, his little finger reaching into the tangle to prod at Andy's palm tucked inside. "Anything, Andy. Just say the word."

Hesitating for only a moment, and clearly feeling more self-conscious. Nile adds her hand to the pile. Beside her, Booker only looks at Andromache with tired, sunken eyes and a watery smile. "I want to help."

There's an indelicate snort from Joe, but no argument follows.

"What changed, for you?" Andromache looks back at Lykon.

It wasn't often that she didn't have the answers, either from experience or a gut feeling left behind from forgotten memories. It makes Lykon uneasy to think that this was new territory for her, that it could hinge upon whether he could help.

But Nicky was also right, if it was her time, there was nothing they could do. So he gives her the truth he knows and hopes it's enough.

"I felt it." Slowly, Lykon draws a hand out from the pile and raises it to rest it on his chest. "I felt it. In my heart, in my soul."

She nods and a few tears fall across her cheeks which are joined by a few more from the rest of them before Booker slopes off to the counter for a refill and then excuses himself for fresh air, leaving them to decide on his punishment.

…

As they begin to move on, Andromache resolutely ignores their fussing and occasionally snaps back, pushing at the boundaries they all agree on together. Preferring to spend her time training Nile, she decides their next task is to take their youngest immortal on a whistle stop tour across the world and so their small family of five pack up their bags and go.

They camp under the stars deep in the middle of ancient forests and kilometres away from main trails through mountains. They lose themselves in the corners of the world, and they worry endlessly, as the dangers of a mortal existence suddenly return to the forefront of their thoughts. Even Booker in his exile calls, pretending to check in, but whenever Andromache passes the phone back over to Lykon, he can hear the relief down the line.

It stretches into three long years, and a handful of missions that have them reworking their tactics to cover Andromache at all costs despite her insistence to breech first and lead them through firefights, and even clambering onto a rolling tank. A map of bruises covers her skin as they move from one place to another and she starts collecting scars, even with her staggering combat skill.

She only laughs, prods at the changing colours blooming across her arms and legs, picks at the scabs on the side of her neck, and they make sure to stop by the nearest place to top up her small bag of medical supplies.

One evening, two weeks into their downtime after a successful mission, Joe and Nicky turn in for the night and Quynh dozes on the sofa while Lykon and Andromache put away the last of the washed dishes from the sideboard. They whisper to each other, feeling sleep creep up on them both.

"I was thinking of another job. I asked Copley to reach out to some of his contacts."

"Another? So soon?"

"We've had a decent run lately. Nile's picking things up quickly and-"

He quirks an eyebrow at her, "Maybe we are doing some good?"

Andromache swipes at him with the dishcloth. "You sound like Nicky. Or worse, of those headlines on Copley's boards."

"Miracle woman survives thirty-storey fall. Saves child." Lykon laughs good-naturedly, leaning out of the way.

"Paper is paper. It's different now...Last night-" She turns back to the sink and shakes her head slowly. "I dreamt about being on the steppe again. Before I was Andy, or Andrea, or even Andromache. I can barely remember now I'm awake, but it was just a feeling. I think it was the first time I felt glad I could do something to help."

Her smile turns softer, and then she laughs at herself. The sound is quiet and golden, fills up the narrow strip of kitchen, and Lykon tries to place the last time he had heard it. He comes up short, too long.

"I keep thinking it was one of those memories I've imagined. Something invented to fill in the blanks."

He smiles back, "Perhaps."

In her tiredness, her grip is a little too loose and the wet cutlery slips out of her hand and lands in a clatter on the floor. Lykon hears her wince, sees her dark blood drip onto the white tiles.

"Are you alright?" He reaches for her, looking to replace the damp dishcloth with a clean one to stem the blood leaking out of the cut.

But she shakes her head, peering into the bundle of cloth around her hand.

"Do you want to wake them up, or shall I?" Andromache asks, the shadow of her laughter still on her lips, and holds up her healed hand for him to see.

Day Four Headcanon: Relationship With Andromache - that he saves extra sweet treats for her Day Five Headcanon: Relationship With Quynh - that Quynh also watches his back in battle (just from further afield) and Lykon promises to pay her back in nicely fletched arrows.

#lykonheadcanonweek #lykontent!#lykon #the old guard lykon #the old guard #the old guard fanfiction #the old guard fanfic #quynh #andromache the scythian #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #sebastien le livre #nile freeman

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multiverseforger · 3 years

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Robin the Boy WonderEdit

Characters from an illustration by N. C. Wyeth for "Robin Hood" (1917) by Paul Creswick. The look inspired Jerry Robinson's design for Robin.[6]:83

Dick Grayson as Robin in his first appearance, on the cover of Detective Comics #38 (April 1940), along with Batman. Art by Bob Kane.

The character was first introduced in Detective Comics #38 (1940) by Batman creators Bill Finger and Bob Kane. Robin's debut was an effort to get younger readers to enjoy Batman. The name "Robin, The Boy Wonder" and the medieval look of the original costume are inspired by the legendary hero Robin Hood. The costume was designed by Jerry Robinson who drew it from memory based on Robin Hood illustrations by N. C. Wyeth.[6]:83

In his first appearance, Dick Grayson is a circus acrobat, and, with his parents, one of the "Flying Graysons". Robin was born on the first day of spring, son of John Grayson and Mary Grayson, a young aerialist couple. While preparing for a performance, Dick overhears two gangsters attempting to extort protection money from the circus owner. The owner refuses, so the gangsters sabotage the trapeze wires with acid. During the next performance, the trapeze from which Dick's parents are swinging snaps, sending them to their deaths. Before he can go to the police, Batman appears to him and warns him that the two gangsters work for Tony Zucco, a very powerful crime boss, and that revealing his knowledge could lead to his death. When Batman recounts the murder of his own parents, Dick asks to become his aide. After extensive training, Dick becomes Robin. They start by disrupting Zucco's gambling and extortion rackets. They then successfully bait the riled Zucco into visiting a construction site, where they capture him.

Robin's origin has a thematic connection to Batman's in that both see their parents killed by criminals, creating an urge to battle the criminal element. Bruce sees a chance to direct the anger and rage that Dick feels in a way that he himself cannot, thus creating a father/son bond and understanding between the two. Throughout the 1940s and 1950s, DC Comics portrayed Batman and Robin as a team, deeming them the "Dynamic Duo", rarely publishing a Batman story without his sidekick; stories entirely devoted to Robin appeared in Star-Spangled Comics from 1947 through 1952.

The character history of the Earth-Two Robin accordingly adopts all of the earliest stories featuring the character from the 1940s and 1950s, while the adventures of the mainstream Robin (who lived on "Earth-One") begin later in time and with certain elements of his origin retold. Both were depicted as separate, though parallel, individuals living in their respective universes, with the "older" Earth-Two character eventually reaching death in Crisis on Infinite Earths.

Teen TitansEdit

1964's The Brave and the Bold #54 introduces a junior version of the Justice League of America. This team is led by the modern-day Robin, residing on Earth-One, and was joined by two other teenage sidekicks, Aqualad (sidekick of Aquaman) and Kid Flash (sidekick of the Flash), to stop the menace of Mr. Twister.

Later, the three sidekicks join forces with Speedy and Wonder Girl in order to free their mentors in the JLA from mind-controlled thrall. They decide to become a real team: the Teen Titans. By virtue of the tactical skills gleaned from Batman, Robin is swiftly recognized as leader before the Titans disband some years later.

In 1969, still in the Pre-Crisis continuity, writer Dennis O'Neil and artist Neal Adams return Batman to his darker roots. One part of this effort is writing Robin out of the series by sending Dick Grayson to Hudson University and into a separate strip in the back of Detective Comics. The by-now Teen Wonder appears only sporadically in Batman stories of the 1970s as well as in a short-lived revival of The Teen Titans.

In 1980, Grayson once again takes up the role of leader of the Teen Titans, now featured in the monthly series The New Teen Titans, which became one of DC Comics's most beloved series of the era. During his leadership of the Titans, however, he had a falling out with Batman, leading to an estrangement that would last for many years.

NightwingEdit

In the pre-Crisis on Infinite Earths continuity, the maturing Dick Grayson grows weary of his role as Batman's young sidekick. He renames himself Nightwing, recalling his adventure in the Kryptonian city of Kandor, where he and Batman meet the local hero of the same name. In post-Crisis continuity he is fired by Batman after being shot by the Joker and becomes Nightwing. He maintains this identity during his role in the Teen Titans, and occasionally returns to assist Batman and his successors as Robin in the form of Jason Todd and Tim Drake, Tim in particular becoming a younger brother figure to him.

When Bruce's back is broken by Bane during the Knightfall story arc, Bruce selects Jean-Paul Valley as his replacement as Batman as he does not want to burden Dick with the role and fears that Dick may go after Bane in revenge. However, when Valley proves to be too unstable to be Batman, Bruce undergoes a rigorous recovery and training program with the aid of Doctor Shondra Kinsolving and Lady Shiva to restore him to full health, defeating Valley with Dick and Tim's aid. However, feeling that he needs to re-evaluate Batman and his mission after Valley's defeat, Bruce leaves Gotham once again, after appointing Dick as his successor during the "Prodigal" story arc. While acting as Batman, Dick is left with a clearer idea of the psychological stresses Bruce must endure in the role, as well as facing some of Bruce's newer enemies — such as Killer Croc, the Ventriloquist and the Ratcatcher — while settling his own long-standing issues with Two-Face.

Miniseries and afterwardEdit

In Nightwing: Alfred's Return #1 (1995), Dick Grayson travels to England to find Alfred Pennyworth who had resigned from Bruce Wayne's service following the events of the KnightSaga. Before returning to Gotham City together, they prevent an attempted coup d'état against the British government that involves destroying the Channel Tunnel under the English Channel.

Later on, with the Nightwing miniseries (September to December 1995, written by Dennis O'Neil with Greg Land as artist), Dick briefly considers retiring from being Nightwing forever before family papers uncovered by Alfred reveal a possible link between the murder of the Flying Graysons and the Crown Prince of Kravia. Journeying to Kravia, Nightwing helps to topple the murderous Kravian leader and prevent an ethnic cleansing, while learning his parents' true connection to the Prince; they witnessed the original Prince being killed and replaced with an impostor who became as bad as his predecessor (although Zucco killed the Graysons before the conspirators could do anything about it). In the aftermath, Dick returns to his role as Nightwing, recognizing that, for all his problems with Bruce, Bruce never made him become Robin or join his crusade, accepting that he imitated Bruce's example because Bruce was worthy of imitation.

In 1996, following the success of the miniseries, DC Comics launched a monthly solo series featuring Nightwing (written by Chuck Dixon, with art by Scott McDaniel), in which he patrols Gotham City's neighboring municipality of Blüdhaven, relocating there to investigate a series of murders and remaining as he recognized that the city needed protection. He remains the city's guardian for some time, facing foes such as Blockbuster and new villains such as Torque, and even becomes a police officer so that he can make an impact on the city's criminal activity in both parts of his life. Later, Grayson divides his duties between Bludhaven and Gotham after a devastating earthquake and the subsequent decision to declare Gotham a No Man's Land, Grayson occasionally assisting his mentor and other members of Bat-Family in maintaining and restoring order in Gotham until it is fully rebuilt. When the Justice League vanished into the past fighting ancient sorceress Gamemnae, Nightwing was selected as the leader of the reserve League created by an emergency program Batman had established in the event of his League being defeated, Batman describing Nightwing as the only person he could have picked to lead the new team.

Eventually, the original League are restored, and Nightwing departs along with some of his League-although others remain as some of the original team take a leave of absence-although Batman notes that his leadership of the League proves that he is ready for more responsibilities. However, the death of Blockbuster prompts Nightwing to leave Bludhaven due to his crisis of conscience; Blockbuster was killed by vigilante Tarantula and Nightwing did not stop it even when he had the chance to do so. While Nightwing returns to Gotham to heal after assisting Batman in dealing with a series of gang wars, Blüdhaven is destroyed by the Secret Society of Super-Villains when they drop Chemo on it.

During the battle of Metropolis, Grayson suffers a near-fatal injury from Alexander Luthor, Jr. when he shields Wayne from Luthor's attack.[7] Originally, the editors at DC intended to have Grayson killed in Infinite Crisis as Newsarama revealed from the DC Panel at WizardWorld Philadelphia:[8]

It was again explained that Nightwing was originally intended to die in Infinite Crisis, and that you can see the arc that was supposed to end with his death in the series. After long discussions, the death edict was finally reversed, but the decision was made that, if they were going to be keeping him, he would have to be changed. The next arc of the ongoing series will further explain the changes, it was said.

After spending some time away with Bruce and Tim to heal and rebuild after their harsh times prior to the Crisis, Dick relocates to New York, but has trouble finding work as both Dick Grayson and Nightwing. During the Batman R.I.P. storyline, Nightwing is ambushed by the International Club of Villains. He is later seen being held in Arkham Asylum, where one of the surgeons, in reality also the civilian identity of ICoV member Le Bossu, arranged for Nightwing to be admitted under the name of Pierrot Lunaire (another ICoV member) and be kept both heavily drugged and regularly beaten by staff to subdue him. Scheduled for an experimental lobotomy by Le Bossu himself, he manages to free himself and come to Batman's aid for the finale of the story arc.

Batman: RebornEdit

Following the events of Batman's apparent death during the Final Crisis, Nightwing has closed down shop in New York so as to return to Gotham, where after the events of "Battle for the Cowl", he assumes the identity of Batman, with Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne's biological son, as the new Robin.[9]

The new team of Batman and Robin is the focus of Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely's Batman and Robin series.[10] Their dynamic reverses the classic dynamic of Bruce and Dick, by having a lighter and friendlier Batman paired with a more intense and dark Robin. Over time, Dick's experience as the Dark Knight would harden his personality as his mentor.

During this period, Dick Grayson as Batman also features as a member of the Justice League in a short-lived run by writer James Robinson. After an intense confrontation with the Club of Villains and the mysterious Doctor Simon Hurt (who has established fake evidence that he is actually Bruce's father Thomas Wayne), Hurt is defeated when Bruce returns to the present. However, Bruce leaves Dick to continue to act as Batman in Gotham with Damian as his partner while he sets up the new 'Batman Incorporated' program, Bruce publicly identifying himself as Batman's financial backer to justify a global Batman-themed operation where he funds multiple other vigilantes.

The New 52 (2011–2016)Edit

See also: The New 52

Dick Grayson is re-established as Nightwing following DC's Flashpoint crossover event, after which the publisher relaunched all of its titles and made alterations to its continuity as part of an initiative called The New 52. In the new status quo, Bruce Wayne is once again the only Batman, and Dick, like the other members of the adoptive family, is a few years younger. Dick, despite being 19 is drawn a bit shorter than in his pre-relaunch frame. This is likely due to adding believability to his acrobat past.[11] According to various interviews it is stated that Dick was adopted at 16, as opposed to 12. This is due to the DCNU's timeline existing for five years.[12] Dick Grayson is shown in flashbacks as Robin with a revamped version of the Robin costume in Nightwing (vol. 3) #0 (November 2012) and Batman and Robin Annual (vol. 2) #2 (March 2014).

Dick Grayson in his New 52 Robin costume from Batman and Robin Annual, vol. 2 #2 (March 2014). Art by Doug Mahnke and Patrick Gleason

In his civilian identity he is attacked by an assassin named Saiko who insists that he is the fiercest killer in Gotham.[13] The series Batman Incorporated relaunches with a second volume, continuing its story while taking into account the New 52's continuity changes; Dick is now depicted as Nightwing, and not as Batman, but the change is not addressed in the comic itself. In Nightwing, Dick inherits the deed to the circus from a dying C. C. Haly and begins a relationship with his childhood friend acrobat Raya Vestri. Saiko tortures Haly for information on Nightwing's secret identity, and the old man dies in Dick's arms after telling him the circus holds a terrible secret.[14] Investigating leads, he tracks down a supervillain named Feedback, who used to be a childhood friend, but does not learn anything.[15] Following Haly's clues, he finds a mysterious Book of Names in the circus that has his name on the last page.[16] Later the circus announces they will be doing a memorial show on the anniversary of the night Dick's parents were murdered, and Saiko attacks by detonating a massive explosion.[17]

It is then revealed that the circus has been training assassins for years, and Saiko was a childhood friend using Raya as an accomplice. Grayson had been selected to become a new Talon for the Court of Owls, but when Batman adopted him, Saiko took his place. The killer plummets to his death and Raya turns herself in. Returning to the Batcave, Bruce reveals to Dick that the current Talon is his great-grandfather William Cobb.[18] During the Night of the Owls event Dick faces Cobb, who was revived while protecting Mayor Hady.[19] Following the event, Dick decided to keep Haly's Circus in Gotham and plans to invest in turning an abandoned amusement park into their new location without Bruce's money.[20] He works with Sonia Branch, the daughter of Tony Zucco, the crime boss who murdered Dick's parents, into getting a loan for this plan by investing his entire trust fund despite being a high-risk due to Saiko's recent attack. The problems arise because of the guilt Sonia feels towards her father's actions [21] and many members of the circus are afraid for their lives because of the previous disasters and accuse Dick Grayson of being a flake, making it hard for those who choose to stay.[22]

The "Death of the Family" crossover event across the Batman-related comic books led to a major shift in Nightwing's status quo. During the storyline, one of Dick's friends Jimmy Clark, who worked as a circus clown, was murdered by the Joker because Joker felt like Jimmy was a knockoff of him. Nightwing later discovers Joker broke Raya out of prison, infected her with his Joker venom and has forced her to fight him while wearing a makeshift Nightwing costume. The toxin eventually killed Raya, though Nightwing tried in vain with an anti-toxin to save her. Nightwing then discovered that Joker left a message on Raya's abdomen that he was targeting Haly's Circus next.[23] However upon arriving there, Joker unveils his plan to burn the circus to the ground and then infects Nightwing with his gas that not only causes him to experience hallucinations of Jimmy and Raya, but he is soon attacked by the other members of Haly's Circus that were also affected by the toxin allowing Joker to capture him.[24]

In the aftermath, Haly's Circus is gone, with Dick broke as a result for having lost his investment. While the other circus members survived since Joker used a different Joker venom on them, they blame Dick and decide to leave after Raya and Jimmy's funeral, though deep down they know it is not his fault. Dick becomes bitter from his loss. After he used excessive force to bring down some criminals that tried to plunder valuables from the remains of the circus, Damian, having been monitoring him, is able to talk some sense into Nightwing, which helps him recover.[25]

Nightwing is later deeply affected by the death of Damian following his murder at the hands of Damian's clone, the Heretic, in Batman Incorporated. With Damian's death and potential resurrection becoming an obsession of Batman's, Dick is shunned by Bruce when he tries to tell him to move on, in Batman and Nightwing (a retitled Batman & Robin #23).

Later, the Nightwing series changes its setting to Chicago, Illinois. Sonia Branch reveals to Dick an e-mail that indicates that her father Zucco is still alive. After giving the address to Red Robin to try and track down who sent it, Robin uncovers that Zucco is residing in Chicago. Nightwing moves to Chicago in order to find and arrest Zucco, who is now living under the assumed identity of Billy Lester, an assistant to the mayor. Soon after arriving in Chicago, Dick meets his new roommates, a photojournalist named Michael and a computer specialist named Joey. After leaving the apartment to meet with Johnny Spade, a borderline criminal who steals and sells information, their meeting is interrupted by the police. A short chase results in the accidental destruction of a newly rebuilt subway. Meanwhile, a criminal hacker called the Prankster tortures, maims and kills criminal con men who are untouchable by the police.

The Chicago story is later abruptly ended by Nightwing's role in a larger company-wide crossover event. After the Crime Syndicate invade Earth Prime at the conclusion of the "Trinity War" Justice League storyline and defeat the Justice League, the DC crossover story Forever Evil depicts Nightwing's capture by the Crime Syndicate, who expose his secret identity to the world. Following their escape from the Syndicate, Batman and Catwoman decide to rescue him. He then is invited by Owlman to help defeat the Crime Syndicate, which he accepts. Nightwing is severely beaten by Ultraman and is attached to a device from a parallel world known as the Murder Machine, which is controlled by his heart rate and is reportedly impossible to escape from alive. When Batman and Lex Luthor arrive to free him, Lex stops his heart in order to fool the system so he can disarm it. However, Batman, enraged over what Lex has done, attacks him. Luthor explains it is not too late to save Grayson.[26] In an uncharacteristically heroic moment, Luthor injects Grayson's heart with adrenaline, which successfully revives Grayson. Cyborg enters, having defeated Grid, and Grayson joins Batman, Cyborg and Catwoman in freeing the Justice League from the Firestorm Matrix. After the defeat of the Syndicate, Grayson is seen with Batman in the Batcave. Batman tells him that he has to send him on the most dangerous mission he could possibly undertake.

GraysonEdit

The Nightwing title concluded in April 2014 at issue #30, and was replaced with a new title, Grayson, which depicts Dick having given up his life as Nightwing at age 22 and going undercover as an agent of the Spyral organization where the former Batwoman Kathy Kane works.[27] Written by Tim Seeley and former CIA counter-terrorism officer Tom King, the career change for Dick Grayson comes from the urging of Batman himself, who convinces him to remain dead to the world. Seeley stated that the series will be "leaning into" Grayson's sex symbol status. The character's look also is redesigned with no mask, but a blue-and-black outfit calling back to his pre-New 52 Nightwing counterpart with an addition of a "G" on his chest, said to be reminiscent of the Robin "R".[28][29]

In the "Agent of Spyral" storyline, Dick (known as Agent 37) is enlisted by Mister Minos, the director of Spyral, after having been chosen by Helena Bertinelli to serve as a new candidate. However, Dick serves as a mole under Batman due to their agenda of unmasking heroes by collecting the Paragon organs, organs in which contains the DNA of the Justice League and bestows meta-bioweapons the ability to use their powers. He assists Spyral's agenda to know more about Minos and his endgame, resulting in Spyral attaining most of the scattered organs. In a later story arc, Minos betrays Spyral and attempts to leak its secrets. To his surprise he finds the new Agent Zero, who reveals that she, along with the upper echelon of Spyral, had used Minos to attract Dick into Spyral and kills Minos as he has outlived his life full of humor.[30][31]

During Batman and Robin Eternal, Grayson finds himself working with various other members of the Bat-Family-during the time when Bruce Wayne is amnesiac after his resurrection against the ruthless villain known only as "Mother", who, it is revealed, briefly met with Batman early in Grayson's career as Robin, believing that he shared her views on using trauma to make people stronger. Mother intends to trigger a global collapse with the reasoning that the survivors will rebuild a stronger world after being broken by tragedy and without the hindrance of parents to force their ideals on them, but Grayson and the rest of the Family are able to defeat her, Dick affirming that Batman helps the Robins become their own people who can avoid the mistakes he made in dealing with his own trauma rather than Mother's belief that she and Batman each teach people to use their trauma to define themselves. At the conclusion of the storyline, Dick meets with the restored Batman, assuring Bruce that, unlike Mother, he never forced his ideals on them, but simply gave them all an example that they chose to emulate while avoiding following it so exactly that they became like him.

When the Court of Owls plant a bomb inside Damian Wayne, they are able to blackmail Dick into officially joining their organization, although all sides are aware that Grayson intends to try and use his new position against them.[32] The Grayson series ended at issue #20, where in the final issue, it was revealed that all knowledge of Dick's identity was erased from most of the world with one of Spyral's satellites, allowing Dick to resume his superhero activities as Nightwing once again.[3]

DC RebirthEdit

Starting with the DC Rebirth relaunch in 2016, Dick returned to being Nightwing with his black and blue costume, his Spyral contacts having wiped all global evidence of his dual identity and the bomb removed from Damian. He uses his new skills and expertise in espionage moving forward.[33] Nightwing is prominently featured in two Rebirth books: the fourth volume of Nightwing, his own solo book, and Titans, where Dick teams up with the other original Teen Titans after Wally West returns to the universe; through Wally, Dick remembers events of his life prior to Flashpoint and The New 52.[34] After the Titans are forcibly disbanded by the Justice League, Dick creates a new Titans team after the rupture of the Source Wall consisting of Donna Troy, Raven, Steel (Natasha Irons), Beast Boy, and Miss Martian.[35]

In his solo book, Dick is paired with a vigilante named Raptor and the two plan to bring down the Court of Owls from the inside. Barbara criticizes Dick's willingness to trust him and does not agree with his methods. Though Raptor seemed willing to play by Dick's rules of not killing, he tricks Dick into agreeing to a plan that results in the deaths of all of the Parliament of Owls in Sydney. After knocking Dick out, Raptor goes to Gotham and kidnaps Bruce during a conference. Nightwing confronts him alone in the ruins of a circus in Paris. Raptor reveals that he grew up in the circus as a child and fell in love with Dick's mother, Mary, as they stole from the rich and powerful in Paris. Raptor watched over Dick in the shadows as he grew up, and developed a hatred for Bruce Wayne as he represented everything he and Mary were against and felt it was dishonoring her memory to have Dick raised by him. Dick defeats Raptor and rescues Bruce in time.[36]

After joining forces with the pre-Flashpoint Superman to defeat the latest attack of Doctor Destiny, Dick contemplates checking out Bludhaven, based on Superman's reference to how the pre-Flashpoint Grayson acted as the city's guardian for a time,[37] and ultimately decides to go there.[38] While there he meets a supervillain rehabilitation group called the Run-Offs, all of which were villains he and Batman defeated in the past. He finds that most of them are being framed for crimes around the area and works with them to find the true culprits.[39] After solving the case and clearing their names, Dick begins dating their leader Shawn Tsang, known as the former criminal the Defacer.[40] Shawn is kidnapped by Professor Pyg after Dick discovers she might be pregnant with his child, and he teams up with Damian to track Pyg down and rescue her.[41] After Shawn is revealed not to be pregnant, she ultimately breaks up with Dick, who focuses his efforts on taking down criminals such as Blockbuster, the returning Raptor, the Judge, and Wyrm.[42]

During one of his nightly patrols with Batman, Nightwing is shot by KGBeast and nearly killed.[43] As a result, he suffered from severe memory loss and attempted to build a new life in Bludhaven. He changed his name to Ric, gave up being Nightwing, and became a taxi driver that frequently went to bars. With Bludhaven suffering from an increase in crime from the vigilante's absence, a detective named Sapienza comes across Dick's abandoned hideout in the subway and decides to become the new Nightwing.[44] Sapienza recruits a team of his friends in law enforcement to help him, and together they make a team of Nightwings using Dick Grayson's old uniforms. In addition to Sapienza, the team consists of Malcolm Hutch, the deputy chief in the Bludhaven fire department, Zak Edwards, vice of the 10th precinct, and Colleen Edwards, detective of the 14th precinct.[45]

During Year of the Villain, Ric is captured by William Cobb, his grandfather who is a Talon. A brain surgeon that Bruce hired to take care of Dick after he was shot named Dr. Haas was secretly a member of the Court, who was using a mystical memory crystal to alter Dick's memories and eventually shape him into becoming a Talon himself. William Cobb forces Ric to wear goggles and puts Dick under his spell. As a Talon, Grayson fights off other Nightwing heroes. A Nightwing hero name Connor Red shoots at Grayson's mask, making his eye visible. Connor Red pleads for mercy saying he has a family, and as the sun comes up Dick Grayson suddenly breaks out of his grandfather's control. Dick Grayson starts to remember his adventures as Nightwing. Ric defeats Talon, and saves his girlfriend Bea.[46] Afterwards, he journeys to Switzerland to learn more answers about his past from Dr. Haas, who attempts to use the crystal to alter his memories once more. However, an explosion seemingly sends her down a river to her death while Ric is able to retrieve the memory crystal she used on him. During the "Joker War" storyline, the Joker steals the memory crystal and uses it to brainwash Grayson into believing he is the Joker's adopted son, "Dicky Boy" and turns him against the Bat Family in his latest war against Batman. After Barbara gets the crystal back, Bea uses it to allow him to fully regain his memories as Dick Grayson.[47

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thelastspeecher · 4 years

Text

Spirit Touched - Chapter 6: Refugee

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 AO3

Uhhh I actually updated on AO3 like two weeks ago, I just procrastinated putting it up here on Tumblr for some reason. But here it is. Angst, Zuko doing serious soul searching, and Toph continuing to just be the best Toph she can be. Enjoy.

Again, this fic is inspired by @muffinlance‘s fic Salvage and fanart that @agent-jaselin did of it.

——————————————————————————————

Water sloshed over the rim of the bucket Zuko was carrying. The tribesman Zuko was following stopped to look back at him.

“Nuktuk, if this is too difficult for you, you can go back to your tent and play,” the tribesman said. Zuko scowled. The troops at Chameleon Bay had accepted him with open arms, though they didn’t know his proper age, and as such, tended to talk down to him and refuse to let him help with chores.

“No, I’ve got it,” he insisted. The tribesman shrugged.

“All right, if you say so.” There was a commotion off in the distance. “Huh. I wonder what’s-” Tuluk came running over. “Tuluk, is something going on?”

“Yes. The Chief is handling it, but Nuktuk needs to go back to his tent for now,” Tuluk said.

“What’s happening?” Zuko asked.

“We have a visitor,” Tuluk replied. Zuko frowned.

“What kind of visitor?”

“You’ll find out once things calm down.”

“But-”

“No buts.” Tuluk handed Zuko’s bucket of water to the tribesman, then took Zuko’s hand and led him away. Zuko looked over his shoulder. He couldn’t see much in the chaos, but caught a glimpse of red.

-----

Zuko didn’t find out what had happened until much later, when Toklo came to his tent to bring him to dinner.

“Something happened earlier. What?” Zuko asked immediately.

“It was crazy, little bro. A Fire Nation soldier walked into camp and asked to join our side.”

“Who?”

“That’s the craziest part! General Iroh! The Dragon of the West!” Toklo shook his head. “Can you believe it?”

“Yes. Uncle said he would meet up with me again,” Zuko said matter-of-factly. Toklo facepalmed.

“That’s right! He’s your uncle! Okay, it’s a bit less crazy now. But how did he know where we were?” He paused. “What do you mean, he said he would meet up with you?”

“When Hakoda and Kustaa took me to see a healer, Uncle spotted us. He asked to come aboard the Akhlut. The Chief turned him down, but at told Uncle where we were headed, so that he could meet us,” Zuko rattled off.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Toklo demanded.

“I was sick.”

“Fair enough.” Toklo took Zuko’s hand. “Time for dinner!”

“No, I want to see Uncle first,” Zuko said, yanking his hand free of Toklo’s hold.

“I don’t think-” Toklo started. Before he could finish the sentence, Zuko bolted out of the tent. “Hey!”

Zuko made a beeline for the largest tent, which served as a command center. Uncle might not be there, but Hakoda or Bato should be, and they would take him to Uncle. Right? The moment he ducked inside the tent, Zuko’s eyes landed on Uncle.

“Uncle!” Zuko shrieked happily. He ran over to the retired general. Uncle scooped him into a tight embrace.

“Nephew, it is so good to see you again.” Uncle held Zuko at arm’s distance. “You look much healthier now.” Zuko beamed. Uncle set him back on the ground. “This was not the best move to make, however.”

“What?”

“Chief Hakoda informed me before of your cover as a Water Tribe war child. The way you just behaved, while very heartwarming, was not in character for Nuktuk.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should, nephew. Keeping up appearances is very important, particularly in your situation,” Uncle said patiently.

“Luckily, I’m the only other person in the tent,” Hakoda spoke up. Zuko looked over, realizing he was there for the first time.

“Where is Uncle going to stay?” Zuko asked.

“Eventually, with you,” Uncle replied. “Chief Hakoda and I were just discussing our plans.”

“The story we’ll be telling is that General Iroh, devastated by the loss of his nephew, had his eyes opened to the reality of the war. As such, he has arrived at the camp to switch sides and offer his help.”

“Like the best of lies, it contains some truth,” Uncle said, nodding. “I won’t be allowed to be around you until Chief Hakoda’s men trust me. So I am very glad you sought me out on your own.”

“Toklo told me you were here.”

“Toklo would be…?”

“My friend.”

“Ah.” Uncle’s face creased with a broad, warm smile. “What a wonderful thing you hear you say. You should go find this friend of yours and have dinner with him.”

“But-” Zuko started.

“Don’t worry,” Hakoda said. “General Iroh will be here for a while.”

-----

“You’re very articulate for your age, Nuktuk,” gushed one of the Southern tribesmen that Zuko had yet to know by name. Zuko smiled politely. He bowed.

“Thank you,” he said. The tribesman chuckled and ruffled his hair.

“Keep up your firebending practice, kiddo. Who knows, maybe you’ll be the first Water Tribe firebending Master.” Zuko’s smile became more forced. He didn’t mean to be caught firebending, but Uncle had begun to teach him firebending again, and someone had witnessed one of the lessons. Since then, tribesmen approached him near constantly, curious about the firebending Water Tribe toddler.

“You should probably get back to work, Kenai,” Panuk said. Ah, the man’s name was Kenai. “Otherwise, you’ll get your ass beat for slacking.”

“Watch your language around the kid!” Kenai said in shock. Panuk laughed. He gave Zuko an affectionate noogie.

“The kid spent months on a ship. He knows just about every swear under the sun,” Panuk said. Kenai shook his head disapprovingly.

“Geez. Well, see you later, Nuktuk. And you too, Panuk.” Kenai walked away, whistling. Zuko smirked at Panuk.

“You’re an afterthought,” he teased. Panuk laughed.

“Only because Kenai’s a big brother. He can’t resist cute little kids.”

“That explains why he felt the need to talk to me,” Zuko said thoughtfully. “I thought word had spread about me.”

“Oh, it definitely has. There’s no one who doesn’t know who you are.” Panuk poked Zuko playfully. Zuko slapped the hand away, laughing. “Wait…you guys have a kid here?” a voice said. The hairs on the back of Zuko’s neck rose. That voice… He turned his head ever so slightly. His eyes widened. It was him.

“Huh, I guess someone doesn’t know who you are,” Panuk remarked, looking as well. He frowned. “He must be new.”

“Sokka,” Zuko ground out. Panuk’s head whipped around to stare at Zuko.

“That’s the Chief’s son?” he asked. Zuko nodded, his jaw clenched. “I see it now. They look pretty similar.”

“Why is he here?” Zuko snarled.

“Probably because, like I said, he’s the Chief’s son,” Panuk drawled. “I wonder if the Avatar’s with him.”

“That’s Nuktuk,” Hakoda informed Sokka. They were far enough away that there was no chance Sokka could recognize Zuko, but Zuko’s heart still pounded in his chest. His fingers twitched. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to run at Sokka or away from him. “We found him in a destroyed village on our way out of the South Pole. He’s been with us ever since.”

“Really? He’s just a kid! How old is he, two?”

“Four,” Hakoda said calmly. Panuk reached for Zuko’s hand.

“I think it’s time to take you somewhere else, little warrior.” The moment his hand touched Zuko’s, he let out a soft yelp of pain. “What was that about?” Zuko looked up at Panuk.

“What?”

“You burned me, squirt.”

“Oh. Whoops.” Zuko resumed glaring at Sokka, who was still arguing with Hakoda.

“Wh- you’d take a four-year-old on your ship, but not your own son? Who, I’ll remind you, was a lot older than four when you left?”

“Sokka…” Hakoda’s voice was weary. “You don’t want to be in that kid’s boots. He’s seen things no child should ever see.”

“Oh, you think I haven’t? I traveled with the Avatar!” Sokka’s shouts were beginning to attract attention. Zuko could feel the control he’d worked so hard to cultivate slipping; droplets of flame fell off his fingers, lighting the grass on fire.

-----

Iroh, while relaxing in the tent he shared with Zuko, heard bickering outside. Curious, he exited the tent. He took in the scene. Panuk and Zuko stood nearby, Zuko staring at something and Panuk stomping on smoking grass. Small flames were dancing around Zuko’s fingers, his good eye squinting in a glare to match his bad one. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the cause of Zuko’s irritation. Some distance away, but growing closer, were the people he had heard bickering: Chief Hakoda and Sokka, the Water Tribe boy that had accompanied the Avatar.

The Water Tribe boy who, in his first encounter with Zuko, had hit him in the head with a boomerang.

“It’s wonderful to see a familiar face,” Iroh said warmly, walking over to Sokka and Hakoda. Behind him, he could hear Panuk finally ushering Zuko away, out of sight of the chief’s son. Sokka stared at him.

“Hang on, you’re that one guy!” he said, eloquently. Iroh smiled.

“Yes, I am.”

“What are you doing at a Water Tribe camp?”

“After what happened at the North Pole, I could no longer stand by and allow my nation’s war to continue,” Iroh said simply. Sokka crossed his arms.

“Really,” he said flatly. “After everything the Fire Nation’s done, killing a fish was what made you realize they were evil?” Something in his voice quivered a bit, like he didn’t believe the loss of the Moon Spirit was as minimal as he was trying to make it sound. Iroh bowed his head slightly.

“Yes. I spent some time traveling the Earth Kingdom and eventually came to join this encampment, with the blessing of none other than your father,” Iroh said. His words were technically true, but left out important details. The kind of lying Iroh preferred to do.

“You trusted him, Dad?” Sokka asked. Chief Hakoda nodded. “Why?”

“People I trust spoke for him,” Chief Hakoda said simply.

“Like who?”

“Master Pakku of the Northern Water Tribe, for one.”

“Wait.” Sokka stared at Iroh. “You know Master Sourpuss?” Iroh chuckled. Sourpuss was certainly an apt description for his old friend.

“Yes. I have for some time.”

“How?”

“That’s a rather long story, and not important,” Iroh said smoothly. “Let me guess, you, your friends, and the Avatar have arrived at Ba Sing Se?”

“Yeah…”

“Would you be so kind as to allow me to walk with you? I would like to hear the wonderful stories of your adventures.” Sokka looked uncertain, but after a moment, nodded.

“Sure. But you better not be sending information back to the Fire Lord!” Sokka snapped. Hakoda rolled his eyes. Iroh merely smiled and nodded.

“Of course.”

-----

Bato found Zuko wandering around the camp, peering into tents with a confused expression.

“Are you looking for something, little warrior?” he asked. Zuko looked up at him, brow furrowed.

“Where’s Uncle?”

“He went with Sokka and Aang to Ba Sing Se,” Bato replied. Zuko crossed his arms.

“Stupid Avatar. He’s my uncle,” Zuko muttered. Bato covered his mouth, poorly smothering a snicker at the firebender’s immature behavior. Zuko stomped his foot. “Don’t laugh!”

“Relax. Come on, it’s time for your nap, anyways.” Bato took Zuko’s hand and led him back to the tent Zuko shared with Iroh. Toklo was already there, looking for Zuko.

“Where’d you run off to, little brother?” Toklo teased.

“I was looking for Uncle,” Zuko mumbled. He let out a small yawn.

“When Iroh gets back, I’ll send him your way,” Bato promised. Zuko nodded. Toklo led him into the tent for his nap.

Zuko was still napping when chaos erupted at the encampment. Bato and Hakoda were in the midst of going over battle plans, only for Katara to burst in the head tent. The excitement Hakoda felt at seeing his daughter was quickly subdued when Sokka came in close behind, carrying the unnervingly still body of the Avatar.

“What…happened?” Hakoda croaked, staring at Aang.

“Lightning,” huffed a short girl, who, judging by her milky eyes, was blind. Katara laid Aang on the ground and held glowing water over his body. Her forehead was drenched in sweat, her hands shaking. Sokka didn’t seem to be doing much better. “The Fire Princess struck Aang with lightning.” A man in extravagant, expensive clothes poked his head into the tent curiously.

“What should I do?” he asked. The short girl huffed again.

“Could someone entertain the Earth King?” she asked, turning her sightless eyes in the direction of Hakoda and Bato.

“…Earth King?” Hakoda and Bato said simultaneously.

“Kids, what happened?” Hakoda repeated.

“I told you, lightning.”

“I need more information than that.”

“After I’ve stabilized Aang, we can talk, Dad, but right now, I need to focus,” Katara snapped. Hakoda bit back an instinct to scold her for her tone. She was under an immense amount of stress; it was more than understandable she’d be on edge. Sokka got up from where he was crouching at Aang’s side.

“I can explain. It’s better if we leave the tent while Katara heals Aang. Toph, stay here.” The blind girl, apparently named Toph, nodded. Sokka, Hakoda, and Bato left the tent.

“What in the world is that thing?” Bato asked, staring at the strange creature before them.

“It’s a bear,” Sokka answered.

“Platypus-bear?”

“No, just a bear. Weird, I know.” Sokka sighed. “He’s the Earth King’s best friend or something like that, so the bear came with us when Ba Sing Se fell.”

“Ba Sing Se fell?” Hakoda asked in an undertone. Sokka’s head drooped.

“Yeah. Princess Azula staged a coup. We got out with the Earth King and his bear, but during the fight, Aang was struck by lightning.”

“What about Iroh?” Bato pried. Sokka slumped further.

“He was taken prisoner. We had the one good firebender in the world on our side, and we let him get caught.”

“I’m sure Iroh isn’t the only good firebender,” Hakoda said, resting a hand on Sokka’s shoulder. His gaze fell on Zuko and Iroh’s tent, where the toddler was, presumably, still fast asleep.

“I don’t know, Dad. It really seems like he is.” Sokka rubbed his eyes, drawing Hakoda’s attention to just how tired his son seemed. Hakoda yearned to just tell Sokka to go to bed. But if Ba Sing Se had truly fallen, they had no time to waste. They needed to abandon the encampment and set sail immediately. Hakoda squeezed Sokka’s shoulder.

“Stay here with your sister. Bato, spread the word that we need to leave now. I’ll take care of Nuktuk.” Bato’s eyes widened.

“The kid is not going to be happy.”

“That’s why I’ll be breaking the news to him.” Hakoda squeezed Sokka’s shoulder one more time and set off for Zuko and Iroh’s tent.

-----

The tent didn’t burn down. But only barely. Zuko’s initial, destructive meltdown upon hearing what had happened to Iroh exhausted him so much that he passed out soon after. It was easy enough to smuggle the sleeping toddler aboard the Akhlut without Hakoda’s children or his children’s friends noticing. Keeping up the secrecy was far more difficult.

“Why won’t you let them see you?” Hakoda asked. Weary from stress, his voice came out harsher than he intended. Zuko flinched slightly. “I’m sorry, Zuko, I didn’t mean to say it that way. But you know they won’t recognize you, right?”

“They might,” Zuko mumbled. “I can’t risk it. I’ll be humiliated.”

“…Fine. But you’ll have to ask Toklo or Panuk to help you move around the ship without being seen. I’m busy.” The Akhlut, though beloved, would need to be abandoned. There were too many Fire Navy ships now. As such, they had plans to take a Fire Nation ship themselves. Hakoda had been working on those very plans when Zuko entered his cabin, wanting attention.

Of course he wants attention, his life has been upheaved and he’s lost his uncle again. Hakoda pinched the bridge of his nose and took a calming breath. He could hear Kya’s voice, scolding him for not explaining why he was saying “no” to a toddler. Young children will cooperate more if they have an explanation. Zuko is no exception. Explain things to him.

“Once we’ve captured a new ship, I might be able to spend some more time with you. At the very least, you won’t have to hide. I imagine we can find you your own room.” Hakoda forced a smile. “Would you like that?”

“Maybe,” Zuko mumbled. He cocked his head curiously. “We’re capturing a ship?”

“You aren’t. But the rest of us are. The Fire Nation is sending their Navy to Ba Sing Se, to prevent any early uprisings. The Akhlut stands out. It’s best if we blend in.” Zuko nodded slowly. “I understand if you feel uncomfortable with this, but it’s our only option.” Zuko nodded again.

“Can I…stay in here?” he asked. Hakoda stifled a sigh.

He’s a lonely child. He’s always been. Hakoda nodded.

“If you stay quiet, yes.” Zuko beamed. He walked over to Hakoda and climbed onto the chief’s lap. As Hakoda worked on the plans, Zuko occasionally piped up with a comment about Fire Navy ships. The intermittent inputs became further and further apart. When it had been some time since Zuko last spoke, Hakoda looked down at his lap.

The former Fire Nation Prince had fallen asleep, lulled by the late hour, gentle swaying of the boat, and Hakoda’s body heat.

-----

They were having another awkwardly silent meal when Toph finally said something she’d had on her mind the minute they all boarded a metal ship, allowing her to “see” again.

“What’s the deal with the kid?” she asked. Hakoda casually set his chopsticks down. To someone who could see, no doubt he appeared untroubled. But to someone who could see, he was nervous. The chief’s heartrate had sped up immediately.

“There are a lot of children on board,” Hakoda said calmly. “Namely, the three of you and Aang.”

“No, there’s someone here even younger than us,” Toph said. “They’re running around on the deck right now.” Katara rose from her seat, presumably to glance out the window that opened onto the deck.

“Toph’s right,” Katara said.

“No need to sound so surprised,” Toph grumbled, pretending to be offended.

“I wasn’t-” Katara huffed. She sat back down. “That looked like a little boy, younger than some of the kids were when we left the village.” Hakoda sighed.

“I was hoping to keep him hidden from you.”

“Why?” Katara asked.

“You shouldn’t be distracted from your current mission.”

Lie.

“Not to mention, he’s rather shy.”

Truth.

“What’s his name?” Toph asked.

“Nuktuk.”

Lie.

“We found him in a mostly destroyed village as we were leaving the South Pole.”

Lie.

“Wait, that’s the kid that I saw in camp that one day,” Sokka said suddenly.

“Yes.”

Truth.

“How old is he?” Katara asked.

“Four,” Hakoda replied. Toph’s eyes widened slightly. That hadn’t felt like a full lie nor a full truth. She settled her expression to be neutral again. “Please don’t seek him out. I know you might want to spend time with him, particularly you, Katara, but like I said, he’s shy. And he’s going through some things.”

“Like what?” Toph asked. She picked up her chopsticks.

“Well, he lost his uncle during the fall of Ba Sing Se. He’s been very upset about it.”

“Poor thing,” Katara murmured. Toph picked at her food idly.

Truth.

-----

The ocean was boring for a blind earthbender. Toph didn’t spend any time on deck if she could avoid it. Not when sudden gusts of wind might try to blow her away. Their only airbender was out of commission, so it wouldn’t be easy to bring her back.

At the casual reminder of Aang’s state, Toph felt a twinge of sadness. She shook it off, refocusing on her mission. There was a toddler on this ship using a fake name and a fake backstory. Sure, it wasn’t as fun to investigate as the mysteries of Ba Sing Se, but it was better than staring at water she couldn’t see.

Toph made her way belowdeck, past the mess hall and infirmary, finally coming to a stop outside of a small cabin. Inside the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was “Nuktuk”. She opened the door. The boy sprang to his feet instantly. A wave of heat washed over Toph. She cocked her head curiously, recognizing the sensation as that of fire.

“That’s why the chief doesn’t want anyone to know about you,” she said calmly. “You’re a firebender.” The boy’s heartrate doubled.

“How- you- but you’re blind!” he finally squeaked. Toph entered the room and closed the door behind her.

“Yeah, but I can still probably see better than you, Sparky.” The boy let out another squeak of protest at the nickname. “Who are you, really?”

“I’m- I’m Nuktuk.”

Lie.

“Who are you?” the boy asked. Toph sat on the floor, her feet flush against the metal so she could keep track of the kid’s heartbeat.

“You know what? I’ll tell you the truth if you tell me the truth,” she said. “That seems like a fair trade to me.” The boy wavered. After a moment, he sat across from her. The heat faded, presumably because he had put out whatever flames he’d created.

“How’d you know I lied?” he asked quietly.

“That’s for me to know, not you.”

“Hmph.”

“What’s your real name?” Toph asked again.

“…I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or don’t want to?”

“The- the second one.”

Truth.

“I’ll tell you the truth now. I’m Toph. Why don’t you want to tell me your real name?”

“Then you’ll know who I am. And that’s embarrassing. Also…you wouldn’t like me.”

Truth.

“All right. Since you told the truth again, here’s another from me. I knew you lied because I’m an earthbender.” The boy huffed quietly, like he didn’t believe her. “Why wouldn’t I like you if I knew who you were? I already figured out that you were a firebender, and I’m not exactly trying to attack you or anything.” The boy stayed silent, but fidgeted slightly. The temperature in the room rose.

All right, touchy subject. Moving on.

“The Chief said you lost your uncle when Ba Sing Se fell.”

“…Yeah.”

“Was he in the city or something? How’d you know you lost him?”

“People- people saw it happen. And they told other people. And the other people told me.”

“Who? The only people that I know of who were able to escape to the camp were the people on Appa. Appa is-”

“I know who Appa is,” the boy groused.

Truth.

“Well, like I said, only the people on Appa made it to the camp. And none of us would have known some random firebender’s uncle.” Something clicked into place. “Unless…” The boy’s heartrate, which had slowed somewhat, picked up again. “Was your uncle Iroh?”

“No!” the boy blurted out immediately.

Lie.

“Iroh said he had a nephew,” Toph said, thinking out loud. The boy’s heart sped even faster. “I never met his nephew, but Katara and Sokka and Aang did. Apparently, he chased them around the world for a long time, before he disappeared without a trace. The only problem is, they said he was sixteen. How old are you?”

“Four.”

Again, that weird “not a full lie, not a full truth” thing. But the boy seemed to think it was more of a lie than the Chief did. Not to mention, Toph hadn’t met a lot of children, but she felt like someone who was actually four wouldn’t be more eloquent than Sokka.

“…Zuko?” Toph asked quietly. The boy sprung to his feet, his heart beating so fast, Toph was surprised he didn’t keel over then and there.

“How- you-” he spluttered.

“So you are Zuko,” Toph said. The boy – Zuko – stayed standing. “Spirits, what happened to you, if you’re-” Toph made a vague gesture in Zuko’s direction. “-this?”

“You answered it,” Zuko said. He sat down again. “Spirits.” A scowl shone through his irritated tone.

“Spirits turned you into a little kid?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. That stinks,” Toph said casually. Zuko let out a soft snort.

“It does.” He fidgeted. “You- you can’t tell anyone about it, okay? I’ll die if that Water Tribe boy finds out what I’ve been reduced to.”

Truth. Man, he is really embarrassed by this.

“Why are you so embarrassed?” Toph asked. “I mean, you didn’t do it. The spirits did it.”

“It’s still- it’s-” Zuko was spluttering again. “You’re what, ten?”

“Twelve.”

“Does the Water Tribe boy treat you like a kid, even though you’re younger than him?”

“No.” Toph grinned viciously. “He knows I’d kick his ass.”

“I don’t have that luxury. He might be a non-bender, but I’m…” Zuko cleared his throat. “I don’t have access to my full abilities currently, and I’m much smaller than usual. Both the Water Tribe children would harass me for it, but the boy would never let me live it down.”

“I getcha.” Toph got up. “No worries, Sparky, your secret’s safe with me.”

“…Really?” Zuko asked. Toph nodded.

“I get it. I’ve been treated like shit for things I can’t control. I’m not about doing that to others.”

“I’ve heard you teasing your teammates,” Zuko said doubtfully.

“Yeah, over things they can control, like their terrible jokes. You can’t control what the spirits did to you. You don’t deserve to be messed with for it. Especially since you seem like a nice enough kid.”

Zuko spluttered again.

Toph grinned.

“Good luck turning back into a teenager.” Toph headed for the door. Just as she opened it, Zuko mumbled something, quiet enough that she barely heard.

“Thanks.”

-----

Running footsteps sounded in the hall. Curious, Zuko cracked open the door to his room and peered out. His eyes widened.

The Avatar was awake.

And judging by his clumsiness, either disoriented from how long he spent asleep or drunk. After the Avatar had stumbled out of Zuko’s view, he closed the door again.

-----

The door to Zuko’s room slowly creaked open. Zuko jumped to his feet, abandoning the Pai Sho board he was practicing with. The intruder blinked at Zuko owlishly.

“…This isn’t my room.”

“No. It’s mine,” Zuko said firmly. The intruder stepped inside. A shiver ran down Zuko’s spine. It was the Avatar. The Avatar approached Zuko and crouched down, smiling warmly at him.

“I didn’t know there was a kid on this ship.”

“I’m not a kid,” Zuko retorted. The Avatar chuckled. The serious, uncertain demeanor he’d had when entering seemed to have lessened.

Good. It’s weird if he’s not annoyingly upbeat.

“I’m Aang. What’s your name?”

“…Nuktuk.”

“Nuktuk. That’s a really tough name! I bet you’ll be a great Water Tribe warrior someday!” the Avatar said cheerfully. “Why are you on the ship?”

“I…” Zuko looked away. The Avatar let out a soft gasp. Zuko bit back a curse. The shadows in the room must have obscured his scar, only for it to become obvious when he’d turned his head. Surely, the Avatar would figure out who he was.

“Nuktuk, how did you get that scar?” the Avatar asked gently. Zuko looked at him, surprised.

He…doesn’t recognize me?

“A…” Zuko fumbled for a response, then remembered his cover story. “A bad man.”

“A bad man,” the Avatar repeated. Zuko nodded. “Is the bad man why you’re on the ship?” Zuko nodded again. “Is your family on the ship?”

“No. The bad man hurt them.” Zuko shrugged. “I’m alone.” The Avatar sat back, horror etched on his face. Zuko worked furiously to control his own facial expression. But rather than horrified, he felt indignant.

Really? The Avatar’s own people were killed. Is he actually still moved by the tragedies of war, even after witnessing so many? Despite his best attempts to doubt the Avatar’s sincerity, Zuko knew the answer to that question.

The Avatar was deeply affected by every reminder of what war wrought.

“Nuktuk, I’m sorry,” the Avatar said softly. Zuko blinked, startled. “It’s- it’s my fault the bad man hurt you and your family, leaving you all alone. I’m the Avatar. My responsibility is to prevent innocent people from being hurt, especially innocent little kids like you.” The Avatar got to his feet, determination shining in his weary gray eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m going to bring that bad man, and all the other bad men, to justice.”

“Y-you are?” Zuko squeaked.

Is a literal twelve-year-old going to confront my father? The Avatar nodded.

“I am.” The Avatar managed a small smile. “And just so you know…” The Avatar trailed off. He cleared his throat. “I was the only one left, too. We’ve got that in common. And if we’ve got something in common, then we aren’t really alone.” He ruffled Zuko’s hair. “Good night, Nuktuk.” The Avatar left, closing the door gently behind him.

When Panuk checked on Zuko later, to make sure he’d actually gone to bed, the former prince was still staring silently at the door.

-----

The Avatar’s allies were saying their goodbyes to the crew during the night. It was the best way to avoid detection.

For some reason, Zuko had been brought on deck for the farewell, though he had to be woken up. He stood next to Bato, still bleary from sleep, hiding the scarred side of his face behind the crewman’s leg. Even if they saw his scar, it wasn’t likely he’d be recognized, but he didn’t want to risk it.

Toph punched Toklo and Panuk’s shoulders; she had gotten along well with them. The only other thing she did before boarding the Avatar’s sky bison was look in Zuko’s direction. She nodded silently. Zuko returned the gesture, then held himself still as the Water Tribe girl – Katara – walked over to him. She crouched down to his eye-height and gently stroked his hair.

“It was nice to finally meet you, Nuktuk,” she said sweetly. Zuko looked away, part of him reeling with how tender her voice could be.

Of course, the only other times she’s spoken with me, we weren’t exactly on good terms.

“Don’t worry, we’re going to get the Avatar and help him take down the Fire Lord. You’ll be reunited with your uncle before you know it.”

“…Thanks,” Zuko mumbled into Bato’s leg. Katara’s eyes softened further.

“Katara, come on, stop fussing over the baby,” Sokka shouted from the Avatar’s sky bison. He had made his goodbyes first. Katara stood to her full height and embraced her father.

“Be careful, sweetie,” Hakoda said.

“I’ll do my best.” Katara broke off the hug. “We’ll see you on the Day of Black Sun.” Zuko’s eyes widened.

The solar eclipse? They know about that?

“Yes. Remember what I told you.”

“Take care of each other,” Katara intoned solemnly. Hakoda smiled and stroked Katara’s cheek.

“That’s right.”

-----

Zuko watched the sky bison fly away, an uncomfortable churning in his gut. Without the constant fear of being discovered by the Water Tribe children in the back of his mind, the enormity of his situation came crashing down upon him.

Things had improved for a while, but now? Now, he was back to square one. No, even worse than square one. Uncle wasn’t captured before. There was at least one holdout in the entire Earth Kingdom before. Zuko could pretend the Avatar was continuing his streak of avoiding real harm before.

None of those were true now.

Zuko slowly sat down on the deck, staring at the metal silently.

“Are you all right?” Hakoda asked. Zuko shrugged. “It’s a yes or no answer.” The boy remained silent. Hakoda sighed. “Well, in that case, why don’t you-”

“We know about the solar eclipse,” Zuko blurted out. The crew, which had begun to resume regular duties after the bison’s departure, froze. Hakoda crouched next to Zuko.

“By ‘we’, you mean…”

“The Fire Nation.” Someone swore softly. “Of course the Fire Nation knows about the solar eclipse! Firebenders have a vested interest in their ability to firebend!”

“Zuko.” Zuko looked up at Hakoda. “Thank you for telling me this.”

“You’re welcome,” Zuko mumbled. Hakoda got to his feet.

“We’ll need to send a bird immediately to our allies. If the Fire Nation knows about the eclipse, they’ll have prepared for it.” Hakoda looked at Zuko. “Right?” Zuko nodded.

“This is going to mess up our plans,” Bato said. Hakoda grinned.

“No, it’s going to make them better.”

“We don’t know what the Fire Nation’s preparations will be like,” Tuluk argued.

“We don’t.” Hakoda looked at Zuko again. “But we’ve got someone on board who does.”

“I don’t know if the kid’s willing to turn against his people,” Aake rumbled. Zuko crossed his arms.

“The kid is right here,” he snapped. Aake raised an eyebrow.

“Are you willing to turn against your people?” he asked. The churning in Zuko’s stomach amplified.

My people. Yue had told him not to turn his back on his people. But if he told the crew how the Fire Nation prepared for the eclipse, he would be doing just that. Although…would I? His people weren’t just the Fire Nation anymore. He’d been helped by all the nations. Even the Avatar had promised to bring justice to those who had hurt him.

Zuko touched his scar.

He thought of the 41st Division, the soldiers sent to their deaths as canon fodder. Surely, ending the war wouldn’t help just the Water Tribes and Earth Kingdom. The people of the Fire Nation were suffering, too.

Zuko’s hand fell from his face. The churning in his stomach quieted. He looked up at Hakoda, his eyes meeting the Chief’s squarely.

“I’m not turning against my people,” he said. “I’m doing my part to end a war that has hurt us all. I’ll tell you everything I know.” A proud smile slowly spread across Hakoda’s face.

“Thank you, son.”

…Son?

“You can tell me in the morning. For now, you should go back to sleep,” Hakoda said. Zuko nodded as tiredness abruptly hit him over the head. He allowed Kustaa to lead him to the infirmary, where his furs were waiting.

The full moon shining down brightened. Just a bit.

#Zuko #Uncle Iroh #Hakoda #Bato #Toph #Sokka #Katara #Aang #ATLA #Spirit Touched #btw no fucking clue when the final chapter goes up. it's been slow going for writing #.....sigh. the curse of the fic writer.#I haven't been as inspired as I was for the previous chapters #(also I've been feeling guilty about my GF WIPs and that's been making my writing slower too)#my writing #my stuff #fanfiction #speecher speaks

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easybuttonaddict · 4 years

Text

I had a very intense dream about The Witcher last night, and given that it won’t leave my head I figured that I may as well write it down.

It has been centuries since the story that we know and love, and while the continent is undergoing a period of advancement, peace, and economic prosperity, monsters are coming back into the world. None of the scholars, sorcerers, or scientists can figure out why this is happening, but there is one thing that has been agreed upon: more witchers are needed.

Witchers aren’t feared like they used to be. Jaskier’s songs, and Ciri’s now legendary life, have done much to improve the reputation of the profession, though there is still a lingering unease among many. However, the fact remains that there are only a handful of witchers left, and the monsters are only getting more numerous. But it is well known that the process of creating witchers leaves a lot of dead children in its wake, and in this more advanced time, that prospect leaves the majority of people feeling distasteful at best.

That is, until one bright mind in Novigrad comes up with a solution. A simple blood test, a product of science and magic, that will in less than half an hour determine whether a person’s body will be able to handle the mutagenic substances that create witchers. Of course, there is a catch: this new process demonstrates that the mutagens will only work on the young. Still, the whole thing makes everyone a lot more comfortable with the idea – everyone except the actual witchers, that is.

In the generations since Ciri’s passing (of old age, in her flourishing, rebuilt kingdom) Geralt has grown tired. Physically he’s just as strong as ever, but he is also weary and sick of life on the Path. Still, when the rulers of the various kingdoms start clamoring for him, as the most well-known and experienced witcher on the continent, to train and create new witchers, he categorically refuses over and over again. It takes a visit from Ciri’s great grandson, now the king of Cintra, and from Yennefer, ever the pragmatist, for him to relent and agree to take on a handful of students as a trial-run.

Geralt grumpily heads to Kaer Morhen to await his new protégées, along with Jaskier, who has agreed to teach the witchers-to-be the academic subjects that don’t involve monster slaying. (Jaskier still looks like he’s in his thirties. Nobody really seems to question it.) Geralt has only one ground rule: all of the candidates have to be old enough to know what’s happening and decide for themselves if they want to be there.

The very first arrival breaks Geralt’s only rule. It’s the middle of the night and a storm is raging in the mountains when a woman and her sobbing son arrive at Kaer Morhen. The boy, who cannot possibly be thirteen yet, begs his mother not to leave him with the witcher. The woman snaps that she is not his mother, and explains that he is an unwanted child of surprise. Either Geralt takes him, she says, or the storm does. Geralt is furious, of course, but the whole situation is bringing up long repressed memories of his own abandonment, and he can’t just leave the boy to die, so Adram of Lyria becomes his first charge.

After that, the rest of the prospective trainees arrive quickly. Most Geralt turns away, knowing that they won’t be able to handle the gruelling process, but some stay.

Stefan, a foster kid from Novigrad, is the oldest of the recruits at seventeen. A powerfully built kid who dreamed of having a future in the city guard, Stefan broke his knee a few years ago and it healed badly. Now angry at the world, he knows that his only shot at life relies on the witcher mutagen. As cultured as Novigrad claims to be, it has no real use for disabled orphans, and has no problem with sending one into the jaws of the Wolf School.

Sanva Aep Redlard was part of the Nilfgaardian state-sponsored gymnast program, until she hit her rebellious, party girl phase and was kicked out at fifteen. Her guardians tested her for mutagen tolerance mostly as a threat, but once the test came back positive, political pressures forced them to send her to Geralt. She got a lot of press as a female, Nilfgaardian witcher-to-be, and while this is not what she wants out of life, she is determined to take her freedom any way she can.

Aedirn, a little more traditional in that respect, only tested and considered male candidates to send. They eventually decide on the twelve-year-old Vernart of Aldersberg. Vernart comes from a good family, but not too good, and is skilled, but not so skilled that him leaving would be a real loss to the kingdom. What really makes Geralt accept him into the program is the fact that his older sister Semne managed the journey to Kaer Morhen on her own, arriving three days after him and furiously declaring that they are a package deal. Geralt is impressed enough with her tenacity and survival skills that once it’s shown that she can manage the mutations, both siblings stay.

The last and youngest candidate to arrive is Fexe of Cintra, a bright-eyed and shockingly noble-born eleven-year-old who genuinely dreams of becoming a witcher. Fexe has grown up on stories of the White Wolf, and he hero worships Geralt, wanting to be exactly like him. His indulgent and loving parents are saddened to lose their son, but are willing to let him follow his passion, and bring him to Kaer Morhen to see him off. Fexe had been previously training to be a knight, so his skills are undeniable, but Geralt is baffled by the boy’s enthusiasm, and will tell anyone who will listen (mostly Jaskier) about how Fexe is the height of foolishness.

With that, Geralt and his six charges settle into the mountains to begin the Wolf School anew. Geralt undertakes their training with great reluctance, and swears that he is going to stay as distant and objective as possible, refusing to grow attached in any way.

Naturally, he ends up adopting all of them.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #kaer morhen #fanfic #kinda #really just elaborating on a very vivid dream I had #dunno if it makes much sense but here you go anyways #my wriitng

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redsamuraiii · 4 years

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Seven Samurai

Art Source : https://byrslf.co/seven-samurai-taught-me-to-avoid-one-terrible-mistake-we-usually-make-when-someone-rejects-us-705c00efccbc

So I finally managed to watch this brilliant classic masterpiece. Despite it being three hours, you don’t actually feel that it’s that long due to the compelling characters, thought provoking dialogues and interesting stories that waste no time in “fillers”, getting you hooked right from the opening scene.

Unlike many romanticized Samurai films, this one takes an interesting spin on realism, depicting the harsh realities of life in Sengoku period, from the farmers point of view, being oppressed by the powerful villainous Samurai that constantly hassled them for rice, food, supplies and women.

It gives you a clarity as to why Buddhism is popular among the common folks to help them through the highly uncertain hard times, dealing with drought, bandits, extreme taxation and more, and also why some even convert to Christianity later on, to erase their past, pain and suffering to find peace.

It’s about the farmers in a village who grew weary and tired of constantly living in fear and watching their hard work of harvesting the rice, their wives, daughters and sisters being stolen by the bandits and decides to change their fate by hiring Samurai in return for their scarce rice, but who is willing to help them for rice?

This is where the journey takes you to follow a group of farmers venturing into the city to find a Samurai who is willing to fight for them in exchange for rice, a Samurai that is not too ambitious or too proud but humble and hungry enough to help them, a task which appears to be impossible until one lone Samurai crossed path with them and changed everything.

What’s interesting about this is that the “heroes” are not what you expect, in a sense that they’re not a full fledged Samurai in shining colorful armor and banners raising their katana up high and leading the charge against overwhelming odds in an attempt to die honorably in fighting. They’re more of a Ronin than a Samurai.

This caused some of the farmers to have second thoughts about hiring them as they suddenly realized why these people are willing to help them, surely they might want something more than just rice as payment. Fearing that they might go after their daughters, the villagers started asking the girls to cut off their hair and go bald to prevent them from catching the eyes of the Ronin.

This caused the villagers to hide when the Seven Samurai arrived in the village, expecting a warm welcome for their willingness to help them out against the bandits when no other Samurai accepted them. Insulted, they went to see the old man of the village, whom explained that farmers always live their lives in fear and full of worries even in good times and ask for forgiveness.

Good thing is that they are a reasonable bunch. So who are they exactly?

Art by https://www.deviantart.com/gattoverde

Kikuchiyo is a humorous, mercurial and temperamental rogue who was born a farmer but lies about being a samurai as he is tired of being pushed around by the strong and resented the farmers for being weak, perhaps reminding him of his mysterious past that he did not share. But he’s eventually accepted by the other six Samurai in defending the village after proving his worth and resourcefulness.

Kambei Shimada is a war-weary but honorable and strategic rōnin, the first one the farmers encountered and hired, whom eventually became the leader of the seven due to his wise temperament and vast experience in battles. Despite the numerous battles he participated, he tends to unluckily fight for the losing side, which makes it even harder for him to gain employment as a Samurai as he grow older.

Shichirōji is Kambei's old friend and former lieutenant, the second Samurai to join in helping out the farmer. He caught the attention of the farmers with is calm demeanor and was spotted talking nicely with a group of children playing around in the city and was asked to meet Kambei who is hiring six Samurai for a skirmish against bandits.

Katsushirō Okamoto is the untested son of a wealthy landowner samurai, whom Kambei reluctantly takes in as a disciple. The youngest and the most eager to join the group in defending the farmers against the bandits to prove his worth that he is more than just a son of a wealthy landowner.

Heihachi Hayashida is an amiable though less-skilled fighter, whose charm and wit maintain his comrades' morale in the face of adversity. He was found cutting woods for a local in the city in exchange for rice, a hungry enough man that met the list of requirement to join the group.

Kyūzō is a serious, stone-faced and supremely skilled swordsman. Despite his old age, he proves to be extremely quick in a slaying his opponent in a sword fight which impressed Kambei and the others. He initially declined them but eventually reconsidered and joined them to fight the bandits, perhaps to test his already renowned fighting skills.

Gorōbei Katayama is a skilled archer, who acts as Kambei's second-in-command and helps create the master plan for the village's defense.

If you haven’t watch it, I highly recommend that you do as you will grew to like these seven characters. The story setting is pretty much similar to Zatoichi series if you have watched that. It’s an amazing film that influenced Star Wars to follow its plot for its Clone Wars and Mandalorian series where the heroes helped a village in fighting against pirates and the Empire itself.

#seven samurai #samurai #ronin #bushido #sengoku #feudal japan #japan #star wars #my review #zatoichi

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talltales · 4 years

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pair: jaebeom / reader desc: 'i love you,' she thinks and it's just like old times words: 2.4k+ rated: 14+ genre: romance notice: attempts at fluff thanks: to christine, for helping me get this far gifted: to chloe. happy birthday baby!! this is all for you.

—YOU COULD BE HAPPY; I HOPE YOU ARE YOU MADE ME HAPPIER THAN I'D BEEN BY FAR

it takes no less than three lifetimes to get it right.

- one -

winter is a breath away. it descends on the last remnants of autumn with grace; the leaves fall away in the mornings, and the stars glimmer all that much brighter in the dusk. she longs for the sun, for the afternoons when it lingered long enough to cast the skies in brilliant tones of gold.

“your meal is prepared,” comes a muted voice from her side. the handmaiden stands outside the sliding doors, her hands clasped loosely at her front. it is an old, familiar posture; one she had to unlearn as the eras passed, from one rebirth to the next.

in her first, she’d been his servant. he lingers at the ends of her memory, nameless. but in all her lifetimes, she has never forgotten the warmth of his fingertips.

quietly, she rises to her feet and offers the girl a faint smile.

“thank you,” she murmurs as she passes, because she recalls the feeling of callouses on the tips of her fingers and the dizzying sensation of walking on eggshells, “you are dismissed.”

with her permission, the girl vanishes down the corridor.

and she turns to regard the opaque screen; steps close until the bottom is pressed to the tips of her toes. this era is all too similar to their first. a feudal one filled to the brim with dirt, tears and ruin. the lords squabble over land and the power that it promises. and despite occupying this delicate body for sixteen years, she is unaccustomed to living in their midst, not as a servant but as part of them; their flesh and blood.

respected. adored. and it means nothing, when he is still out of reach.

her pulse flitters about like a caged bird. she is aware of his presence in inexplicable ways—as if he is the gravity that keeps her bound to earth. maybe it’s the other way around, since she is the one that always remembers.

he is inside.

she opens her eyes—unaware that they had even fallen shut—and steps beyond the threshold. the table set before her is heavy with dishes and fragrant cups of tea. a waste, since she is eating alone.

with a sidelong look, she examines him. ever silent, he adjusts the sword tied to his hip and—if possible—straightens even more. the metals on his uniform glimmer in the candlelight and this, she thinks, is the closest he’s ever been to the man she met many lifetimes ago.

even as a common guard, he easily takes command of her attention.

“milady,” he greets her, a deep timbre that resonates with memory so fully that her breath catches. if there is anything that has not changed, it is the sound of his voice.

if he notices the faltering of her movements as she kneels before her table, he doesn’t comment. her nameless guard is a stoic man, self-assured and able. she feels his gaze fall upon her back; feels the afterglow of it on the curve of her neck.

“what is your name?” she inquires, keeping her eyes fixed on the spread before her. carefully, she picks up her utensils and takes her first bite. it is a delicious waste of effort and precious resources.

when she looks back, he is thoughtful—seemingly weighing the merit of answering. the twin moles perched over his eye shift with the furrowing of his brow.

“haejin,” he says, after a minute.

but that isn’t right.

though it should be something that she expected, when her name has changed more times than she cares to count.

“haejin,” she tests it out on her tongue, finding it unfamiliar but not entirely unpalatable, “thank you for sharing.”

he appears to be at a loss for words—either for the ease with which she speaks to him as an equal, or the way her eyes sparkle with humor.

“you’re welcome, milady,” he breathes out, lips quirking into the smallest of smiles. it is a first, for all the time that he’s trailed after her, as silent as her shadow, and just as close.

it takes weeks to draw forth a real smile and this, she concludes, is what trying to bleed a stone must feel like.

haejin-ah, she calls him when they’re alone, just to watch the flush of his cheeks in the cool sunlight. she takes pleasure in disarming him—peeling away the layers of consternation that make him seem much older than he really is.

it is startlingly easy to make him blush.

she makes him laugh, eventually. three months into their unconventional friendship, she tells an off-color joke and witnesses the gradual shift in him. his shoulders shake before the sound erupts from his lips—full of mirth, tinged with disbelief.

she thinks she could live the rest of her wasteful life with this man.

when he is sent to the front lines of her lord father’s campaign and dies in the dirt, haejin is given a perfunctory mention for his efforts. his body is buried in the countryside with no marker.

somehow, she manages the journey back to her chambers before she falls apart.

- two -

like lazarus, he rises again.

but this time—thankfully—he is no soldier.

he is a watchmaker. it is by coincidence that she stumbles into his orbit. but it is no accident when she enters his small shop, accompanied by the jingling of bells over her head. the telltale fluttering of her heartbeat confirms his identity before he turns from his small desk and gives her a welcoming smile.

the sign on the door tells her that his name is jaehyun.

“hello,” his glasses are perched low on his nose—tiny things made for his work. he raises a hand to take them off and sets them aside, before rolling his sleeves to his elbows, “what can i do for you today?”

there are the faintest hints of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. it has taken longer than expected to find him, though it isn’t for lack of trying. he is as beautiful as he’d been at nineteen; her haejin had died young—

this iteration of him, her nameless lover, has lived a fuller life.

his wedding band clinks against the counter.

too late.

it’s hard to tell, he may be in his late thirties. maybe his forties. she’s twenty-two, and this, she thinks, is why she missed him this time.

“i have a pocket watch that i would like you to look at,” his hand turns palm up, ready to accept the broken thing. she pulls it from the pocket of her dress and sets it within his grasp. “it’s very important to me.”

he nods, “i’ll take care of it, miss—”

“just miss is fine.”

he is undeterred.

she busies herself with flipping through the paper folded in front of her, though her eyes register little more than the gleam of silver wrapped around his ring finger. for his part, he takes just a moment to examine the item—some old thing she’d picked up at a thrift shop—while humming a tune under his breath.

his melody matches that of the soft jazz emanating from the record player in the corner.

“good news,” he says, and his eyes crinkle at the edges as he grins, perhaps playfully, “i think i can save it.”

she longs to grow old with him, just once.

“how much will it cost?” running her fingertips along the edge of the paper, she maintains a steady focus on the man as he pauses, turning to consult a ledger sitting on his desk. he sings to himself while flipping to the first page, where several prices line the left side of the paper.

he turns back and runs a hand through his hair. his forearms flex with the movement.

she inhales deeply around the knot in her throat. those hands will not touch her, not in this lifetime.

“6,000 won,” he answers, and her disbelief must show clearly, because he laughs—and her world tilts sideways, because it has been too many lifetimes since she’s heard the sound.

silently, she laces her fingers together and prays for strength.

“that’s ridiculous,” through her lashes, she observes him; this joyful and familiar stranger tucked away in his little shop, unmoved as the world passes him by. he belongs in this time.

she does not.

“maybe, but i won’t charge you more,” he sobers, examining her with an intensity that makes her think—hope—that he recognizes her this time. that this time, he’s fallen into her orbit.

“why?” her curiosity prompts her to ask the soft-spoken question. all the while, she swallows her expectations before they swell. the edge of the counter presses into her stomach as she leans forward, “why would you do that for me?”

“because you seem sad, miss,” he says, and it is an effort to stifle her sigh. instead, she hums; manages enough of a smile to visibly set him at ease.

“well then, i have no choice but to accept.”

forty minutes later, she leaves him with a quiet thanks and a like-new pocket watch dangling from her fingertips. the chain clinks, the clock ticks, and she walks away from the humble shop on the corner without looking back.

her eyes close, without permission—

she dies a little inside.

- three -

time, it appears, is dragging him further away from her with each of his rebirths. their little piece of the world is now something bigger; interconnected in ways she’d never dreamed of.

but the internet, she muses, is no substitute for the magnetism of the physical world.

too often, they are separated by decades and continents—

and always, always by the spectre of death.

this time, however, he finds her. and this time, she chooses to keep close, but to leave him be.

her heart is weary, after so many lifetimes.

“is there any way that i can ask a favor of you?”

for a moment, she wonders if it is now—when she is holding onto the last vestiges of hope—that his soul at last recognizes hers. then he laughs, shuffling a hand through the hair at his nape.

quietly, she places the pile of folders she is holding onto her desk. he waits patiently for her full attention, watching her sort through ungraded tests and quizzes with all the enthusiasm of a dead man approaching the gallows. when she’s satisfied with the controlled chaos that is her workload, she turns to face him—leaning against the desk with her arms crossed loosely over her chest.

“what can i do for you, jaebeom?”

this time, his name feels right.

he starts at the question, appearing to snap out of his own thoughts—smiling a bit sheepishly, at that. ”ah, sorry. i was wondering if i could get your help on that astronomy exam coming up...” his gaze drops to the stack of manila folders behind her, “but i can understand if you don’t have the time.”

quietly, she regards him. he is the closest echo of his first soul that she’s ever seen. shy and kind, a little strange—if the stories about him having five cats are to be believed—but the focus in his eyes is haejin. the dexterity he utilizes to twirl his pen between his fingers is jaehyun.

he is whole, this time.

“i don’t mind,” her lips curve into a smile before she thinks about it, taking note of the way he releases the breath that he looks to have been holding, “relieved?”

and jaebeom blinks at her, face reddening faintly as he shuffles his bag further onto his shoulder, “yeah. i’m not sure i’d pass this class without your help.”

“what a flattering lie,” her hand lifts, brushing away the remnants of autumn leaves clinging to his jacket, “you’d be fine.”

his eyes follow the movement, before he reaches out to tug her wrist.

“and what better time than now?”

faintly, she wonders if it is at all appropriate to follow his lead—to let herself walk down the path that he’s laid at her feet. the click of her heels echoes down the hall as they emerge from her office—a closet that the teachers assistants get shoved into while doing the busywork of their superiors.

he glances over his shoulder at her, before turning and walking backward through the otherwise empty corridors, “would you mind if we grabbed something to eat? off campus.”

she resists the urge to smile.

cute.

humming, she feigns deep thought. her fingers dance across her chin as she observes him from the corner of her eye; perhaps unconsciously, jaebeom wrings the hem of his shirt with his free hand. it strikes her, how similarly her young lord had looked when he’d asked her to sneak away with him—

and their journey has come full circle.

“if you treat.” it’s a tease, but he nods just the same.

- last -

“sirius is actually a binary star, you know.”

of course she does, but she refrains from commenting—he is half-awake at this hour, face partially buried in his pillows. his mind is expelling the random facts he’s consumed in the past three months like material from a dying star, “yeah?”

“mmm,” he tilts his head, contemplating her with half-lidded eyes. she suspects he’s on his way to a deep slumber; though the sun shines brightly over his shoulder, warming the sheets pooled over their laps, “it’s the brightest star in the night sky, but there are actually two components.”

this time, she indulges him—reciting his notes with a soft smile.

“sirius a, the brighter star, and its white dwarf companion, sirius b.” quietly, she reaches up to run her fingers through his hair.

he leans into the touch, exhaling as his eyes fall shut, “right.”

it makes sense, that he would be the brighter half of their binary system—that it is her, chasing after him with quiet determination.

they slip into a comfortable silence, and she listens to the steady sound of his breath; feels it fanning lightly across her face. the sun is setting at his back, outlining his features in shades of muted gold.

what a beautiful boy, she thinks.

when his eyes open, hazy—his cheeks dusted in pink—she realizes that she’s spoken aloud.

jaebeom dips his head as his smile grows, pressing his face into the sheets in a poor effort to hide. she watches with equal parts humor and awe, love-struck by the glimpses of her old love in the crinkling of his nose.

“i’m not a boy,” he mumbles, and she hums; bites back her laughter.

“i know.” she touches his cheek lightly, pressing her forehead to his, “i know.”

i love you, she nearly says, but it isn’t time yet—

she comforts herself with the knowledge that now, they have all the time in the world.

#jaebeom fanfic #jaebeom au #got7 fanfic #got7 au #label: viii

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