#i mean yes given enough time her grief would fade and she could find Something to work towards im sure | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thinkingisadangerouspastime · 4 years

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By the end of avatar it's pretty clear that the gaang have no problem with/are friends with mai (suki playing pai sho with her, katara watching, sokka including her in his picture) so I was wondering how you think mai and the gaang's relationship developed from the coronation to the end scene

“This is Mai,” Zuko said. “My girlfriend.”

The room was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

Right. Mai kind of wanted to die. They were just… staring at her. She hadn’t expected a positive reaction, by any means, but no reaction at all…? Ugh. Little was worse.

“It’s nice to officially meet you!” Aang said, giving her a bright smile. The rest of the group followed with tentative waves and a few nods in her general direction.

The awkwardness might have gone on another five minutes if she and Zuko hadn’t been asked for by an advisor, cutting her introduction short. Well, Zuko had been asked for, and he’d slipped his hand into hers before pulling her along. So she hadn’t been given much say in the matter.

“They’ll come around,” Zuko told her later, when they were lying in bed. “You’ll see.” He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “They took me in, after all.”

Mai wanted to believe him. “If you say so.”

Sokka was first.

Mai saw him struggling to walk down the steps of the palace, awkwardly attempting to maneuver his crutches but wincing every time his injured leg hit the ground.

“Let me help,” she offered, lifting his arm around her shoulders to help take the weight off his foot. Perhaps she should have waited for him to give confirmation, but in some ways Sokka reminded her of Zuko - rarely willing to accept assistance, even when he needed it. He let her take his crutches, though, and she interpreted that as a sign of silent cooperation.

Sokka gave her a crooked grin when they’d reached the foot of the steps. “Thanks.”

She nodded curtly, returning his crutches to him. “It was no trouble.” She turned to walk away, but stiffened and stopped in her tracks as Sokka placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I, uh… This is kind of random, but I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am for - for what you did at the Boiling Rock.” Sokka cleared his throat. “For saving us. Me. My dad. Suki. Zuko.”

Mai winced at the memory. The despair, the rage Azula’s eyes. The paralyzing fear that had ripped through her chest when she’d watched her friend - if Azula could ever be called that - drop into her lightning stance. And yet…

She’d do it again. A hundred times.

“I don’t think you should be thanking me for doing the right thing,” Mai said as she slowly turned around. “For doing the bare minimum, really.”

Sokka laughed. “Maybe you’re right. But from what I’ve heard, treason against the Fire Nation isn’t usually considered the bare minimum.” He hesitated, then offered her a grateful smile. “I mean it, though. If you hadn’t saved us…” Something akin to grief flickered in his eyes. An expression that was a little more raw, a little more tired. “I can’t lose anyone else,” he finally said. “So thank you, Mai.”

Mai stared at him in perhaps more shock than was necessary, because Sokka laughed again.

“Can I hug you?” he asked. “It’s kind of an official thing to dub you as part of my friend group.”

Mai hesitated, but nodded, and Sokka shuffled forward to pull her into a brief, tight embrace that Mai was surprised to find herself returning.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a hugger,” she said after releasing him.

Sokka chuckled. “For a long time, I guess I wasn’t.” He winked at her. “But things change, right?”

She supposed they did.

Aang was second.

Mai wondered, perhaps, if he would have been first, had his duties as the Avatar not taken up so much of his time, especially in those first days after the war had formally ended.

“Hi, Mai!” Aang said cheerily, waving at her from atop his bison. “Want to take a ride on Appa with me?”

Mai glanced around her, as if someone else named Mai would appear from behind a pillar to take him up on his offer. When none did, she responded with a hesitant nod.

She wished Zuko was there.

“Do you need help getting up?” Aang asked as she walked towards him, pausing when she reached Appa’s side. “I can provide a boost if you need it.”

Mai raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk unwittingly inching onto her lips. “Could you provide a boost even if I don’t need it?”

Aang returned her smirk with a wide grin. “Your wish is my command, Lady Mai.”

Mai was mortified to admit that a startled yelp escaped her lips as Aang airbended her up and onto Appa’s saddle, but he didn’t comment on it. She supposed he was probably used to that sort of sound being an instinctive reaction.

“Ready?” Aang asked. He didn’t wait for her to respond before gently snapping the bison’s reins. “Yip yip, Appa!”

He reminded her of Ty Lee in that respect - never waiting for an answer unless one was truly required.

Appa roared and took off into the sky. Mai kept her eyes squeezed shut for longer than she’d care to admit.

After the initial anxiety of flying higher than she ever had in her life faded, Mai found herself relaxing into her seat on the saddle, one elbow resting comfortably on the edge. Aang chattered aimlessly about post-war plans, and Mai commented every now and then if his ramblings had to do with Zuko. It was… strange. Everything about Aang caused a tiny smile to rest perpetually on her face.

No wonder her boyfriend was so fond of him.

“Wanna go higher?” Aang offered at one point, an excited twinkle in his eyes.

Mai didn’t respond at first, staring upwards at the endless pink sky. “Can you take me into the clouds?” she finally asked.

Aang laughed. “Let’s find out!”

Katara was third.

“I told you, Zuko can’t see anyone right now!”

Mai paused upon hearing the irritation that drenched Katara’s voice. She’d just turned the corner into the hallway that Zuko’s room was off of, and, trusting her better judgement, chose to hang back.

Katara was staring down a tall man in formal robes - oh. Ew. Mai recognized him as one of Zuko’s more annoying advisors. Her boyfriend hated the man, too.

“Kata-”

“Master Katara.” She glared at the noble, and respect bubbled in Mai’s chest.

“Master Katara.” Mai relished in the discomfort of the man’s tone. “I understand that you wish to allow the Fire Lord as much rest as possible, but he has responsibilities he cannot abandon -”

“Zuko can’t fulfill those responsibilities immediately after a healing session!” Katara snapped. “How would you like if someone bandaged your broken arm and expected you to lift weights afterwards?”

The advisor stared at her in confusion. “But my arm isn’t broken.”

Katara placed her hand atop the flask that rested on her hip. “Not yet.”

Mai bit her tongue to stop herself from laughing as blood drained from the man’s face. He gave Katara a hasty apology and took his leave.

That interaction had certainly raised her spirits.

But no visitors…

Mai’s grip tightened on the ceramic plate in her hands. The cup of tea resting atop it quivered. If Katara said Zuko wasn’t seeing anyone at the time, then she would respect that decision. She was no exception to the rules just because Zuko was her boyfriend.

Besides, Zuko was probably fine. She didn’t need to check on him, she was just letting her worries get the best of her again -

“Mai?”

Mai blinked upon hearing her name called. Blood rushed to her cheeks when she realized it was Katara who had spoken. “Yes?”

Katara gave her a warm smile, gesturing towards the plate in her hands. “Is that for Zuko?”

Mai hesitated, but nodded. “Tea,” she explained briefly. “I… tried to make it like Iroh does.” She took a step backwards. “But I can bring it back later, after more time has passed -”

Katara laughed, waving her hand dismissively. “Mai. Zuko would never forgive me if I didn’t let you in.” She tilted her head. “Besides. You know you’re always welcome.”

Mai’s grip on the plate slackened, and she found herself returning Katara’s smile.

Toph was fourth.

“Mai! Spar with me!”

Mai was startled by the sudden interruption, though years of practice prevented her from showing it. “Why?” She’d never been the earthbender’s go-to partner before.

“Because knives are made of metal,” Toph said, as if it should have been obvious. “I want to see if I can bend projectiles mid-air. Or at least better detect the path they’ll follow so I can earthbend a wall to block them.”

Mai raised an eyebrow. “And why would I agree to let you bend my knives?”

Toph grinned at her. “Who said anything about using yours?”

Mai’s eyes widened as Toph procured a large box from behind her back.

“We’ll practice with these. Don’t ask where I got them.”

Mai accepted the box from Toph, unable to stop the sharp gasp that escaped her lips as she admired the assortment of blades. “Alright,” she finally said, picking out a set of steel kunai. “I’ll spar with you. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

Mai spun one of the knives around her index finger. “Let me keep some of these when we’re done.”

Toph burst out laughing. “Oh, I knew I’d like you.” She smirked at Mai. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Suki was last.

They’d run into each other. Literally. Mai spilled all the papers she’d been holding, and Suki had immediately apologized before offering to help her sort back through them. She’d almost turned the girl down, but…

“I haven’t seen you much,” Mai commented as they were putting the documents into piles based on their contents. “Compared to the rest of Zuko’s friends, I mean.”

Suki shrugged. “I’ve been spending most of my time with Sokka and the Kyoshi warriors. We’re thinking about heading back home soon.”

Mai nodded. She placed a document about the differences between crowning a Fire Lord and a Fire Lady in its appropriate stack. She hesitated, then asked, “Does… Do you know if Ty Lee plans to go with you?”

Suki blew air out her lips. “I’m not sure. Sometimes I think she wants nothing more than to get out of the Fire Nation, but there are other days where… where I don’t think she can imagine leaving you and Zuko behind.”

Mai’s heart seized in her chest. Spirits, she needed to talk to her friend. New responsibilities after the war had kept them apart more days of the week than Mai liked. “I see.”

Suki offered her a sympathetic smile. “Sorry I can’t be more specific. I think I just” - she shook her head - “I don’t know Ty Lee well enough yet to read her and her feelings. The other girls had a chance to connect with her in prison, but I’d already escaped the Boiling Rock and was on the run with Sokka at that point, so I just… don’t have the same level of experience with her yet.”

Mai clenched the scroll in her hand so tightly she was half-concerned she’d tear a hole through it. “Speaking of prisons…” She licked her lips, her mouth having suddenly gone dry. “I… I wanted to apologize,” she continued after a momentary pause. Mai didn’t like how her voice had dropped close to a whisper.

Suki tilted her head in confusion, though there was a keen recognition in her eyes that made Mai wonder if she was merely feigning puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

“I attacked you and your - your kinswomen. When you were protecting Appa.” Mai smoothed the scroll across the table before placing it in its appropriate stack. She didn’t dare meet the warrior’s eyes. “We got you arrested and sent to the Boiling Rock. And - I know an apology doesn’t make up for that, but…” She forced herself to look upwards. There was no bitterness, no resentment in Suki’s gaze. It was kinder than she deserved. “I’m sorry. I don’t deserve or expect your forgiveness, but - I’m sorry.”

Mai had hurt Suki the most among Zuko’s new friends. There was no changing that. And she knew she would never be able to make up for the months in isolation the girl had endured, either, no matter what she did. No matter how much she wanted to. Wished she could.

Mai didn’t blame her for staying silent.

Then Suki sighed, unfurling the paper in her hands. “I had mixed feelings about you. For a long time.” She skimmed something on the scroll before placing it aside. “On the one hand, you put me in prison. On the other…” She gave Mai a tentative smile. “You freed me from it.”

Mai’s heart skipped a beat. “That doesn’t make it fair -”

Suki laughed, cutting her off. “At this point, I don’t think ‘fair’ exists. Not after what all of us have been through.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “But like I said. I had mixed feelings about you.” She gave Mai a soft smile. “I know how Sokka thinks you’re the funniest person to walk the Earth since his father. How Katara lets you visit Zuko after their healing sessions, even though she’s probably not supposed to. And spirits, Mai, the way Zuko looks at you…” She shook her head, winking at her. “You won my friends over a long time ago. It was only a matter of time before you won me over, too.”

An unfamiliar warmth settled in Mai’s chest, and a tentative smile inched onto her lips. “Thank you.”

Suki waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it. And with you around, at least I won’t be the only sane person in our group anymore.”

Mai snorted, recalling an earlier incident of Sokka daring Zuko to eat raw tart batter while Toph egged them on. ‘Egged’ in two ways - both very different, but both equally frustrating. “Will that really make much of a difference?”

Suki snickered. “Maybe not for them, but…” She handed Mai a scroll to be placed on a stack too far for her to reach. “I think I’ll appreciate the company.”

Mai accepted the paper, and she smiled at Suki. “I think I will, too.” She placed the smoothed-out scroll in its appropriate pile. “Care to join me for a game of Pai Sho later?”

“Oh, count me in! That sounds like a great cooldown.”

Well… Mai wouldn’t describe Pai Sho in exactly that fashion. But she figured Suki would learn that on her own time, and chose not to comment. “I look forward to it.”

That night, Mai slipped into Zuko’s bedchambers under the cover of darkness, as she’d been inclined to do ever since his return to the Fire Nation. Zuko’s eyes lit up upon seeing her, and he moved to make room for her beside him on his bed. She sat down, and rolled her eyes but didn’t protest as Zuko wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her into his lap.

“Did you have a good day?” he asked, nuzzling his face into the back of her neck. He asked her the same question every night, and every night she told him the same answer - no. Then she’d gripe about whatever little thing had irked her over the course of the day. It was foolish, yet cathartic, and she knew Zuko didn’t mind. He probably found it entertaining.

“You know what?” Mai mused, thinking back to the mixture of glee and exasperation that had crossed Suki’s face numerous times during their earlier Pai Sho game. “I think I did.”

Zuko raised an eyebrow. “Wow. What happened?”

Mai shrugged. Five faces floated through her mind, all people she’d grown to care for over the past few weeks. People who’d grown to care for her in return. “Nothing special. Just… spent a little time with some new friends.”

Zuko chuckled, and she had a feeling he knew exactly the people she was referring to. “I’m glad to hear it.” He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “Don’t kill me, but…” She didn’t need to turn around to know he was smirking. “I told you they’d come around.”

Mai groaned. “Oh, shut up.”

“Make me?”

She sighed, turning around so she could properly face her boyfriend. “I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”

(Mai made sure to silence him before he could answer.)

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heliads · 3 years

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One Moves On Chapter Four: Crow Rock

Stiles Stilinski doesn’t know what to think when he’s taken by the Ghost Riders. He’s grateful to be joined by Y/N L/N, although when he finally escapes, no one seems to remember her at all.

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Now that he’s finished his research, Stiles isn’t sure what to do next. Does he drive over in a fit of glory and bad decision making, hope to find Y/N and pray she hasn’t left before he gets there? Does he risk traveling without a pack to one of the areas with the most supernatural activity other than Beacon Hills?

In the end, Stiles decides to just go. Deliberating and hesitating won’t do him any good, not when Y/N is still out there, weaponless and with no idea where she is. Stiles spends a haphazard half hour running about his house, trying to put together supplies he might need for the trip, before finally stumbling over to his Jeep.

When he finally makes it out, keys clutched in his hand, Scott is waiting for him.

His best friend is leaning up against the driver’s side door, arms folded across his chest. Stiles’ steps falter. “You knew I was going?” Scott lifts a shoulder. “Your dad called me, said he was worried. We knew you’ve been concerned about Y/N, but we didn’t know that you would go this far. Where are you going, Stiles?”

Stiles holds up a hastily printed map. “Actually, I’m going to a town called Crow Rock. Good supernatural activity, and I followed the law of triangles-” Stiles’ voice dies off as he takes in the look on Scott’s face. “The law of triangles, which is a very reputable law from a very reputable manuscript which we all know about. Right. Well, I know how it sounds but trust me, it’s going to be alright.”

Scott sighs. “I want to believe you. Honestly, I do. But Y/N died months ago. You have to know that. I didn’t even know you cared this much about her. I’d call it grief, but you watched her die some time ago. She’s already buried.” Stiles frowns at him. “Is she? Where?” Scott fumbles for a moment. “Uh, in some cemetery.” Stiles presses his advantage. “Which cemetery? If we saw her buried, where is she?”

Scott’s brow furrows, and he stares at Stiles in bewilderment. “I can’t remember. I know where Allison and Aiden and all the others are buried, but I don’t know where she is.” Stiles throws his hands in the air. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t know because she isn’t dead. We never buried her so of course we can’t remember the cemetery. Scott, you have to believe me. She’s out there somewhere and I have to bring her back.”

Scott’s face softens. “You’re sure this will work? You know where to find her?” Stiles nods fervently. “I’ve done my research. Sometimes, people are pulled away from rifts by something called etheria. I was able to make it back safely from the Wild Hunt, but she wouldn’t. She’s not the first either- these victims, they call them etherials or something, have been disappearing for centuries. I’ve managed to track down another hotspot where she might be located and I think it’s my best shot at finding her.”

Scott nods once, then claps him on the shoulder. “I think you can do it.” Stiles looks up at him. “Really?” Scott smiles trustingly. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve put in a considerable amount of time for research. I think if anyone could track down an etherial who everyone else thinks is dead, it would be you.” Stiles grins. For some reason, hearing his best friend’s belief in him is enough to give Stiles a boost in confidence.

Scott steps away from the door of the Jeep, allowing Stiles access at last. “I just wanted to check with you before you go. To make sure you knew what you were doing.” He glances at the map, taking in the location of the hotspot. “There’s going to be a lot of supernatural trouble there. You sure you don’t want a backup group?” Stiles shakes his head, smiling. “I’m good, thank you. I think this is something I have to do by myself.”

Stiles climbs into the Jeep, giving himself a moment to think. This is it, the last moment before he sets off on his journey. He’s spent so much time preparing that it’s strange to think that this is his stepping off point, the last opportunity he has to back down and say that this is too dangerous, or that the chances are too great that he will fail.

Stiles turns on the ignition in a roar. Scott waves goodbye as the Jeep disappears down the road.

Stiles has only been driving for an hour or so before he notices a shift in the air. It’s not much, barely there, but yet something is not right. It’s like the atmosphere of the car has become quieter, even more silent than before. No one has entered or left the vehicle to warrant this silence, but it’s still enough to make Stiles feel slightly uneasy. He’d felt it a little when he was crossing over the boundary to Beacon Hills, a slight change in the energy as if by leaving he was passing through a barrier of some sort.

Stiles supposes it makes sense- you leave a hotspot, you might notice some change. Stiles doubts he would have noticed it had he not just been taken by the Wild Hunt or even gone without his temporary possession by the Nogitsune. He has a feeling that sensing this change in supernatural activity is an ability usually attributed to the supernatural, and the fact that he, a supposedly ordinary human, can sense it sets Stiles’ teeth on edge.

Stiles becomes aware of another change about fifteen minutes later. He sits up straighter in his seat, trying and failing to figure out what exactly is filling him with unease, and then he sees the sign. It’s faded, paint crumbling off of a metal backing. Even with the weathering of the sign, Stiles can still read the derelict letters: Welcome to Crow Rock. Stiles has made it at last.

The Jeep rumbles on, past the sign and onto the twisting roads. Scott, Lydia, and Malia had told him about visiting Canaan while he was still in the thrall of the Wild Hunt, and how the entire town had given off the uncanny, almost sinister energy of a ghost town. Stiles has no idea what it must have been like to walk those streets, but he has a suspicion that it would be pretty similar to how he feels right now, driving down the blocks and avenues in his truck.

Stiles has looked at images of Crow Rock from larger topographical maps, and realized that the town itself isn’t actually that big. He’d been happy then, thinking that maybe this was one instance of luck for himself and that it might not take as long to search the town for Y/N, but that hope is starting to wither away from him now. The town may be small, yes, with fewer hiding spots, but it also means fewer people to watch him. With fewer bystanders, the chance of supernaturals backing down from a public attack grows slimmer and slimmer with each mile Stiles travels within the town.

Stiles intended to drive to the center of town, where the hotspot of supernatural activity would most likely be the highest. However, as he goes he finds that certain roads are blocked off or congested with traffic that miraculously vanishes a few blocks down. He’s forced to take alternate routes, driving him on a convoluted path away from the entrance. It gives Stiles a sneaking suspicion that he’s being intentionally misrouted, that something is drawing him close.

Stiles has just taken a turn into a new street when he’s forced to come to an abrupt stop. A construction barricade has been laid across the road, orange and white paint signaling that he can travel no further. Stiles checks his rearview mirrors, ready to make a U-turn and get onto another road, when he freezes in place. A group of people is slowly spilling out into the road behind him, and they come to a stop at the main road, blocking off any chance of escape. They all consider Stiles with identical glares. This is not good.

Seeing as he can’t drive anywhere without mowing down this group of people, Stiles turns off the ignition and starts to climb down out of the Jeep. All of his instincts are screaming at him to stay in the car, to not give up the one piece of shelter he still has left, but it’s not like he has much of a choice. At least he’d be able to run on foot- if he remains in the Jeep, he’d just be a sitting duck.

Stiles walks away from the car, coming to a stop a few yards away from the group. One man steps forward, glaring at Stiles with an almost animal rage. “You should not have come here, human. You reek of enemy packs.” Most people would be smart and hold their tongues, choosing to live instead of delivering a supposedly witty retort. Stiles prefers to save his academic success for the tests in school.

“I think it’s kind of mean to go up to people and tell them they smell. I mean, I showered this morning, I can’t be that bad.” The man raises an eyebrow. “You are a human with a death wish, I see. It is not wise to pick a fight that you cannot win.” Stiles shrugs. “I’m just a tourist, man. I can see why your driving tours got such low reviews on Yelp.”

The man scoffs, the sound skidding deep in his throat like the roar of an engine. “I am quickly tiring of you. I will give you one minute to leave this town. If you are not gone by then, you will be dead.” Stiles shakes his head slowly. “I can’t do that. I’m here for someone.” The man roars at him, the sound echoing off of the buildings around them to culminate in a low din of noise. “Then you will die here instead.”

The man charges towards Stiles, claws already starting to extend from his fingers. Stiles takes one look at him and decides to do what he does best: run. He spins on his heels, dashing towards his Jeep with every ounce of energy still left in him. He’s almost there, one hand flung out towards the door, when a werewolf skids to a stop in front of him. It lets out a piercing howl, the sound of an animal about to attack.

Suddenly, a knife slams into its throat, and the wolf slumps sideways. Stiles’ head jerks up as he looks for his savior. A blur of flashing knives and running limbs appears out of nowhere, and a figure grabs the knife from the werewolf’s throat to throw it at another approaching wolf. Then the figure turns to Stiles, and he feels like he could dance with joy.

“Y/N?” She flashes him a grin. “Great to see you. Get in the Jeep.” Stiles doesn’t think twice, diving for the door and throwing himself in. Y/N climbs into the passenger seat, slamming the door closed just before a werewolf can slash her to ribbons. Stiles turns on the ignition, thanking everything holy and then some that the engine doesn’t fail him. He begins the turn to direct his car back towards the road, and then hesitates.

Y/N stares at him. “What are you waiting for? Do you enjoy being killed by enemy packs?” Stiles gestures towards the road. “The werewolves are blocking all the lanes!” Y/N’s eyes widen in something like incredulity. “Then run them over!” Stiles returns her startled gaze. “They’ll wreck my car!” Y/N grabs his hand, forcing it back onto the wheel. “If you stay here, they’ll wreck your car by dragging your dead body out of it and tearing it to shreds. Drive!”

A wolf howls nearby, raising his hand to slash at the metal body of the car. This is enough to motivate him, and Stiles slams a foot on the gas. The Jeep lurches forward, and the werewolves are forced to dive out of the way lest they get flattened by the wheels. The Jeep races around corners and through straightaways before they finally lose the enemy pack and the roads become deserted once more.

Stiles stares at the windshield unseeingly. His hands still shake from the close call. “You know, I don’t think I used my turn signal once during all of this.” There’s a quiet sound next to him, and for a second Stiles thinks that Y/N has started sobbing. Then he looks over and realizes that she’s doubled over in silent laughter. She manages to choke out two words. “Turn signal?”

Stiles stares at her for a second, then starts laughing too. Maybe it’s the thrill of yet another near death experience, or the rush of gratitude that he’s managed to find her at last, but all of a sudden every single thing in the world seems funny. He has to divert his attention back to the road in a jolt lest he run over a suicidal squirrel, which just makes them laugh even harder.

At last, they approach the sign announcing that they will shortly be leaving Crow Rock. Y/N’s laughter dies on her lips as she stares at the sign, then speaks abruptly. “Stop the car.” Stiles stares at her as she jumps out before the wheels have even stopped moving. He puts the car in park just a little bit beyond the sign, then leaps out after her. “What are you doing? Do you like the idea of being slashed to bits by the enemy packs?”

Y/N shakes her head, staring at him with quiet grief. “I can’t leave the town.” Stiles walks back over to her. “What are you talking about?” Y/N looks at him, and Stiles realizes that she doesn’t look afraid or even disappointed. Her face only holds a calm acceptance of a depressing fact. “I can’t leave. I’ve tried before, but the town won’t let me. Look.” She moves to step forward, past the ‘Leaving Crow Rock’ sign, but her feet refuse to budge. It’s as if she’s trying to walk into an invisible wall.

“I’ve tried to leave, ever since I showed up here, but I can’t. It’s like the same magic that brought me here intends on trapping me here forever.” Stiles’ eyes widen. “It’s the etheria. All those manuscripts talked about how people would be yanked away to other hotspots and never return. I thought they just meant that it was the olden days or whatever and that long of a distance was too far to travel without cars or something, but they literally meant that they couldn’t leave.”

Stiles shakes his head, unable to accept this. “I’m not giving up, not now. I’m not losing you again.” Y/N laughs quietly at that. The sound is bittersweet and tears at his heart. “I don’t think you have a choice, Stiles. There’s no way around this.” Stiles’ pulse is thundering in his veins. “No, I’m going to make a choice. Even if I have to do it all myself. No one is supposed to remember the etherials, but I remember you. We’re the exception, Y/N. I am not leaving you again.”

Out of some impulse, Stiles steps forward, wrapping his arms around Y/N and pulling her close. She stiffens for a second, then returns his embrace. After so many days of hearing everyone tell him that she was dead, that she didn’t exist, having her so close is like a dream or an impossibility. They stumble slightly as a strong wind hits them, shifting slightly but not letting go. Y/N gasps quietly, the sound torn away from her chest. Stiles looks at her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Y/N shakes her head slightly. “I don’t know. I feel like-” Her eyes widen as she stares at the sign to Crow Rock, the sign that is now behind them. In that brief moment, when they’d moved to avoid the wind, they’d moved over the town barrier. It had just been mere inches, but it was enough. Y/N stares at him in awe. “How did that happen? It’s never happened before.”

Stiles can just smile at her, feeling relief crest over him like a wave. “I told you, didn’t I? We’re the exception. Now, I don’t know about you, but I think I’d like to go home.” She beams at him. “I think I’d like that a lot.” Stiles reaches out, wrapping his hand around hers to guide her back to the car. They’re together at last, and they can finally make their way back to where they belong.

one moves on tag list: @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch, @blahhhhhhhaaa

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski imagines #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski series #teen wolf #teen wolf imagines #teen wolf x reader #teen wolf series #teen wolf stiles #stiles imagines #stiles x reader #stiles series #stiles stilinski teen wolf

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roselightfairy · 3 years

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For @carlandrea, who prompted Thranduil + Gimli. I don’t know exactly what I was intending with this, and I have no idea if it makes narrative or emotional sense, but... it’s all for the Atmosphere, baby. Just go with it.

...

Legolas was not often called away for duties when they visited Eryn Lasgalen – not since he had removed to Ithilien and taken the better part of his unit of archers with him. Though he remained yet a prince of Eryn Lasgalen in name, he was lord of Ithilien in deed and in duty, and was treated as such when he returned home.

By his father, at least. His sister had no such reservations, either in the enthusiasm of her greeting or her requests for him upon arrival. She had asked him to accompany her on a brief scouting mission, and – whether out of guilt for having robbed Lasgalen of its most skilled archers, or desire for her company, Gimli knew not – he had agreed. The journey was meant to take them only perhaps a day and a night, and in the meantime Gimli wandered the halls alone.

He had accustomed himself quickly to the caverns where the elves lived: he could find his way under stone well enough, no matter who else might inhabit it. Still, they felt strange to him – instead of the thrumming of warmth that dwarven homes always awoke in his chest – the long-awaited welcome of Erebor; the glorious thrill of Aglarond – these halls rang with an empty loneliness, an ache in his chest as of a missing piece, some long-held sadness. The closest he could come to comparing it was the dimmed ancient glory of Khazad-dûm, but even that was not quite right – there was a diminishing in these halls, an echo of emptiness not of a grandeur now lost, but of a hope never fulfilled. It echoed in his chest, in the sound of his footsteps, flickered in the shadows of ivy on the walls, illuminated by torchlight; it swept across his face in the breeze from the wide windows and skylights.

The halls of Eryn Lasgalen were quiet at night. Elves slept little, so Gimli would have expected bustling, but any reveling that occurred took place out under the stars, and he supposed even elves needed to rest at times. His footsteps were loud on the stone floors, the solid step of a dwarf accustomed to walking where he would, though it felt strangely illicit here, where so few dwarves had been welcome. Gimli was given the freedom to roam where he would in his husband’s home, where his father had been locked away merely for setting foot in the forest, and he felt almost guilty for it, as though he dishonored his father’s trials with every step.

His wandering footsteps took him around a corner, up a set of spiraling steps, and he found himself in a shaded alcove hung with ivy and berries he dared not touch, against a window cut into the stone that looked out over the forest. Gimli folded his arms on the sill and gazed out, noting the rustle of leaves in the darkness, of lights in the distance where elves must be dancing and drinking. He wondered where Legolas was, out there in the forest, beneath the shaded boughs – or among them.

“May I join you?”

The voice came from behind him, practically in his ear; Gimli whirled, nearly choking on his spiking heartbeat. Legolas’s father stood behind him, not as close as he had sounded but still far nearer than he ought to be, for how silently he had approached. He had forgone the crown of leaves tonight; his golden hair streamed loose down his back, and he wore a simple green tunic and a faintly amused smile.

“Of course you may,” said Gimli, his voice rasping as he recovered his breath. “I would not turn you away anywhere in your own halls.”

Thranduil tilted his head as if in acknowledgement of that point and came to join Gimli in gazing out the windows. He left a respectable few inches of space between them, but still Gimli rarely stood so near to Legolas’s father; his nerves hummed in acute awareness of their proximity.

It was silent for a time, and then Thranduil spoke again. “I am sorry to startle you.”

There was just enough upward lilt in his voice, something lighter beneath the dry deadpan, that Gimli risked a flicker of his eyes to the side, a slight incline of his head. “Forgive me, your majesty,” he said, “but I do not think you are.”

Thranduil laughed openly at that, and Gimli restrained a startle at the sound. “Perhaps not,” he allowed. “Sometimes, the temptation to ensure that one has not lost one’s touch is simply . . . irresistible.”

“Perhaps particularly when one is approaching one’s son-in-law?” Gimli suggested, equally dry, and was rewarded with another laugh.

Thranduil’s laughter was more restrained than Legolas’s or even Laerwen’s, as though he were waiting for another punchline, but still the rare mirth felt like a gift – like a sign of favor. “Perhaps,” he said, his smile fading as he turned again out the window. His long fingers came to rest on the sill as though it were an organ and he meant to launch into a piece of music. Like spider legs, Gimli would have once thought them – such was the phrase often used to describe Thranduil in Erebor – in exaggerated tales told after a few drinks only, for Dáin would not condone it. But still it was whispered: the lord of the spiders at the center of a web of greed and deceit.

It was an epithet Gimli would never use again – not after seeing the hatred in Legolas’s eyes when he spoke of the spiders and what all they had taken from his people and his family.

Silence fell between them, but it was not a silence Gimli could read like he could Legolas’s – he knew not whether to speak and break it, or to let it stretch. In absence of intuition, stretch it did, long and taut until something felt about to snap, and finally he could bear it no longer.

“Your halls are beautiful,” he offered, cringing even as the words left his lips. But he had begun, and so he must continue. “The design is like nothing I have seen before.”

“That means much, coming from a dwarf of Erebor,” said Thranduil. His lips pursed, then relaxed. “But even we of the woods make do, when we must.” He gazed out the window again, and Gimli too turned to look out over the woods, the patches of trees light with revelers. He wondered what Thranduil could hear.

Thranduil’s face remained as unreadable as ever, but something in his stance, in the tilt of his head, reminded Gimli abruptly of how Legolas stood when he looked at Ithilien, at the homes elves had built in trees, reveling in their newfound safety. “I know something of making do,” he said slowly. “But I do not think the creation of something beautiful is wholly a loss, even if it comes from sorrow.” He clamped his mouth shut before he could speak further, unsure whose painful memories he might rouse with these words – Thranduil’s, or his own.

Thranduil turned to look sharply at Gimli, his eyes keen as though measuring him. It was not the penetrating stare of the Lady Galadriel, but still Gimli felt somehow tested in his gaze, those cool grey eyes like steel raking over his body. When Thranduil looked away at last, he could not say if he had been found wanting.

“You are more right than even you know, maybe,” Thranduil said at last. “But I will hope for your sake and for Legolas’s that you need never resign yourself to it.” He sighed, and for just a moment his hands tightened their grip on the windowsill, his knuckles flashing white beneath his skin – and then, as though Gimli had imagined it, they were loose again, resting against the stone like on organ keys.

As Gimli floundered for a response, Thranduil straightened beside him, a wave passing through his spine to draw him up even taller than before. “Are you faring well in these halls?” he said. “No one has given you trouble?”

Gimli blinked, shaken by the abrupt change in mood. “Yes,” he said, “yes, everyone is perfectly cordial.” Not perfectly – not with the murmurs in dark corners in the Sindarin that Gimli could understand well enough; not when he sometimes felt a prickle on the back of his neck and heard laughter behind him, though he could not see who followed him. He felt safe enough here, particularly when Legolas was by his side, and that was enough.

“Good.” Thranduil nodded. “Do tell me if at any time our hospitality is less than might be hoped. I would not have my son-in-law treated poorly within my realm.”

“I” – How should he promise to do something he had no intention of doing? “You are kind,” was what he managed at last, a non-answer.

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed shrewdly, and Gimli knew he caught it, but what could he say to such an answer? “I am hardly kind,” was his response. “As you have no doubt been reminded. But I do not make commitments lightly.”

“Nor does your son,” Gimli said, before he could think better of it – thinking of the earnestness of every one of Legolas’s promises, how sincerely he held his word. His heart ached at even this brief separation, at this strange conversation with Legolas’s father while his husband was away, and yet he wondered if Legolas’s sincerity was some gift from his father, undiluted by the years of trial and suspicion that shielded Thranduil’s eyes.

“No,” Thranduil said – soft, a rush of air, almost a sigh. “No, he does not.”

The melancholy that rose between them was entirely different now: not an acknowledgement of past suffering but an unspoken shared knowledge of future regrets that neither of them could help – a shared love for one who had set himself firmly on the path to grief, heedless of what either could wish for him. Gimli had known moments like this before – more often with Thranduil’s daughter than with the king himself – of that sudden kinship, that shared silent sorrow. For a moment, it was all he could feel.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the moment was ended and Thranduil had let his hands fall from the sill, stepped back from Gimli’s side. “I will leave you to your thoughts, then,” he said. “Have a pleasant evening, Gimli.”

“And you,” Gimli managed after him, half-stunned in his wake, but Thranduil gave no indication he had heard him but a half-raised hand, as much a dismissal as a farewell, and then he was striding off down the hallway and disappearing into the dark.

He departed as soundlessly as he had arrived.

#my fic #gimli #thranduil #gimli & thranduil #legolas x gimli #it's implied

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image-thot · 3 years

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Drunken Mess Part 2 - Larry x reader

It had almost been two months since he last saw you, even though he is the reason you left he can't help but feel angry. But he is not angry for the same reason you left, no.

After about a month of not responding to your text or calls, they all suddenly stop at first he thinks nothing of it. He is still angry with you, this anger that’s been brewing in his head starts to whisper different ideas and scenarios to him. It makes him think, maybe you've found someone more willing to be physical with you.

He's sad and angry.

The voice repeats, maybe they never loved me. He is a mess of overwhelming emotions, he wants to punch something but at the same time, he wants to curl up and cry. He knows why you are doing this to him, well he thinks he knows. He starts to think he is deserving of all this misfortune, everything that has happened in his life is all been about bringing him pain.

But then it dawns on him, what if something happened to you? That thought was brought on by Keeg, they wanted to try and give him reason to dig himself out of this self-loathing hole he has dug. At this realisation he's terrified, he has a million different scenarios go through his head. What if you'd been kidnapped? Injured or Killed! It had only been a week since you had lasted texted, that is plenty of time for you to have god knows what happen to you.

He goes to Rita as he knows you two are close, not as close as he is with her but enough that you still write to her.

“Rita!” He shouts down the hall to her. “Have you been writing to y/n?” He asks trying to mask the panic that is laced in his voice.

“It’s bad enough that you are ignoring them, but do you have to spy on her?” She huffs turning to face him, a scowl present on her face.

“No I’m not spying, I’m worried about them.” He says looking down from her gaze.

“That’s a first.” She scoffs as he looks at her in almost a glare even with his glasses. She notices his change and her expression softens. “But to answer your question, they haven’t written in about two weeks.”

At that, he takes off running down the hall.

“Larry! What does that mean?!” Rita shouts after him.

He goes to Vic because he is the most tech-savvy he knows, he hopes he is going to help. No, he has to help. He almost kicks down the door to Vics room as he enters.

“Wow, Larry. Ever heard of knocking?!” Vic shouts at him.

“I need your help.”

After explaining the situation to him he is somewhat understandable and gets to work.

“So after a month of ghosting them you going to stalk them?” He jokes out.

“This is serious Vic.” Larry almost growls out.

After a few minutes, Vic lets out a sigh.

“Sorry Larry, but their phone hasn’t been turned on in about a week.”

“Do you know where?” Larry responds, he feels like he may die from this overwhelming feeling of dread. “Maybe we can find out if we go to where it last was?”

“That I can do.” Vic takes a couple of seconds to get the location. “ unit 5 at 47 bay road, Madison, Wisconsin. Does that mean anything to you or them?”

“Yes, that’s their apartment, from before they moved here,” Larry speaks as he walks out of Vic’s room.

“Guess it’s road trip time,” Vic says following behind larry

“No, you aren’t coming.” Larry turns to stop him noticing the others walking down the hall.

“I hope you do not think you doing this by yourself,” Rita says.

It turns into a big old road trip with the whole gang to your apartment. Everyone has their reasons for going but every one of them is worried about you.

Once they do eventually get to your apartment they have no idea what to expect when going in. is there going to be a crime scene? Hidden clues around?

Nothing, your apartment almost looks like no one has ever lived there, aside from the furniture and odd clothing items around. It’s not the first time he has been here before, he has been here just a few times before and nothing looks different aside from your missing presence. He begins to look for anything that might be out of place or any notes or clues to your disappearance. The others were about to help when Rita stops them, she knows how much this means to Larry and knows that he is the best person to discern between a clue and just a normal item.

Whilst looking for clues he stumbles across a new shelf in your bedroom, the shelf is dedicated to things that he has got you. Any plants that he has given you are all well maintained. After several hours of combing through your things, he has come up with nothing. Vic suggests that they try your place of work, they were not sure what they were expecting when they got there. When they had first met you seem like fighting crime and saving lives was your full-time job. It was a real kick when they find that no you hadn’t returned to fighting crime but, instead worked at a small ordinary grocery store. They had found out from the manager surprisingly you had quit about four weeks ago.

“Is she missing?” an elderly woman asked as the group was exiting the store.

“Ye—I’m not sure,” Larry responds, slightly stuttering. He isn’t sure what if you just left because you wanted nothing to do with them or him.

“Well, they must have some foresight.” She responds and starts to shuffle back into the store.

“Why is that?” He is quick to catch up to the elderly woman.

“Well, they had asked me to water their plants for the next month or two. I just live down the hall from them.” She says continuing to shuffle off into the shop, he just stands there.

Those thoughts come back, had you left because you did not want anything to do with him? Was this just some sick game to you?

Hammerhead had thrown a tantrum and pointed out a lot of the things that he was trying not to think of. It was then that they decided that in the morning they would go back to the manor.

That night he slept in your bed, he could still smell you, it brought him comfort and pain at the same time. He wanted to cry, he wasn’t sure if he could.

When they get back to the manor they are greeted by a slightly angry Chief, he isn’t happy that they went out without his consent.

“What you could show a little concern over y/n!?” Larry shouts storming up towards his room, Rita follows up behind him she wants to offer him the comfort she knows he needs.

Another week goes by, nothing.

He takes another trip to your apartment, he goes around your neighbourhood and city postings missing flyers. When he got back he even went to beg the chief to contact Kipling to summon Baphomet to try and locate you, Chief swiftly denied him saying that if you wanted to be found you would be. This angers him, he started to think the chief knew what was happening with you and it would not have been the first time the chief had lied to him.

It has been three weeks since he had last received anything from you, his anger had long faded and replaced with grief. What if he never saw you again? What if you moved on? What if you had died? He would never know, and that not knowing was slowly driving him into a catatonic state.

Throughout this whole experience, Keeg had tried to help Larry, not that he had ever stopped before. But he tried to comfort him in ways they hadn’t tried before, he tried to help locate you to no avail.

In the fourth week he never left his room, Cliff said he must have died up there. Rita was going up she would be there for him making sure that he at least ate. He didn't want to give up on you, but he just felt so hopeless and nothing he did never seem Everyone was feeling it they had all tried and come up short.

It was the first night of the new month, Larry had decided that he would try and get out, even if it was to turn back around. As he exited his room a loud noise was heard coming from the Chief’s office, he rushed towards his office. He wasn’t the only one who had heard the noise, cliff, Vic and jane had heard and rushed to the scene.

They all rushed in ready for danger, but they weren’t met with death or destruction hell there wasn’t a piece of furniture out of place. The only thing that was out of place were the three people in all black combat gear talking to the chief.

Once they had entered the room they had all stopped the conversation and turned to look at them. Larry thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, the person on the far side of the three looked awfully like you. Either that or you were standing here in the room with him/

“What the fuck?!” Cliff says as chief wheels out from the desk to come between the two groups of people.

“This doesn’t concern you all leave.” Chief demands as Larry starts to walk towards you but is pushed aside by Vic.

“y/n Why the hell are you rolling with the Night Wanderers!?” Vic shouts but is prevented from getting any closer by the unmanned man. Larry had no idea who or what the Night Wanderers were, but from the sound of they weren’t good.

“You make it sound like a bad thing” The man closest to Vic says as he scoffs at the boy.

“These the people you laying low with?” asked the unnamed woman looking at you. “Don’t look like your crowd.”

You were about to chime in when you were interrupted by the chief.

“apologies for their interruption but as I told you I don't have the information you are looking for.”

“Shame.” The unnamed man began. “guess we will have to try other sources.”

Pushing past the group of confused anti-heroes, he stops at the door and turns to the chief. “Where’s the closest bar?”

“In town on the main street, can’t miss it at this time of night” Chief chuckles with a fake smile.

“Right, let’s go you too.” The man says walking out of sight and earshot, with the woman in tow.

You go to follow them but you feel Larrys grasp on your arm and the staring from everyone around you.

“what is going on y/n?” He asks while you can’t seem to meet his gaze. You pull your arm away and push past him following the other two.

Larry is left stunned and he turns to face the chief, before making his way over to the door to follow you.

“Don’t,” Chief says halting larry.

“And why should any of us do that?” He shouts at him. “You lied to us again, you said you didn’t know where y/n was.”

“That isn’t something that I can discuss with any of you,” Chief says then cliff pitches in.

“Yeah well isn’t the first time! Like what the fuck man?! What was so hard about saying that they join another group?!?!?” Cliff shouts.

“Because it isn’t your life that is in danger if the details get out…” Chief quietly says.

“Wow, shocker Chief concerned with his own skin,” Cliff says voice dripping with sarcasm.

“…… It’s not your life you are concerned about is it.” Larry trails off as the realisation of what Chief says hits him. “What did you get y/n involved in?? what was so important that you’d risk their life!!” Larry shouts as the chief raises a hand.

“I��m sure they’ll explain of whatever it was that they put in your pocket,” Chief says as he steers around the group and out the room.

(Photos below are inspo for what the un named characters are and the last image is inspo for something that you may wear in the murder group)

Image 1: Unnamed man

Image 2: Unamed female image 3: you

#dc #dc comics #dc headcanon #doom patrol #doom patrol x reader #fluff #larry fluff #larry trainor #larry trainor x reader #larry trainor headcanons #dctv #doom patrol headcanons #angst #angry #gender neutral fanfic #larry trainor drabbles #part 2 #work in progress

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wannaholdhandswithfictionalmen · 4 years

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Can I send a request for a fic with venti and a gender neutral mc? It's not really meant to be romantic or anything along those lines. I've just been constantly thinking about how the mc was stripped of everything, including their wings when they lost their fight against the unknown god, and how the gliders might have brought them a bit of comfort when trying to get accustomed to Mondstadt.

Something more heartfelt, maybe the mc just talking to venti after a late night out, or just waking up in the middle of the night to take a stroll in peace away from paimon, amber and the rest of the Chaotic knights of favonious.

This is more of a prompt if anything- I dont usually send requests so I dont know how to format them- sorry about that :'0

A/n: first time writing Venti. Oof. Hopes it's alright and anon I hope this is close to what you wanted.

Genre: Angst. Some fluff. (The power of friendship.)

Warning: It gets a bit angsty before it get softer.

Summary: The reality of your circumstances of the trapped traveler get you and Venti offers you some advice and comfort as your friend.

Word count: 1,420

In The Days To Come (How Much Will I Miss You?);

It was a series of perfect events, little coincidences, Paimon got distracted a while back by the smell of food, fluttering off with 'Delicious. Tasty food! Paimon will be back' before vanishing from your side. The knight of Favonius had no urgent problems to ask for your aid with now that the Dvalin has been saved and Mondstadt and its people can rest easy. You finally had time to yourself, time to feel and think of your new reality.

It was the gentlest tug, pull of melancholy it crept up slowly, slowly, slowly all day nipping at your heels until you felt it from your toes to your head. Numbness, so empty at first then came sadness buried deep, ignored for days for the sake of saving others, making sure others were happy, living in their home, with their family-- while you were still missing yours. It felt unfair. Resentment and anger reared their ugly heads, howling like starving, ravenous beats.

What an overwhelming torrent of emotion, waves after wave, lapping at your chin, your mouth, your nose. Sinking. Sinking. Sinking. No. Drowning.

Until there was nothing but a muffled, muted haze of the world around you.

If you nodded and 'hm', 'yes', 'sure', 'okay' your way through passing conversations no one noticed. Oh, how kind, brave and stoic the traveler was! Our hero! Maybe you didn't want to be a hero. You just wanted your sibling back.

Gliding from the highest building in Mondstadt in the dead of night, you could close your eyes, imagine it, see it, your wings, the wind through your hair, the laughter of your best friend, your constant companion, your sibling-- 'I am absolutely certain, I can beat you!', 'Ha! How hilarious. You just try to keep up!'

Then your feet hit the cobblestone of Mondstadt, your eyes snap open and that dream, that wish, all of it shatters into the most fragile fragments, fading away, slipping out of your mind, no matter how hard you try to grasp onto it, hold it close. Gone.

You just want to cry.

Figures it would be Venti who just so happens to find you. In the late hours of the night, every minute passes towards that too late but also too early threshold of time.

He is whistling, then humming a gentle, soft song. Lyrics and melody unknown to you, deft, nimble fingers strum quiet, easy notes from his lyre.

Quiet footsteps approaching your seating form, nearly hunched over a ledge outlooking most of Mondstadt from this peak near the cathedral and the statue of your friend, it was still a little odd to think of Venti, the whimsical, chaotic bard as a god but easier to wrap your mind around given the fact you had traveled to many different realms and worlds in the past.

"How lucky I am to find a lone traveler, perhaps I could provide you with some company?" Venti interrupts his little performance to sit down beside you, cradling his lyre in his hands, you don't really have the energy to even answer or protest his presence even if you wanted.

"Did you catch a bit of my new tune? I must work on something that will blow away even Master Diluc! Perhaps enough for a night of free drinks in the tavern in exchange for the request of my music!" Venti exclaims rather determinedly as always, especially when it came to getting the best wine possible, for free as well. The lengths he'd be willing to go is almost admirable in a way.

Your answering silence, no laugh, huff or even a scoff at his expense nor a head shake, roll eyes. Nothing.

"Ah poor traveler, your gloom could bring down even the brightest flowers bloom, what has doubled your trouble?" Even his joking yet sincere rhyming can't bring much of a reaction to your face and that eats away at Venti. Never one to want his friends to suffer, not if he is there to help in whatever way he can.

Venti loses his playful, mischievous nature for the moment in favor of being serious. It's then he is more Anemo Archon then Venti the bard.

"What is wrong, friend?"

One tear is followed by many others, everything rushes to the surface, you shake, tremble, break under the weight of your own sorrow. Sobbing out to the blinking stars far, far away.

"What if my sibling is gone forever? What if I never find any clues, signs? What if I spend the rest of my life trapped here, searching and searching?" You sound half hysterical with grief and worry, rambling out every doubt, insecurity you have kept so tightly hidden away. Because everyone else had their own problems and all the problems they wanted you to solve.

"Years side by side, through every trouble, every battle, every adventure, journey, they were always with me. Now? I am alone. My power, my wings, my sibling taken from me." You sniff and cough, squeezing your eyes shut as the world around your blurs and become a mess of colors.

"I am tired. I am scared. Why do I always have to be brave? Strong? My whole life has been turned upside down and I have barely had time to adjust! To take all of this in, it feels like every person I meet needs my help for something unrelated to finding my only family!" You can't help the way your words turn exhausted and bitter.

Venti waits and listens to your venting without interruption. It's only once he is sure you have let it all out that he speaks.

"There is no shame in your sorrow, your pain. You have been thrown into a situation unfamiliar and unless anything you have experienced before and you are being forced to endure this without your closest friend, your sibling." Venti's tone is slow, decisive as if he is giving every single word meticulous thought.

"You are incorrect to assume that means you are alone. You have new friends here, people who care about you, your journey and your goal. Paimon, Me, Jean, Lisa, Diluc, Kaeya, Amber, we all care for you. And you will have our support whenever you need it. Without question." The finality and firmness of his statement leaves no room for argument.

You realize and recognize the truth in his words and Venti stays by your side, in the quiet night as you cry and cry, relieving the tangled knot of everything you had let grow, fester and linger for so long, even before you found Paimon.

Venti plays a soothing harmony, a mellow, delicate dance of the strings of his lyre and his soft voice, singing; something just for you, for the moment of trust and sharing between two friends. It is a lovely, comforting song as your tears begin to dry and the burden on you is lessened for now.

It's easy to smile and hum along with Venti as if you've heard this a dozen times.

You have no idea what is awaiting you on the journey, what struggles you will face, what obstacles and hardships that will cause you to stumble and fall but you do have friends who will be there to pick you back up again and again.

"Paimon just enjoyed a juicy, sweet, savory meal! (Name) you should have join- wait a minute!" Paimon takes one look at you and her cheeks puff out in anger, it's too cute to be truly scary but the glares she shoots at Venti is fiercely defensive.

"What did you do tone-deaf bard?!"

You laugh, reaching out to take hold of Paimon, you hug her gentle. Paimon squeaks out in surprise but you feel her tiny arms gently squeeze your neck.

"I have done nothing wrong, this time." Venti had paused his private little song, ensuring it was something meant to be shared between you two just like this night would be a shared memory to look back on.

Paimon wiggles away from you, floating before you, you watch her stick her tongue out at Venti, blowing and making a hilarious show of her disbelief. "Paimon doesn't believe you! Apologize to them now!"

In the ensuing 'fight' between Venti and Paimon, you watch Venti reach forward and pinch her cheek and the small girl lunged at him in a failed attempt to choke him, you are sure, Venti holds her back with a hand over her face.

You laugh.

Yeah, you had friends and you weren't alone.

#genshin impact #genshin impact one shots #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact reader insert #genshin impact venti

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artyblogs · 3 years

Text

Mean It When You Swing It

Read on AO3

Summary: For @caruliaweek. Prompt: Confession. After two years, Carmen arrives at Julia’s doorstep with a bouquet of red roses. She finds a nightmare instead. Tensions ensue.

---

The first bouquet was a prank on Carmen. Carmen wanted to do something nice for Julia, to thank her for her infinite patience, for blindly doing what Carmen asked without protest, and for doing so without prying. Carmen wanted to do something nice for Julia, and people give flowers to each other, right? They are given to performers after their shows, and to graduates after their ceremonies, and to the sick so that they might feel better. They are given to parents and children and friends and partners. They are given in grief, and they are given in thanks, and they are given in affection.

There was a florist down the street from Julia’s flat, so there Carmen went.

“Whatever they are, they have to be red,” Carmen murmured as she regarded the dizzying collection. There were so many different shapes and sizes, in so many hues, and it was making for a more complicated task than she first thought. In her ear, the sounds of Player’s constant keystrokes blend into the background when he speaks (he once explained something about microphone settings and sound engineering, but most of it went over Carmen’s head).

“How about red roses? Nine of them?” And even through the mic, she could tell that he was smiling.

“Only nine? Okay,” Carmen said and she asked the florist for a bundle.

“Wait, really?” Player almost shrieked, but his sound settings came through yet again to normalize the volume.

“What’s wrong?”

“Uh, nothing.”

And that was that. It was only after the artifacts were set in front of Julia’s door, and after the doorbell was rung, and while they were on the plane out of Poitiers, that Ivy gently took Carmen’s elbow, steered her out of Zack’s earshot, and asked if Carmen meant to leave red roses for Julia.

“Flowers are flowers are flowers, right? Should I have left different ones?” Carmen asked.

Ivy’s mouth formed and ‘o’ and her green eyes grew wide with dismay. “Oh my god, you really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

Ivy clenched her jaw and scowled. She reached into her pocket, took out a small padded case, and unzipped it to reveal her Team Red earpiece. She plugged this into her ear, stood hands akimbo, and glared at Carmen’s left earring.

“Player,” she growled out. Carmen had never seen her so mad before; not even at Zack. And Player made a high-pitched squealing sound that she’d never heard him make before either.

“I didn’t think she’d actually do it!”

“God-fucking-dammit, Player! You know that Carmen doesn’t know about this kind of shit.”

“I’m sorry. But can you honestly tell me that red roses were the wrong move to make?”

“Do not try to worm out of this.”

“What do they mean?” Carmen asked. Ivy froze. Player too, fell silent. There was nothing but the drone of the plane engines around them.

“What do red roses mean?” Carmen asked again.

Ivy told her. And then she returned to Zack to give Carmen some time, and Player went radio silent for the same reason, and Carmen remained in the back of the plane, thinking.

Did she mean to give red roses to Julia?

---

Today, Carmen picks up a similar bouquet and signs the card with her name—her real name—and her hands take on an unnatural tremor. She flattens them against the counter, slapping the pen down in the process, and tries to distract herself by watching the florist tie a ribbon around the bouquet. They pull the free ends of the ribbon against the back of the shears to make them curl, then present the flowers to Carmen with a wink.

“Thanks,” Carmen says, weighing the flowers in her arms. Is this only nine roses? It seems heavier than she remembers.

“Good luck.” The florist takes the card and carefully tucks it into the tiny plastic trident bundled with the roses, then waves Carmen away with a smile. Carmen turns and continues down the street.

Carmen used to think she knew what love was. That at least Coach Brunt loved her the way a mother would love a daughter. She knows now that she didn’t. It was the kind of love that one has for a stuffed toy, or a limb, or a tool. She was beloved only because she belonged to VILE and did as she was told.

While she suspected that it wasn’t really love, she didn’t have confirmation of it until she met Carlotta Valdez. She believed that the woman who had captured her father’s heart had to be remarkable and she was right.

Her father gave her mother red roses. Usually a single rose, and sometimes a dozen of them at a time, but Carlotta preferred the single roses. She would tell Carmen how Dexter would break into some poor neighbors’ garden with a pair of shears in his back pocket, and how he would methodically choose the right one.

The neighbors entered their roses into competitions, so they soon learned to get dogs and guns. But Dexter never failed to get a rose. Not only because he was that good, but because he liked to see the look on Carlotta’s face when he presented them to her, and because he knew that no matter how beautiful the rose was, that Carlotta would always be lovelier.

Could Carmen love someone like that? The idea is…well. To be honest, she’s still not sure what love is and what love looks like, but she feels signs of it when she thinks of Player, and Ivy and Zack, and Shadowsan. She feels signs of it when she thinks of Carlotta. She likes to think she could. That she’s capable of it.

Could Carmen love Julia like that?

She would like to try.

Carmen carefully shifts the bouquet in her arms and crosses the street. Julia moved back to Oxford about six months after the raid on VILE headquarters. According to Player, most of VILE were round up by then, and the remaining work that ACME could scrounge up didn’t have anything to do with historical artifacts, so Julia had run out of reasons to stay.

Does Julia still drink tea? Does she still wax poetic about Older Futhark and Coptic?

Is she happy?

The apartment complex is really a collection of handsome brownstones that surround a small courtyard. There’s a barbecue pit set in concrete, and a swingset almost hidden amongst some trees. Two children make a circuit on their bikes, and a woman watches them while she idly pushes a toddler on a swing. Carmen avoids them as best she can and reaches Julia’s door. Music comes from inside; the radio, judging from the overlay of a DJ’s commentary. Carmen reaches up to press the doorbell and hesitates.

Two years and no word. No call, no text. Not even a letter. Two years.

Carmen takes a deep, steadying breath. It is unfortunate, but she had always intended to talk to Julia. Sooner than now, yes, but she did want to talk. She just…lost track of time getting to know her mother. To tell the truth, two years is not enough, but they have the rest of their lives. If Carmen didn’t come to see Julia now, then when would she stop by? In three years? Five?

Yes, it’s been two years, but Carmen is here now. She reaches up and presses the doorbell. There’s a muted chime from within, and a vague shout and footsteps, before the door is pulled open to reveal Julia.

“Hello?” Julia says, her eyes and face bright as if recovering from a bit of laughter, but her smile fades when she sees who it is. Her other hand comes up to cover her mouth.

“Carmen?”

“Hey, Jules,” Carmen says. The both of them stay like that for a moment, letting the music wash around them. The smell of roasted meat wafts around them too, as if Julia were interrupted in the middle of cooking dinner.

Julia’s dark hair is shaggy and ruffled. Carmen doesn’t remember if it’s always been that length, and she just carefully brushed it down for work, or if she’s growing it out. It looks good on her regardless, but then again, Julia could make anything look good.

“Who is it? Is it a package?” An alto voice sounds from within the flat. From the kitchen, wiping their hands on a rag, comes someone wearing an apron over their lean frame. Their dark, medium-length hair is tied back to keep it out of the way. At the sight of Carmen, they go very still, their brown hands still tangled in the kitchen rag.

It’s as if an ice cube has been dropped into Carmen’s stomach.

Julia looks nervously between the two of them. “Mars, this is Carmen, an old friend of mine. Carmen, this is my significant other, Mars Dakila.”

“I know,” Carmen says.

The first time Carmen saw Mars, she was sixteen on VILE Island. Back then, Mars Dakila was Cricket Bat. They arrived at the island and were shut away with the faculty for about an hour before they left with the Cleaners. The students of that year said that Cricket Bat wasn’t a thief at all, and Carmen had wondered why they were affiliated with VILE in the first place if they weren’t a thief.

She got her answer later, after Ivy and Zack had joined her crew. Sharkhead Eddie’s gang had taken over Darryl’s Donut Hole after all, and Carmen meant to break into the vault housed within and burn all of the counterfeit money. When she broke in, however, she found bodies instead. About five men were slaughtered, the dark blood pooling on the white vinyl, and she followed that trail of death to the vault, where Sharkhead Eddie gurgled wetly as he bled out on the floor. Cricket Bat stood over him in their spattered suit, with stained bolo knives in their hands, and dispassionately watched him die.

There was a newspaper article afterwards. The cops said that it was a mob battle, and Carmen supposed that in a way, it was, because the conflicts between VILE and the rest of the East Coast criminal gangs stopped after that.

Now, Cricket Bat, sorry, Mars is a scant seven feet away from Carmen—from Julia—and wiping their hands as if they’ll ever be clean. Julia steps between them, and Carmen blinks. She looks up at Carmen with a half-hard, half-pleading expression and the cold in Carmen’s stomach spreads through the rest of her body.

“We’ve met before,” Carmen says.

“In a different life. Do you want to stay for dinner?” Mars asks. Julia’s eyes widen as she tries to stammer something out.

“I’ll set another plate,” Mars says, and they disappear into the kitchen. Carmen watches them go, and when she’s certain that they’re out of earshot, she leans in towards Julia.

“Jules,” she whispers.

“Yes, I know. But they’ve changed,” Julia whispers back.

Carmen doubts that very much, but Julia continues.

“I swear they’ve changed. If you stay for dinner, you’ll see. Carmen, please.”

“Fine.” Not to see proof of this miraculous turnaround, but to get to the bottom of whatever the hell this is. Something is going on, and Carmen is going to save Julia from it if it’s the last thing she does. She straightens up and takes another deep breath. Julia slumps with relief.

“These are for you.” Carmen holds out the bouquet, and Julia’s eyes flicker with…sadness? Pain? She takes the flowers and cradles them against her chest, then gives Carmen a soft smile.

“Thank you. Would you like to come in?”

Julia moves to let Carmen inside, and goes into the kitchen. Carmen slips her converses off and sets them next to a shoe rack just inside the door. Julia’s heels and flats are there, neatly lined up, but there are also sneakers and brogues that do not belong to Julia. The hooks on the wall above carry two coats and two sets of keys. Carmen ventures in further, her horror growing by the second. Between the front door and the kitchen is enough room for a small dining table, and opposite the table is the living room. In the living room, on the wall above the sofa, is a collection of framed photographs. Carmen recognizes a couple pictures from Julia’s office in Oxford. There are also other people that have Julia’s eyes, or her nose. There is also a picture of Julia and Mars.

It’s a candid shot, judging from the blurriness and the tilt of the camera. Julia’s glasses are askew and she’s laughing. Mars, their face mostly hidden behind Julia’s, presses a kiss to her cheek. Carmen’s stomach lurches dangerously.

CLICK. The music stops as the radio is turned off.

“I’ll just get another bottle from the corner store, Babe,” Mars says as they head towards the door. They pull off the apron and toss it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Julia follows them, carrying a vase with the roses.

“I’m not sure that wine will ease this situation at all,” Julia says.

“We won’t know unless we try.” Mars slips on a pair of trainers, takes one of the sets of keys and turns to give Julia a quick kiss. “Be back soon.”

And with that, Mars leaves, shutting the door behind them. There’s an awful silence. Julia nods her head, like she’s psyching herself up, and turns to face Carmen. Her cheeks are pink.

This cannot be real. This…no. This is a sick joke. A prank. Ha ha. Carmen numbly watches as Julia sets the vase on a deep windowsill next to an old Skyflakes tin with a bunch of succulents planted in it. She beckons to Carmen, then returns to the kitchen. Somehow, Carmen finds the strength to follow her.

The kitchen is an organized mess, as most kitchens are while they’re being used. There is a bowl of mashed potatoes, a tray of roasted broccoli, and rack with two steaks. The sink is piled high with utensils. Julia takes a covered baking pan from the fridge. She uses a pair of tongs to take a steak from it and the places it in a skillet on the stove, where it starts sizzling. Julia puts the pan back in the fridge, sets the tongs off to the side, and looks at Carmen expectantly.

“Is ‘Mars Dakila’ even their real name?” Carmen asks.

“It’s their real name now,” Julia says. She turns the overhead fan on and returns to the skillet. There’s sauce in it too, and she tilts the skillet a little so that it all gathers to one side. Julia takes a spoon and begins scooping the sauce over the steak bit by bit, making sure to baste the entire thing.

“Does Player know?” Carmen asks.

“No,” Julia says.

“Do Ivy and Zack know?”

“No. And they don’t need to know.”

“Listen, Jules. I don’t know what they told you, but I know for a fact that they’re VILE. Faculty sent the Cleaners to clean, but they sent Cricket Bat to make messes. I….” Carmen pulls her hands down her face. “They’re dangerous, Jules!”

“Perhaps that was true two years ago, but they teach escrima at a local gym now. They’re reformed.” Julia picks the tongs back up and flips the steak, then continues scooping sauce. Carmen cannot believe what she is hearing.

“How long have they been conning you?” Carmen asks. Julia gives her a sidelong glance.

“They’re not conning me.”

“How long, Jules?”

Julia sighs through her nose. “We celebrated our one year about two months ago. Does that sound like a con to you?”

“Some cons go on for like seven years.” Carmen fights through a rising tide of guilt and desperation. Oh she is a fool. How could she possibly think she could go to Argentina for two whole years and expect everything to be fine? What an idiot she is! What a moron! And now Julia is completely blind to the danger she is mired in.

“It isn’t a con, Carmen,” Julia insists. She picks the tongs up one last time and uses it to prop the steak up on its side against the pan. She holds it upright and moves it a little every now and then to finish the sear.

Carmen could just…leave with Julia. She could just throw her over her shoulder and take her somewhere safe.

Julia sets the steak on the rack along with the others, then turns off the stove and the fan. She leans against the counter, her head hanging in defeat. “Carmen, why did you come back?” She asks in a hushed voice.

“What?”

“I mean, why now? Just as I was starting to…. I was finally….” Julia raises her head and Carmen doesn’t think she’s ever been the target of such longing. Unbidden, Carmen steps closer, and Julia’s eyebrows scrunch together as she continues to gaze up at her. Julia’s hand comes up as if to touch her arm, but she falters and it drops away.

“Jules,” Carmen breathes.

“You disappeared. I wasn’t surprised because that’s what you do, but then you stayed disappeared and I….” Julia drops her gaze. “You deserved to rest. You deserved to meet your mother in peace.”

She says the last part in near monotone, as if by rote.

“And I wouldn’t have been able to do that if it weren’t for you. I should’ve thanked you when I got that file. I should’ve thanked you sooner,” Carmen says. Julia’s cheeks turn pink.

“That wasn’t me.”

“I know it was you, Jules. Thank you for finding her.”

Julia waves it away, her blush spreading to her ears, but she asks, “is she nice, at least?”

“She’s wonderful.”

A bittersweet smile spreads over Julia’s face. “Good.”

Come with me, Carmen wants to ask. Julia could meet her mother and see for herself. But the front door opens, and Mars returns with a paper bag in hand. They slip their shoes off and put the keys back on the hook. Julia steps away so fast, it’s as if she’s scalded herself. She skirts around Carmen and goes to Mars. Carmen resists the urge to take her arm.

“I know you don’t like super dry wines, so I got a merlot,” Mars says. Their brown eyes light up when Julia comes near, and they hold the paper bag out to her.

Julia takes the bag and rucks it down to read the label on the bottle. “Not bad.”

“See? I know what I’m doing.” Mars kisses her cheek and—to Carmen’s dismay—Julia returns it. She does it absently, out of habit, before she catches herself and freezes. But Mars is already stepping around her and towards the kitchen.

“Was there enough sauce left for a third steak?” They ask.

“I managed it all right,” Julia says.

“Cool.” Mars comes to a stop just out of arm’s reach and tilt their head as they regard Carmen. “Sandiego.”

Carmen’s last name hasn’t been Sandiego in a long time, but she’s not telling them that. “Dakila.”

Behind Mars, Julia shies away as if witnessing an impending car crash.

“Would it be better if I ate with a butter knife instead of a regular steak knife?” Mars asks.

“You could make a plastic knife dangerous, Dakila.”

Julia gasps. “Carmen!”

Mars grins at Julia over their shoulder. “It’s okay, Julia. I’ll eat kamayan style if I have to.”

The name rolls so easily through Mars’ mouth with such familiarity and with such affection that Carmen must resist the urge to tackle them to the floor. Somehow, she unsticks her feet and moves out of the way.

---

The dining table is a small, rustic thing covered in scuffs and dents. To save on space, one end of the rectangle has been pushed against the wall. Julia sits at the remaining short side, and Carmen and Mars sit opposite each other.

While Carmen has never eaten dinner while within three feet of a serial killer, she has had worse evenings before. At least the food is good.

“But because I’m taking more classes than usual, my advisor expects me to graduate in three years, not four,” Julia is in the middle of saying. “I honestly didn’t think that I was taking that heavy a course load.”

“‘Doctor Argent,’” Carmen says, testing out the title. Julia ducks, her face going pink again. “It sounds nice.”

“My students already call me that, even though I tell them not to.”

“You still teach?”

“All phd candidates do. Just the introduction courses though, so it’s just the basics.”

“But you still love it.”

“I do.” Julia beams. “You know, I wouldn’t be able to do all of this in the first place if Mars wasn’t around. They take care of everything.”

“Do they?”

Mars has been mostly quiet all through dinner. They have a knife and fork after all, but they take care to keep their hands above the table, and to move deliberately and slowly. Once in a while, they’ll smile at something Julia says, as if sharing a private joke, or they’ll answer in short sentences, but that’s about it.

“Well, they do most of the cooking and the cleaning because they happen to like cooking and they happen to be rather fastidious,” Julia says.

“It’s the strangest sugaring arrangement I’ve ever been in. I’ve never paid anyone with chores before,” Mars says. Julia gasps and swats their arm, making them squawk.

“You absolute scoundrel! Don’t say that when we both know how whipped you are.”

Mars laughs. They laugh and their eyes light up again. “True! You’re probably the only person on the surface of this planet who could make me do anything.”

Carmen’s insides twist horribly.

After dinner, Carmen helps Julia clear the table and put the leftovers away. Julia ties the garbage bag shut with a double knot and tugs it free of the bin. Mars steps up to the sink and Julia tsks.

“Oh Mars, I’ll take care of those; you did most of the cooking.”

But Mars lathers the sponge and starts washing the dishes anyway. “It’s okay, Babe, I’ve got it.”

“I’ll help them,” Carmen says. Mars glances at her from the corner of their eyes.

“Really? Okay.”

Carmen takes a kitchen towel and stands at the dish rack next to Mars. Julia stares at them.

“You can’t be serious,” Julia half-whispers to herself, then louder, “Behave! Both of you.”

“Of course, Babe,” Mars says.

“I mean it,” Julia says, glaring at them both. “I will not come back to a dead body, understand?”

Mars smiles at her. “Yes, Julia.”

“Sure thing, Jules,” Carmen says.

This seems to mollify her, and she leaves to toss the garbage in the complex dumpster. Mars and Carmen wash and dry the dishes in silence. They pass the pans and the dishes first, and also the cutting board.

“You’re using Jules to escape ACME,” Carmen says. Mars’ eyes flicker, but they continue to wash.

“It certainly started that way, but then they stopped being a threat and I kinda…stuck around. Julia’s a remarkable woman.”

“Does she know how many people you’ve killed?”

“I don’t do that anymore; I promised her I wouldn’t,” Mars says as they place the trays and glasses into the rack.

“Oh, like that’s enough to stop you from killing again.”

“Be as skeptical as you want; I don’t care what you think. What matters is that Julia believes me.”

“What kind of sob story did you tell her to get her to trust you?” Carmen asks.

Mars shakes their head and starts cleaning the utensils. “I can’t believe this,” they mutter under their breath.

“Jules deserves better than to be swindled….”

“No, you know what, Sandiego? You just left her. You left. You wanted a fresh start and you got a fresh start and when you got it, you decided that there was no room in it for Julia. You decided that.”

By miracle, Carmen manages to not drop anything despite the shaking of her hands. Who the hell does Cricket Bat think they are to talk to her like this? As if she doesn’t care about Julia. Like she isn’t terrified that one day, she’s going to find out that Julia’s dead because Mars got tired of her, or didn’t need her anymore.

Because no matter what Mars says, they must be pulling a con. They have to be. They would never admit it, and if they passionately exclaim how much they ‘love’ Julia and it happens to sound genuine, then either they’re a very good actor, or they’re starting to buy their own con.

“How long did you expect Julia to wait around for you? Five years? Ten? Assuming you came back at all,” Mars continues.

“If Jules wants to be with someone else, fine. She deserves to be happy. But not with you. You’re a murderer,” Carmen says.

Mars glances at the vase of roses in the windowsill. “Maybe Julia shouldn’t take advice on her love life from you. Gotta say, green is an awful color on you, Sandiego.”

Carmen’s hands freeze above the utensils drawer. Everything else has been put away except one final steak knife. She holds the handle loosely between three fingers, and with one movement, she could just let go. She could drop the knife into the drawer.

Drop the knife, Carmen. Julia has been gone for several minutes now, so she’ll be back at any moment.

Drop the knife.

Beside her, Mars stands before a bare sink, hands empty except for a dishrag that they wind around their forearm in preparation.

“Mean it when you swing it, Sandiego.”

#caruliaweek #julia argent #carmen sandiego #carulia #julethief #carjules #carmen x julia #carulia week #my writing #also on ao3

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sebsunset · 3 years

Text

Creation, Both Haunted and Holy - CHAPTER 2!

I’ve been working on this thing for weeks straight, to make it as amazing as possible!

As always, I am dragging @muffinlance‘s AUs into my work

this is the angsty one :) yUP, the year-old au!

and don’t worry, i have another one in progress... also using a muffinlance- inspired au- one of the more obscure ones, i think!

Mother Hama is. Suspiciously nice to write, and very angsty

TRIGGERS: Graphic-ish descriptions of wounds and child abuse! Please beware, my dudes! Things will get better soon, but this is really really bad right now!

LINK: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25578904

OR, READ HERE :)

In the moon’s light, an urutau-vulture screeches out its song, pure and eerie grief ringing out in the wind.

And that’s how Zuko’s mind briefly comes back to reality.

Awareness fading in and out with each breath he wheezes through.

With wakefulness, comes the purest of agonies. A mouth open, voice too hoarse to scream out for help.

The hot pain, all over him, the memories tugging at his head, the memories of-

The burning. A cleanse that felt so dirty, like-

Oh, the sheer smell of it-

Of him.

The smell of cooked meat is his.

He wheezes out a cough, remembers the time Mom had no servants to help her, and had asked Azula to light up the fire for them to cook.

He tries thrashing about, to get a good view.

Mom ought to be around there, around somewhere.

(Even if it’s been so long since she was last around.)

She must be there, somewhere he can’t see, maybe in the blurry shade of the trees. She will bring a bucket and cool water, and she will hold him and-

“W-Where’s mom?” he tries asking, to nothing, to no one.

But only one of his ears hear it, the raspy, damaged sound that he can hardly recognize as his own voice.

He tries to ask again, words broken, tear tracks he can only feel in one cheek.

The burning pain he struggles to breathe over.

He doesn’t know what happened, but he can’t move. Can’t do anything, nothing but begging for it to go away.

“Where?” his voice comes out, finally.

The pain in his throat finally registers with the blabbered words, and suddenly he feels like he’s been screaming for all too long.

I’m sorry, Larva, says the feeling of hands on him. I’m so sorry it came to this.

Ghostly hands that don’t quite hurt when they touch his left side.

There is no shadow to hold him, though.

He can’t remember what happened, but the questions come to his mind nonetheless.

Why does it hurt so much? Why is his arm numb, why can’t-

Go to sleep. I’ll keep you safe, little Vessel.

The voice is soft, warm.

And, as the moon sings her song, his brief moment of awareness fades off.

Only one eye closing, as he breathes out again.

Painful, laboral.

His last thought is that he hates it.

The tone in the voice.

It’s all too-

It’s in the way the moon sings, as the boy’s skin peels off.

It’s in the way he doesn’t let any infection set in.

Scabbing away as the days pass, as Vaatu tries to heal him.

But there’s a reason the two of them were together. Glued, some might say.

Possessed, united fully.

He is part of Zuko, he is his mind and he is confined, locked away from seeking any further help. Not while the boy is that hurt, not while he can’t be awake and alive on his own.

Were it not a tragedy of occasion, his tendency to lock himself in the tiniest confides would be quite entertaining to watch.

Maybe, were it not happening to him, of all creatures.

Truly, he has been reduced to cowering on corners, to being not much more than a shadow.

Was it selfish, to wish for freedom when he had given it up to save his Vessel?

The two of them had done it.

An Avatar State of their own volition.

A sacrilege against the nature of a human body, a way to twist and bend their souls, braided together into a necklace of rope.

He doesn’t want to tell his boy what happened.

What the two of them had done.

He was too young to know what their purpose really was.

What would happen next, once he managed to get Zuko awake for more than a few minutes, enough time for them to scavenge, to do anything?

But keeping him awake, at that moment, would be nothing short of insane.

Yes, he must change. But this is too painful. Vaatu can feel the pulsing, the infection begging to seep in, to eat away at their flesh.

The way the dead limb hangs limply, charred black. The way the damaged leg attracts flies, like a plate of fruit slathered in honey, only kept away by him.

Blisters that look like they could open into eyes, watch the world for them all.

And so, Vaatu brushes off the sickness, scares away the vermin.

Lets his presence seep through, for nothing can keep him from affecting the world, not even being tied so deeply to his vessel.

The woods grow around them, thick foliage, colorful flowers in the vines.

No other spirit to bless or curse them.

Just the lonesome pocket of the world to which Vaatu and his Vessel have gone.

He is the eye of the shadow, the chaos that lurks deep in that tiny, undisturbed piece of the world.

He is a warning to the creatures.

He warns the world to stay away, lest it feel his disruption. His returning strength, his effect on the world around them finally taking place again.

Now that they are united, he can see that they could easily become unstoppable.

Rotting limbs thrown into any position, blackened flesh still smelling like it's been cooked.

The way it all brews in the two of them is nauseating.

The sickness is in the bursts of consciousness, when the one eye that can close opens up, blurry from tears.

When his head faces up and he sobs, lonesome and in pain.

Vaatu tries keeping the pain at bay, even if just by lulling him to bed.

Their vengeance is yet to be completed.

Disaster will strike again, he will make sure of it.

He tries telling, he tries consoling.

We will come back, he says. Rest for now, their fate is incoming.

But he is just a voice in his head, the feeling of a ghost-limb that can't really pull back hair, brush away feverish sweat.

Even if their Vessel is growing more powerful, Vaatu feels as weak as he can be.

But, as consciousness slips away again, he can’t help but notice the way the world is shifting around them.

The way the rabbit-mice has started chasing the otter-fox.

It is a victory, but it feels wrong.

Unsteady feet, weight put all into one as Zuko drags himself up.

The pain is hot and hard, it almost drives away the overwhelming hunger.

He didn’t think it could get that bad.

It could be worse, Vaatu says, but his voice still sounds angry.

Maybe not at him, but angry nonetheless.

(Angry like-)

When coherency slips away from his mind, when the pain is too much, as each of his slow, measured hops grows more and more exhaustive, he feels something in him beg for destruction.

But he won’t.

In the same way that Vaatu won’t bring him food, in the same way he will stay quiet, never saying a word of what happened to him.

Zuko wants to proclaim that he isn’t forgiven, but for the moment, his focus is on the steps.

Barely more than hops, as his one useful hand hangs onto trees.

Bare feet, grass scratching up against the angry, still-bleeding skin.

The question is pressing, rubbing against the back of his mind, as he cries out and whines, intense pain barely dimmed.

How is he alive?

All firebenders are taught about the sheer power of their fire, about the great deeds and prowesses they can achieve.

About how much damage they can inflict upon their enemies, when they chose not to end their suffering.

It should be infected.

I am trying not to let that happen, Vaatu whispers in his head, like it's a secret, like saying it out loud will destroy their chances of it getting any better.

He isn’t moving in the shadow.

“The left side feels green.” he says, barely noticing he’s speaking at all.

Sunlight streams in through the gaps in the foliage. The moon is going to rise up soon, and the world is orange and it all feels green.

Find help, the voice instructs. You need someone to help you.

“First, food.” he argues, hearing the rumbling of his stomach. “I mean- Where there is food, there are people.”

You make a surprisingly decent point, he says, and there ought to be some farmhouses around here.

Zuko shudders.

People watched back there, people saw his shame burned into skin, his last rite of passage.

His whining sounds pitiful to his own head, but he can’t make his mouth shut up.

Involuntary sounds, flinches and shudders, as he drifts through.

Tall grass scraping against his wound, every touch sending new jolts of it.

The gentle breeze, the falling petals of flowers, blown away by the wind.

All so gentle. The kind pulsing of the world’s fiery heart, a piece of peace in the battlefield of its little nations.

And all so, so very painful.

Maybe this tells more than it shows, but pain is hard to show through words, hard to show through barely coherent thoughts, by the mind of a child who had never been through such great agony before.

A bad leg that can’t sustain his weight much longer.

Tiny complaints amidst panting.

He feels like he is the only source of noise. The world is eerily still.

Holding its breath.

Zuko shudders, tree bark scraping at tiny hands.

He looks down on himself.

A foot half-blackened. White and violent red, all blistered and-

Cooked. Broken.

Zuko doesn’t look at his left arm.

He is all too broken, all too destroyed by the time he’s been through.

You aren’t, says the voice.

Scabs that peel away too easily, like they were never meant to form.

Droplets of blood calling for any animal. He is prey, and the world is so, so very much now.

The disorganization of the world doesn’t manage to feel quite right, quite how it should be.

Like someone’s disrupted it before, like they’ve re-organized the world into something it shouldn’t be.

Something hangs in the air, hidden but never overshadowed by the smell of his tracks.

Yes, deliberate.

They’re onto something, he realizes.

A pike of wood, somewhere from which a scarecrow once stood.

“A garden.” he says. “I think we’ve found a garden.”

Purring at the back of his head, his blurry eye half-focusing around him.

A bush at the entrance.

Calling to him.

Food.

It has to be food.

Overtaken by hunger, he can only see them.

The rest of the garden is just carrots, little beets and a cabbage or two.

Nothing that looks that sweet.

And so, Zuko drops down, hisses in pain and twitches about, before grabbing a handful of berries in his one hand.

Vaatu takes a minute too long to realize they’re the kind used to make rat poison.

Her abode is a humble one.

A tiny inn she’s set up, rooms rarely occupied.

Of course, she has other places for travelers to sleep in.

It’s her lair, made of damp wood, of floorboards that creak comfortably under her old feet. Of roofs that leak, of the smell of a harmless old person.

She has a thousand little closets, a million nooks and crannies.

Hidden memorabilia, memories she’s carved back up for herself.

All wheatered by rain and by soot, but kept clean and tidy, far away from the fire.

She didn’t have many clients, but she had more than enough time to tend to the ones she had.

And so she did, for a time.

She kept herself satisfied, working towards her goals day in and out.

Followed through with a routine, day in and day out. Cooked plenty for herself, made sure she had the energy to follow through with her tasks.

That night, she can feel the full moon.

A welcome presence above her, making the world pulse with her divinity.

She has blessed the woman with her presence, and so, that night, she will go…

Watch the moon.

It’s a nice way to talk about the indulgence in her favourite of all things.

When she can make the world malleable around her, when she can dance and sing, pulling at the strings that bind the world together.

She smiles, feels it pull at her eyes.

That night will be formidable, she thinks

With finality, she treks along.

Yet, she doesn’t feel alone.

How can she, when the full moon rises, making the world finally feel alive again?

The leaves crackling under her feet as she strides, the roots and branches snapping under her like she is a mighty beast.

Remainders of the sun’s warmth slowly seeping out, Tui taking her rightful place in the throne of the sky.

Her court of stars, rising slow and steady in its march.

And the world is silent around her. She knows it ought to be gawking at her, the last of her kind.

“Oh?” comes out of her mouth, before she can even stop herself.

An ear strained out.

“What is that…” she tsk-s in amusement, looks around with a half-absent mind.

Just what poor creature dares it, to choke in her garden, to foam over the leaves of her poison, to die in Hama’s territory?

Wakefulness comes slowly.

His brow furrows in confusion, only half his vision able to focus.

But he doesn’t need to.

All Zuko sees is darkness.

He shivers, suddenly hit with the sheer cold of the room.

It's eerie.

He doesn’t know where he is.

He lashes out, trashes about.

His feet burn. Tied together with rope.

There are no windows, the space cramped. The sickeningly sweet smell of mold, the only sound meeting his ears, his own panting.

Like a piece of bread that’s been left hanging around for all too long.

Something is wrong.

It’s in the way his tongue feels garbled when he tries to talk, it’s in the way he can’t quite move.

It’s in the involuntary twitching of a dead limb, that he can’t stop, even when it hurts.

He can’t sit up, wouldn’t even if the dizziness would let him.

Vessel, are you okay? comes to his head.

Why didn’t you stop me, he tries asking. Where are we? Why are we here?

There are no little hands in the shadows, no feeling of a ghost hand touching him.

But the pain is dulled, pushed back.

Cloaked.

“Where am I?” he looks around. “Va-Voice, where are we?”

Someone brought us here, Larva. Get up, I’m curious.

“Then move on your own.” he spits. “I’m tied up. Stupid.”

Regret makes him shake his head, but Vaatu is too old to hold up a grudge.

I can’t. We are united now, Larva. We are one in the same, and wherever you go, I go too.

“Chained?” he remembers. Like he is. Stuck, chained.

Chained. But fret not, my Larva, for stagnation will not come back to us. For now, though, you shall recover your energies.

A groan, as he lifts his hand, swipes a bug from his brow.

You sound like Uncle goes unsaid, but leaves the taste of bile on his mouth nonetheless.

Shudders, head shakes. The feeling of strands of patchy hair brushing against his shoulder.

He may not be alone, but there's no armor, no protection.

Zuko shivers, suddenly cold.

A part of him would give anything for that surge of power, for the feeling of the elements at his will, ready to be summoned up, to be harnessed and used as he deems fit.

For anything that can protect him, even with the collateral damage.

He can’t do anything, but he struggles to turn to his side nonetheless, to crawl out of the pile of rags that was his bed.

He can’t get up, so he drags his body along, pulls it slowly.

A trail of blood from his left side, scraped against the floorboards.

Dragged by his hand, whining and growling.

He can’t untie himself, no matter how much he tries.

Some kind of different knot - intricate, woven tight.

Vaatu guides him slowly, words that barely register to his mind.

Nausea, the feeling of ants crawling at the tips of his fingers as he drags himself to the door.

Get to the door - away from the fabric, it burns too easily - and then you can burn through the rope.

And suddenly, he wants to scream.

“I’m not burning myself. Shut up!” he plops onto his right side, drool pooling at the left corner of his mouth.

Beyond his control.

You know how to control the heat. It wouldn’t hurt. It's like pulling a bandage.

“Shut up.” he tries screaming, but his voice comes off hoarse.

… I apologize. I understand your fear, Vessel.

“I’m not forgiving you.”

I won’t let you stagnate for long, but feel free to stand your ground for a few more days.

“I’ll give you a week.” A bit of snark, that comes off soft.

A dry chuckle that breaks through the darkness.

He rolls his eyes, but can’t bring a smile up. He knows it would hurt. It would sting on his face, it would pull at the burns.

He reaches the door, struggles onto his knees, pulls at the handle.

Rattled, shaken, pulled and pushed with the feeblest of strengths.

Breaths growing quicker, as the weight of what he had done sets onto his shoulders.

Oh, what he did-

You should’ve eaten your vegetables, comes out as a light-hearted attempt, falling so very short.

“Shut up.” he wants to yell, because he’s locked in a strange home and oh Agni-

It’s dawning on him, slowly and steadily, just what he did.

Just what happened.

He hurt them.

(He did much worse.)

Falls to the floor. Looks at his one hand.

Now only one. Covered with little burns, old marks of his failures set onto his wrists. Little reminders of hands that were once there.

His breath, puffing out as smoke in the dark, cold room.

And suddenly, tears are falling down onto his hand.

(Father did that.)

No voice to comfort him. Nothing but the oppressiveness of his lonesome state.

Zuko wants to drown in tears, but his left eye refuses to cry, his bony body refuses to shake with sobs just yet.

So he just shrinks in there, holds himself close through the pain, pretends someone else is there to hold him.

"W-why?" He asks, feeling only half of his mouth move.

Words coming out garbled, blabbered through tears.

No answer comes, and he feels all alone.

He is a big boy, he wants to remind himself.

A big boy indeed, and that's why he cries and cries and cries, ignoring how the hollow place of the moon is soon filled by Agni’s eye.

The walks back home tend to be a less than exciting ordeal.

Oh, of course there's glee. Catharsis, even.

But lately, there’s some more than that. There’s the weight of the years on her shoulders, the soreness on her legs, the ache engraved deep into her bones.

That’s the vengeance of her people, of the men and women slain, torn down from the inside, overtaken by insanity.

She was meant to do it. It was why the art had come to her, it was why she had mastered it.

To bring down the rain of vengeance.

Nonetheless, that particular walk was made through with a quicker step, with a less vengeful head.

She had spent so long hurting, and the ones who hurt were the ones who learned how to heal the best.

She knew where to make it ache, and she had studied plenty of how to heal before.

(Kanna and her, studying scrolls that would be burned less than a day later, until late at the night.

Listening to the tribe's men sing and dance around the campfire, laughing and betting. Rolling their eyes, t hey healed eachother with little kisses by the moonlight, as Hama listened to Tui's song, to the calling of the full moon.

And with her friend's mittened hand in hers, she closed her eyes and felt the warm pulse of a world suddenly coming to life.

In the night's light, the cold wind whipping against their warm bodies, they danced together.

A dance that would soon turn into brisk movements, into desperate jabs.

But, at the moment and to that very day, the times before were painted with a rose-tinted glass.)

What mattered was that she had a patient, someone hurt as badly as she once was.

A son of ash and soot, a child with an eye burned open, blinded but still moving.

A child whose mere existence, whose life was astounding to her. How could that little thing keep going, how could he crawl to her and lay by her grassbed?

A little creature that proved her either insane or lucky enough to have a spirit in her hands.

He was going to be useful, she had decided when she found him foaming at the mouth, turning and twisting, rubbing dirt all over the open wound.

She’d cleaned him up, she had left him a nice little room, for an ashmaker that had yet to pay her back.

He would be grateful, that was certain.

And she’d seen first hand, how gratitude could destroy a man. Break down his flesh, make him bow and worship like a dog.

(She'd stood, suspended in her cell, watching an affair below.

The guard with bright yellow eyes, a glint like that of golden daggers, pointed towards her favorite prisoner.

A young woman, barely more than a girl.

She was from a neighboring tribe. Beautiful button nose and plump lips, bowing down low, foreign words slipping off her tongue.

She was meant to sing to the moon and the sea, but she sung their tribe’s songs upon anyone’s request. Danced as well as she could, tied up in chains.

A slap to the back of her head, something in the dirty ashmaker's speech.

A correction, two apologies delivered in a low bow.

Forgiveness in the form of a plump bowl of jook and not much else.)

Her garden blooms around her.

What little use she could make of the soil there. Little plants, poisonous berries. Nothing too beautiful or lavish. She was just a humble old woman, afterall.

She’d been nice, asked around the village. Seeds, some tools. She was sweet and defenseless, and nobody ever dared suspect her to her face.

The village had never been a tribe.

And the house she lived in had always been just that. A house. Some might stretch it and call it a lair.

Not quite a home, as much as she tries to keep it cold, to make it feel like one when she closed her eyes, and look like one when she dared open them up.

That place is still a land of fire. Lava below her, the sun all too hot, not a single break in his wicked reign.

She misses the polar winters. They’d always been so good for weeding out the weak and the fiery alike.

Perhaps her glasses are tinted blue, contrasting all too sharply against the blood-red of that place.

But the point still stands in her mind. That place is no real home.

It doesn't have the foundations to be one.

It doesn't have the people to make it one.

There’s no Kana or Panuk or any of the children running about. There is no tribe to embrace her, no new stories to tell around the campfire. No dealings with the neighbors, and no polar-bear sled dogs to lead to the market every month.

There’s only the oppressive loneliness of a single person lost in the sea of snakes.

But for now, she can rejoice in the luxury of a new toy. One that can be mended, sewn and filled up with the truth. A child of ash, all hers.

(Malleable as the water she’d once sculpted into ice.)

Slow footsteps, steady smile. A bit of excitement, despite the bits of a lazy cat in her demeanor.

The doors of the inn, all open and empty.

Until the locked closet.

It’s their smallest room. It’s perfect for someone that small, that frail.

A plant left in a pot too big will soon spread, grow out of control.

If he grows up well enough, if his leaves twist and bend and his roots stretch out as he tries to reach the sun, she will put him on a leash.

Hama had been wanting something to keep her entertained.

He sobs and heaves and nearly vomits once or twice.

Snot and bile, no comfort, no caress.

Not a word amidst the fit. Nothing that he can hear, nothing that can make itself noted in his mind.

His body hurts, but there is no infection to take him away, to lend him a hand.

He can’t think straight. Repulse fills his throat whenever he thinks of himself, whenever he opens his eye for enough time to truly see himself.

And he can’t do this, he thinks.

Like any child does, he slips into a spiral, falls down and down.

Thoughts swirling in his head, screams that his throat can't force out.

Until something breaks through, snaps him out of it.

The sound of a door creaking open.

A tiny stream of the morning’s light drifts into the room, so gentle yet so bright, revealing dust that doesn’t quite form bunnies and mold growing on the walls of a cramped closet.

The decrepit coldness is suddenly accentuated, with the gentle warmth that hits his back.

He shudders, suddenly, as the light is taken away.

When he turns, a figure stands, back-lit in the doorway.

Old and hunched, his blurry eyes barely able to focus on anything but her kind smile.

He turns to her, ready to question why she left his legs tied up, why she locked him there, how long he'd been alone, what she wants to do now-

“Are- Are you-” he tries stuttering out a question, but suddenly, he realizes he doesn’t know just what he wants to ask.

She comes closer, looks down upon him.

“Bow down and ask, young one.” she says, gently. “Be respectful of this old woman, won’t you?”

Vaatu growls at the back of his head, and, for a second, he forgets that his friend is simply locked inside his mind, with no real effect on the world once they’re not alone.

So, he breathes in deep, pretends there’s nothing wrong inside him.

And drops down in a rigit bow, so the kind woman won’t burn him.

“I am Hama. Who are you?” a cane pokes his burnt side, the arm that’s no longer there.

Deep breath. He knows who he is, and so will she.

“I’m Zuko. Son of-”

“Nobody.” she says. The harsh word startles him, slipped in such a gentle voice. “Not anymore. Not after what happened to you.”

He tries again.

“Zuko, son of P-”

A poke from the cane, right in a blister. He flinches and hisses, unable to stop himself.

“You are a son of nobody.” she says, her voice sweet as the smell of moldy grain. “After all that must’ve happened to you, it’s better as that. Poor thing.”

That silence lasts for a few seconds, before her voice returns, kinder, to his sight of nothing but fetid floorboards.

“Now, young one, tell me, what have they done to you?”

He won’t say. He won’t speak out again.

Not when Vaatu hisses, pure in his anger, taking over his head.

“Don’t you think you owe me that, after all I’ve helped you with?” a cane pokes his head, gently thumping against his skull. No real intention for pain, not on his bad side.

He gulps down something.

A single tear hits his lip, salty against the bitterness in his mouth.

Why does he cry? Why do the tears betray his mind, why does his gut feel so raw?

“I- I was burned.” he says.

“That I can see.” she says, gently. “Now come on, darling. I must know your affliction to heal you.”

“I was burned and banished.” he says. Words spilling out dirty and fetid and spat out like falling teeth.

But he tells no more. Hopefully, she won't see any tales of spirits, any curses or blessings to destroy.

(What if she wants to cleanse him, too?)

“Oh, dear.” she says, voice perfect in compassion.

Be careful, Vessel, Vaatu says in his head. His voice no longer a hiss, just a thought at the back of his mind. Do not trust her. Do not.

“That is very unfortunate.” she says. “Then, you aren’t Zuko, are you? As a banished boy, you have no name.”

“I- I still have my honor.” is the only defense he can give her.

And she laughs.

It would be warm, infectious as any other disease, were it not happening at that moment, when he felt raw and when his vulnerability was so easy to turn into anger.

“I am Hama, and you are Nobody.”

This is the point where the scene should end. Here, it should all fade away to silence, to maybe a sob or two, a twitch or whine at his own discomfort, until he is instructed to get up.

But please, remember just who we are talking about.

Nothing ends when or how it should, down here.

“B-But-” he tries stammering out, his heart thundering in his chest. His voice can’t come out as a scream, but it tries.

Maybe, a part of him thinks, his voice will be heard then.

She pokes him again, straight at the ribs.

“Nobody.” she says. “Nobody, with that attitude.”

If only she knew, he wanted to say.

Be nobody, Vaatu whispers, locked inside his head.

Zuko wants to fight. He wants to bite and gnash and destroy, to bend and twist and fall upon that state again, that state that made him-

“Not nobody,” he says. “I- I’ll prove to you. I’m not nobody. I swear on my honor.”

He can feel her smile.

“Son of nobody, then.” she says. “But make good on that promise, please.”

Hissing in his head, he looks up.

Tap, straight at a hollowed-out cheek.

“Stay down.” she says. “The light might hurt your eyes, so keep down low, son. I’ll get you something to eat.”

#writing #fanfic #atla #atla aang #atla zuko #atla hama #avatar #avatar zuko #vaatu #avatar vaatu #fanwork #fandom #fanfiction #fantasy #angst #muffinlance #mother hama au #hama #avatar hama

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clean-bands-dirty-stories · 4 years

Text

Breathe ~ the Doctor (part 7)

A/n: The word count got messed up because I did a passage that I added later and forgot to add it before I deleted it, so I didn’t do it this time. I have no idea how long it is, but I figure it’s long enough? Lol

Warnings: PTSD flashbacks, grief, overwhelming emotional pain, death, loss, depression, physical pain (mostly just a sort of headache), slight disassociation.

MASTERLIST

Suddenly the Doctor's arm shot out and that little light from earlier shot forward like a super charged energy beam, beaming into the head of one Cyberman and surging into the head of every Cyberman around them. They all melted, the same way the Daleks did when Rose was imbued with the power of the TARDIS. They were erased from time itself.

A car pulled up, honking behind them, and they all surged in. Mickey grabbed Y/n to the surprise of most people, and he realized why when he sat down and didn't see the Doctor. He almost raced out again, but then Rose and the Doctor joined him just as he stood, so he sat down again and they sat on either side of him, Pete on Rose's other side.

When they were safe and going, Rickey turned toward the Doctor from the front seat. "What the hell was that?"

The Doctor held up the little light from the TARDIS. It was a crystal. Y/n hadn't looked closely enough before now. "Little bit of technology from my home," he explained.

"It stopped glowing," Mickey pointed out, worried. "Has it run out?"

"It's on a vitalizing loop," the Doctor assured. "It'll be up and running in a few hours."

"So we don't have a weapon anymore?" Rickey groaned.

Jack, which seemed to be the name of Rickey's gun happy friend - reminded Y/n of another Jack but this wasn't the time to think about that - huffed, "We've got weapons. May not work on those metal things but..." Y/n tuned them out.

He fell into his memories, escaping this conversation and this world for just a second. He returned to the TARDIS, trying to think of times he and the Doctor had spent laughing or cuddling or eating together and listening to himself and the Doctor tell stories Y/n shouldn't know. Thinking about those stories though, the one Y/n shouldn't know, set off other memories he shouldn't have.

There's a soft breeze. People talk quietly. The sun is warm, but not like on Earth where it's harsh unless it's the morning or evening, when they sun is not completely in the sky yet. It's just a nice warmth, that tickles your skin and fills your insides, like drinking a warm drink on a cold day. Comfortable. I feel a peace. This is my safe place. This is where I go when everything else gets too hard. Too much. This is where I got to be alone. The sun smiles at me, and kisses me on the cheek, and promises to keep me safe.

"You okay, dad?" I turn and there is a child. Young, and small, but not so much that she doesn't recognize the state I'm in. That she can't see that I'm upset.

I smile at her anyway. "Much better now that you're here." She smiles and approaches me. Her hands reach up, but hesitate. "May I?"

Shaking my hand, I reached up and hold her by the wrists to stop her. "You don't want to do that, Darling. It really is nothing. Just having a rough day is all."

Her smile is persistent though. "I don't want to see, silly. I want to show. I've been thinking about a story recently, and I was wondering... could I try and show you? Let you picture it as I do? It might cheer you up. You love stories."

Despite everything, I find myself smiling. "I would love that." She reaches up and takes hold of either side of my face and I relax into her touch as she fills my mind with details of the story she wants me to see.

"Y/n?" He looked over, blinking as he faded away from the best memory he could muster. The Doctor was looking at him, like what he knew what had just happened. Y/n gave him a sheepish wince, but the Doctor shot an understand, sympathetic smile in return. It's okay, he seemed to be saying. "It happened again, hm? You go into memories when you zone out like that don't you?" Y/n nodded. "Well, that's understandable. We're here though. Got to get out and walk. Come on!" Y/n did as he was told, and soon they were walking through the streets of an alternative London, racing against time to save the day.

So, the usual.

Rather suddenly there was a loud beeping sound and people began to stop one by one, only this time they didn't say frozen like before. They turned and began walking in the same direction.

"What's happening?" Rose asked.

"It's the earpods," the Doctor explained. "Lumic's take control."

"Why don't we just take them off?" She asked, starting toward the nearest person.

"Don't," the Doctor commanded, pulling her to a stop. "They're connected to the brain still." He sighed, shaking his head. "The human race. For such a smart lot, you are far too simple. Given the chance, you submit. Sometimes I think you like it. Easy life."

Y/n smirked. "I mean, you can control me anytime you want Doctor. I'd more than just like that."

Before the Doctor could respond - and from the smirk on his face, Y/n got the idea it would be quite the response indeed - Jack called them over. They went to see that it wasn't just the street they were going down. People were coming out of their homes even, all headed the same direction. "Where are they going?" Rose wondered.

"I don't know, Lumic must have a base of operations." The Doctor bit his lip, not pleased with all of the people he couldn't save just yet.

"He's got a factory," Pete told them. "That's where he's been holding a base for ages now. I can take you there, easy."

Rose looked at the crowd, her face sad. "Why is he doing this?"

"He's dying," Pete answered. "This all started out as a way of prolonging life. Keeping the brain alive. Conquering death. At any cost."

"The thing is, I've seen Cybermen before haven't I?" Rose spoke up. "The head? Those handle shapes, in Vanstaten's museum."

"Well yes, there were cybermen in our universe," the Doctor explained. "They started on an ordinary world just like this, then swarmed across the galaxy."

Y/n bit his lip for a second. "If we hadn't come here, do you think they would have won this time? No Timelords to stop them if the TARDIS hadn't pulled us here."

Before the Doctor could say anything, Pete had something to say. "What are you three going on about?"

There was no time to respond though. Rickey stood up, turning around. "Nevermind that. Come on we have to get out of the street. We need to split up. Mrs. Moore, you go that way. Jake, distract them and go right. I'll go left and we'll meet back at Woodlyn street. Move!"

"I'm going with him," Mickey told the Doctor and Rose before giving them a nod and taking off after Rickey, leaving the others to follow Mrs. M as they'd been told. They all ran, the Doctor in the lead, ducking and swerving to avoid those same lines of Cybermen trying to box them in. They turned a corner at one point and ducked behind a bunch of bins, realizing they couldn't win with the running thing. They'd get boxed in just like last time. The Cybermen got close. Too close. So close that Y/n's whole body tensed, as he readied himself to throw his body in the way of his friends. Then the Doctor raised his screwdriver, clicked a button, and the Cybermen turned away like magic.

Then they were gone

Everyone stood and Y/n grabbed the Doctor's face, smacking one on him. "You're a genius, you are."

Light up like a Christmas tree with a grin, the Doctor gave a wink. "Let's be on then." They all took off again, heading to the meet up point.

First came Jack, talking about how much of the city was on the moves. Then, came Mickey. Or, Rickey... Only or, even though it should have been and because they left together. Except now there was only one of them. "Which one are you?" Jack asked.

"I'm sorry." Immediately Y/n realized which one it was. This man was soft and tender. Not as brave or as strong. It was Mickey. For the first time, Y/n realized that he was glad Mickey was the way he was. Rickey was too trigger happy, and too aggressive. Things would have been hell traveling with him. Mickey might be a bit of a coward, but he was a good man and that counted for something. More than he was given credit for. "The cybermen came and I couldn't..."

Jack got suddenly very upset. "Are you Ricky? Are you Ricky?" There was something to his voice that made Y/n sick. It was the same panic he'd heard in his own voice every time he thought he'd lost the Doctor. Oh Jack...

Rose stepped forward. "Mickey that's you, isn't it?"

Reluctantly, Mickey answered, "Yeah." There was a pause and then Rose and Y/n both surged forward to wrap the man in a hug. Everyone seemed surprise to see Y/n do it, but no one said anything about it. If he secretly cared about Mickey and had up until this moment refused to admit it, that was up to him. It absolutely wasn't the case, but even if it was it wasn't anyone else's business alright? Mickey turned to Jack. "He tried, he was running, but there were too many of them."

"Shut it," Jack snapped, turning away.

"There was nothing I could do," he begged Jack to understand.

"I said shut it!" Jack snapped. "Don't even talk about him. You're nothing, you are. Nothing."

Y/n glared at Jack. "Don't talk about him like that."

Again, everyone was too shocked to do much about it, except the Doctor who spoke up in the quiet. "We'll have time to mourn him when London is safe. Until then, we move on."

So they did.

Pete lead the way to the factory he'd mentioned earlier and they stood on a hill, looking at it, trying not to think about how many people were walking to their deaths inside. Y/n stood tall, his hands clenching into fists. "This is horrible," he whispered.

No one responded, just stood in silence and looked at the factory with equally upset looks. After a while the Doctor said, "The whole of London's been sealed off and the entire population's inside that place to be converted." He said the last bit in a mocking tone. It would have made Y/n smile if he hadn't been so angry.

"We've got to get in there and shut it down." Rose's tone was hard. Steely. It fit Y/n's mood perfectly.

"How do we do that?" Mickey asked.'

"Oh I'll think of something," the Doctor drawled in a much lighter tone than everyone else. Y/n forced himself to calm. The Doctor had to have a clear head for stuff like this. He couldn't be boggled down by anger. He didn't express dark, heavy emotions. Once he did, once he released them, they controlled him and drove him too far every time. His strengths was his smarts, and he needed an awake mind for that - being boggled down by red anger wouldn't do any of them any good. Y/n would be the same, if it wasn't for the whole thing with his mum... It didn't stop him from being just a little irritated all the same.

Mickey ruined his anger a bit. "You're just making it up as you go along."

Y/n scoffed, but the sound was too soft. Almost a laugh. "Well yeah. Despite what you think, he's not an all knowing genius. That's what he's got us for. He needs help."

"I do it brilliantly even when I'm alone," the Doctor declared. Y/n shot him a look and the Timelord actually smiled. "I will say, better with friends though. Much better."

Mrs. M pulled their attention over to look something she said could help. She showed them the old schematics of the building. Most importantly: tunnels, underneath the building, that were big enough to move through and could give easy access inside.

The Doctor declared his plan: Under and then up, to the control center.

Pete had his own ideas. "There's another way in. Through the front door." They all looked at him and he continued to explain himself. "If they've taken Jackie for an upgrade, then that's how she'll get in."

"We can't just go strolling up." Jack was getting frustrated, and Y/n could honestly understand.

Mrs. M was a level headed one though, like the Doctor. Unlike him, she was an enabler. "Well we could've. With these," she admitted, reaching into her bag to pull something out. "Fake ear pods. Dead. No signal." Pete took two. "You put them on, the Cybermen would mistake you as one of the crowd."

"Then that's my job," Pete declared.

"You'd have to show no emotion," the Doctor warned. "None at all. Any sign of emotion would give you away."

To Y/n's horror, Rose spoke up. "How many of those are there?"

"Just two sets," Mrs. M responded.

"Okay. If it's the best way of finding Jackie..." She looked at Pete, smiling at him. "I'm coming with ya." She stood to her feet, taking a pair."

"Why does it matter to you?" Pete asked.

"No time," Rose dismissed. "Doctor, I'm going, and that's that."

The Doctor gave her a desperate expression. Y/n felt his insides shrivel. He couldn't lose her now. They'd only just begun. They had so much time. Not yet! He was frozen though, slowed by that damned anger, too focused on all of the emotions he'd felt in one day. He couldn't think of a way to stop her, so what was the point of saying anything at all? "There's really no way to stop you?" The Doctor asked softly, speaking what Y/n was thinking.

"Nope," Rose declared immediately.

"Tell you what," the Doctor sighed. "We can take the ear pods out at the same time. Give people their minds back, so they don't walk into that place like sheep. Jakey boy!" He surged forward and Jake followed.

Y/n turned to Rose. "I can't even go with you. I could... Would you let me take your place?" He asked, quiet and breathless.

Rose smiled, raising a hand up to touch the side of Y/n's face. "I know I'm stubborn and difficult. I know I'm a little muddle a lot of the time. I'm sorry Y/n, for things with your mum. I'm sorry I drove you to do that. But I-"

"Have to," Y/n finished, nodding. "Yeah, I know." He nodded and turned as the Doctor turned back to the group after giving Jack his part of the mission.

"Mrs. Moore! Would you mind accompanying me in the cooling tunnels? Above, below, we can stop the converter machines."

"I would love to," Mrs. Moore responded, shaking the Doctor's hand.

Y/n hesitated, giving Mickey long enough to jump in, "What about me?"

"Mickey," the Doctor realized. Y/n sighed as he realized the man had forgotten Mickey again. "You can, um..."

"What, stay safe? Tag along? Be the tin dog?" Y/n winced at the memory of K-9. Had he been holding onto that ever since then? "No, those days are over. I'm going with Jack.

"I don't need you, idiot," Jack seethed.

"I'M NOT AN IDIOT!" Mickey screamed back. "You got that?" He calmed a little. "I'm offering to help." Jack dismissed him, moving on and allowing it hesitantly. Mickey perked up when he saw Y/n smiling at him. They exchanged nods and then everyone went their separate ways after a few goodbyes, and a good farewell from the Doctor to Mickey. Y/n sort of drifted after the Doctor, realizing he hadn't actually been given a job either. The whole thing with Mickey had distracted from it. Did the Doctor want him to come?

"Aren't you coming?" the Doctor asked Y/n. He nodded, moving again more purposefully. He warmed a little realizing that the Doctor had just assumed immediately that Y/n was coming along with him. The three of them moved toward the head of the tunnel, opening it up and climbing down. The Doctor skipped the last few wrungs so Y/n braced himself and just dropped from the top, landing hard but well. He had learned long ago how to land. "Show off," the Doctor mumbled. Y/n winked.

They were distracted by Mrs. M who mumbled, "It's freezing."

The Doctor looked around. "Any sign of a light switch?"

Like an angel sent from heaven, Mrs. M reached into her bag and pulled out three headlamps. "I've got these. A device for every occasion."

"Ooh," the Doctor cooed as the trio placed the gear on their head, turning it on to light up the tunnel. "Haven't got a hot dog in there have you? I'm starving."

Mrs. M just chuckled but Y/n smirked. "You want want meant-"

"Hush now," the Doctor interrupted. Y/n and Mrs. M both let out a bursting laugh that cut off as they remembered where they were, and that the tunnel echoed.

"Better than what he wanted though," Mrs. M reasoned. "Of all the things to wish for - mechanically recovered meat? Isn't that a bit fitting?"

The Doctor smiled at the irony. "I know, it's the Cyberman of food, but it's tasty." Y/n smirked but didn't say anything - not that it wasn't obvious by the other two's face they knew what he was thinking.

Mrs. M reached in her bag again and pulled out another set of three, but this time they were better than the last if you asked Y/n. "Proper torches," Mrs. M announced proudly.

The Doctor looked down the tunnel, raising his torch. "Let's see where we are." They all nearly had a heart attack when his light hit a a Cyberman, back against the wall. There was another next to the first, and then another and another after the second, stretching to far down the tunnel that they turned a corner and went out of sight. "Already converted, just put on ice," the Doctor whispered. His voice pitched up when he pipped, "Come on." And they did, Mrs. M in between the Doctor who lead, and Y/n who followed behind her. He paused only a second to knock on one of the Cybermen to test if it would react. Nothing. "Let's go slowly," the Doctor decided. "Keep an eye out for trip systems."

Therefore, the journey down the tunnel of seemingly endless Cyberman began.

Eventually the silence got unbearable. Y/n began humming, trying to keep his mind distracted from the fear in his body. He liked fear, it came him ready and awake. It was good for running and dodging. Not, one would say, walking slowly down a dark tunnel with countless machines that could kill you with one touch. Y/n tried to keep them countless too. He forced himself not to count each and every one he walked by. Tried not to think about how many people had been killed so that metal murder machine could be there now. He tried to channel that fear that was so useful when he had to move fast and be smart, into forcing himself to stay slow and occupied.

Mrs. M wasn't a fan. "Could you not?"

Y/n did stop, because he was always about what other people needed more than anything, but he quickly got antsy. He found out pretty soon that he had been subconsciously counting the machines, and the tally picked up in his head the second he wasn't distracted with trying to think of what tune to hum next. So, he busied himself with a different sense, planting his free hand along the wall that wasn't lined with Cybermen, focusing on the feel of the stone to reorient his mind instead. Mrs. M grunted and Y/n offered a terse, "I can't sit in silence. Not like this."

Before Mrs. M could shoot something back, the Doctor piped up. "How did you get into this, then?" For a second Y/n thought the Doctor meant him, but then he clarified, "Rattling along with the Preachers I mean. I know your story Y/n."

Mrs. M sighed. "Oh, I used to be ordinary."

"As we all did," Y/n sympathized, nodding his head.

He instantly worried she might take offense as he had technically interrupted her, but she just nodded. "Indeed. I even worked at Cybus Industries, back then. 9-5." Her voice changed, and Y/n realized she was recalling that past with a sort of bittersweet wistfulness that dropped into relief. "Until one day, I find something I'm not supposed to. A file on the mainframe. All I did was read it." That made Y/n chuckle a bit. That is how it always started, wasn't it? One accident. One moment that you made a decision to answer a question you had, a curiosity that was bugging at you, and then everything changed. "Then suddenly I've got men with guns knocking in the middle of the night. A life on the run. Then I found the Preachers. They needed a techie, so I just sat down and taught myself everything."

"What about Mr. Moore?" the Doctor asked, taking Y/n by surprise. Though... he shouldn't have been surprised, thinking about it. The Doctor might pretend not to care or think of those things, but that's probably what mattered to him most. Having love and a home and a family. Something he'd never get, really. Not as the last Timelord. Not with Y/n, or anyone else anymore.

Mrs. M spoke, pulling Y/n from his thoughts. "Well he's not called Moore. I got that from a book, Mrs. Moore." The Doctor and Y/n both shot her a look and she returned a soft, amused smile. "It's safer not to use real names. But he thinks I'm dead. It was the only way to keep him safe. Him and the kids."

Y/n's heart broke at that. "I can't imagine that. I'm sorry."

"Oh it's fine," Mrs. M dismissed. "Anyway, what about you two? Any family, or...?"

"Oh who needs family?" the Doctor scoffed, putting on the same front he always did when people got too close to things that hurt too much to talk about. Y/n grew quiet, thinking about how his own response probably would have been something similar. "I've got the whole world on my side."

Mrs. M nodded. "And you, Y/n?"

Having had the realization of him similarness to the Doctor, Y/n didn't make the same move. They might have a similar backstory, but Y/n didn't have to act the same about it. "I had one, once. Not- not really much of a family, even then. Very small, and quite broken." He was silent for a moment. "They're gone now. All of them." He shook his head. "Look at me getting all sad and sentimental." He sighed. "What's your real name, Mrs. Moore?"

She hesitated a moment. "Angela Price." There was a hesitation. "Don't you dare tell a soul."

"Not a word," the Doctor vowed.

After a few seconds, Y/n started humming again. This time, Mrs. Prince didn't give him lip for it.

Thought, it could have been because of her mild panic over something else. "Doctor," she breathed urgently, jumping forward, closer to the Timelord. "Did that one just move?" Y/n looked over her head to see the arm of one of the Cybermen bent, where they'd all been stood at attention, limbs straight and ready to be activated.

"It's just the torchlight," the Doctor whispered.

"No way," Y/n argued. "That arm is bent. None of them were bent." As if in response to him, the same Cybermen turned to look at Y/n, its body beginning to turn and take up more of the hallway, making it harder to pass.

That kicked the Doctor into action. "They're waking up. RUN!" They all took off, going as fast as their legs could carry them. They made it to the end of the tunnel that echoed with the sound of hundreds of marching men and the sonic screwdriver working at hyper speed to unlock the lid. Y/n knew it was too late when the lid was finally removed, Mrs. Price's voice mixing with all the others sounds as she began to panic and rush.

The Doctor made it out, and then Mrs. Price. Y/n was only halfway up the ladder when his ankle was grabbed and he was ripped off the ladder and onto the ground. His name was screamed. There was the sound of electricity and pain shot up Y/n's body, like earlier with his mum, except this time he wasn't held mute by shock.

He screamed.

"Close it, it's too late!" the Doctor instructed. The lid fell back into place and the sonic screwdriver sounded, muffled this time by the metal.

The tunnel went silent.

Only for a moment though. Realizing the path up the ladder was sealed, the Cybermen moved back down the tunnel and out of sight, their footsteps fading into the distance. When he was sure they were gone, Y/n pushed himself to his feet, shaking off the pain he'd felt moments ago. He climbed the ladder and knocked three times on the metal hatch. There was a second where Y/n thought they'd maybe left him behind. Perhaps the Doctor thought he'd be fine on his own. The risk was too great. They didn't know if the Cybermen would even leave. Perhaps they'd left him.

Then there was the wonderful sound of the sonic screwdriver, and the lid lifted. Y/n scrambled out of the hole and the Doctor replaced the lid. Once finished, the Doctor turned and pulled Y/n to his feet, hugging him tightly. "I have to stop worrying you like this," Y/n joked weakly.

"I wasn't worried," the Doctor reassured. "It's just nice to see you okay. Even though I knew I just... I like seeing you okay."

Y/n smiled softly. The moment wasn't to last though, because Mrs. Price was not satisfied with what had just happened. "I'm sorry what the bloody hell was that?"

Pulling away from the Doctor's embrace - as much as he didn't want to - Y/n turned to her with a sheepish smile. "Long story but in short terms, he's an alien and I can't die. Get the confusion out now."

Mrs. Price glared at Y/n. "Don't lie to me."

Y/n nodded. "Fair enough. You wouldn't believe the truth then." Mrs. P went to argue but Y/n held up a hand. "No time for explanation, especially with how much it's take to get you to believe us. Let's just go and we can tell you about it later." Mrs. Price hesitated but then nodded, letting it go for now.

They began walking further into the factory to get to their goal and stop the converter machines, but were stopped by yet another Cyberman. "You have not been upgraded."

Quite impressively, Mrs. Price stepped forward, reaching into her bag like Marry Poppins. "Upgrade this," she spat, and threw a small rectangular device at the thing. It stuck to the Cyberman's check and went off, spirals of electricity shooting out and across the metal body. The Cyberman collapsed, unresponding.

Amazed, the Doctor breathlessly asked, "What the hell was that thing?"

"Electromagnetic bomb," Mrs. Price answered. "Takes out computers; I figured it might stop a Cyber suit."

"Well, you figured right," the Doctor complimented.

"He doesn't say that often," Y/n pointed out. "Enjoy it while you can."

"Let's have a look. Know your enemy," the Doctor continued in a rush. He didn't like to admit that he wasn't goo enough about recognizing other people's smarts. To be fair, practically no one could measure up to his intelligence, so it only made sense to Y/n that with such an example as himself everyone else seemed rather plain. Y/n pushed that thought away, reminding himself the Doctor thought no one plain or small. He had always looked at humans and seen a wonder. It's why he was so confused by their occasional stupidity.

The Doctor took out his screwdriver, kneeling next to the Cyberman. He ran the tool along the circle in the middle of the Cyberman's chest. "The other ones didn't have that logo," Y/n noticed softly.

"Different than these ones," the Doctor reminded. "Not much different, but it can be said that Lumic doesn't seem the man to turn down the opportunity to slap his name on anything and everything he can. Even humanity... he's shoved them in metal suits, taken away their hearts and turned them into a brand."

Y/n glared. "What kind of person can be okay with that, just to keep himself alive?"

"Worst of humanity," the Doctor mumbled as he pulled off the front plate finally. "Just as bad as the best is good, which is saying quite good. Humanity is cool that way." He changed the subject, flipping the lid over and showing the wiring on the back. "Heart of steel," he told the other two, as if guiding them through the build. "But look." He reached into the inside of the Cyberman, pulling out stringy bits that were so thin and white they were almost see through."

Mrs. Price looked at the Doctor with a gloomy expression. "Is that flesh?"

The Doctor hummed. "Central nervous system." He put the bits back inside. "Artificially grown then threaded through the suit so it responds like a living thing. Well- it is a living thing." He looked deeper and leaned closer. "Ooh, but look." His finger rested against a sort of square hard drive looking thing that was stuck into the top of the chest. "Emotional inhibitor. Stops them feeling anything."

That made Mrs. Price jerk. "But, why?"

Returning to looking at the two humans, and not the metal thing that used to be, the Doctor began to explain, "Still got a human brain. Imagine its reaction if it could see itself. Realize itself inside this thing. It would go insane."

Y/n rose a hand to cover his mouth. Not because he was crying, but because he was so disgusted on how the understanding had come to him so easily. How he had forgotten what it was like to not understand, and not see. What it was like to look and for once not know what was going on. How it had gone through his mind for a second and he hadn't wept or screamed or ached, but simply acknowledged until the Doctor had said that last bit out loud. As if understanding, the Doctor reached over and placed his free hand on Y/n's shoulder.

"So they cut out the one thing that makes them human," Mrs. Price realized softly.

"Because they have to," the Doctor confirmed, leaning away from the machine with a dark expression.

To the group's horror, the Cyberman spoke. "Why. Am I cold?" The voice was still electronic and processed, but it was hesitant. Broken. Slow wit a pause between each word. Unsure, Y/n realized.

"Oh my god it's alive." Mrs. Price leaned away. After what the Doctor had just said-

"It can feel," Y/n whispered, his voice full of regret and pain as his hand dropped to rest on the metal chest of the poor creature.

"We broke the inhibitor." The Doctor leaned close, trying to be in the Cyberman's line of sight. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The machine didn't respond to that. Instead it repeated, "Why so cold?"

Skipping past that question, the Doctor asked instead, "Can you remember your name."

"Sally." It seemed to have begun to struggle with each syllable, like speaking was hard. Y/n's head was filled with a woman's face, eyes blinking as her head swam and she stumbled, words fumbling as she tried to orient herself and understand what was happening in all the sudden confusion she felt out of nowhere. "Sally Phelan."

"You're a woman," Mrs. Price realized aloud.

"Where's Garret?"

Suddenly, a man's face. His features were so clear it was like Y/n was seeing him in person. Or, had at one point. He was smiling, his arms open for a hug, his head tilted endearingly. "Not far." Y/n winced as he answered, knowing he was right even though he didn't know why or how.

"He can't see me," Susan suddenly insisted. It was still slow, like she was half asleep, but Y/n could somehow see the expression that would have been on her face had she still been able to make it. Nearly hear the inflections in her voice, had she still been able to expression such things. "It's unlucky the night before."

Y/n closed his eyes, turning away. His rose his hand to his head, feeling a sudden painful pressure behind his skull. There was a thrumming and pulsing and then a hand on his shoulder, but this hand was smaller than a Cyberman's. Softer and warmer. He looked over to see Mrs. Price, who had a concerned expression on her face. Y/n saw a glint of silver behind her as she went to stand, about to encourage Y/n to do the same. But it was all too late. Mrs. Price's shoulder planted immediately into the waiting hand of a Cyberman and her body was covered in those coils of electricity, and she fell, dead.

"No, you didn't have to kill her!" The Doctor wailed, face full of pain as he shot to his feet.

"Binary vascular system detected," the Cyberman answered without a hint of regret. It looked at Y/n, who stood next to the Doctor, taking his hand silently. "I have seen you die. You have died twice now, we have killed you. Yet you live. You are both unknown upgrades. You will be taken for analysis. There were three Cybermen in total, around them, and they began marching. The two men had no chance to grab Mrs. Price's body, and even if they had what was the point?

So, they left her and they marched to whatever was next.

The walk was silent and grim. They were directed to what seemed to be Central Control. They turned the corner to see familiar faces, and to vent his heavy heart the Doctor drawled, "I've been captured! But don't worry, Rose and Pete are still out there." His voice was laced in sarcasm as he and Y/n approached the two previously mentioned, who should be far from where they were now. "Oh well never mind." He shook his head, making it clear he was only teasing. "Are you okay?" He asked Rose.

"Yeah," she offered, but her face said differently. Her eyes drifted to Y/n then shot away very quickly, her face twisting with pain. He felt his own features contort with confusion. What had she seen to upset her so much, and why was there the sense it had something to do with Y/n? "But they got Jackie," she continued. "And..." she hesitated, before deciding to continue. "Y/n, I met your other half. In this world. Um, I know... why your mum said you were missing."

There was something horrible about that. "How did you know it was me?"

"Your mum was... in line. After we were identified, I tried to save her but... then this other Cyberman came up. Said he was her son. He said-" She cut off, but Y/n looked at her earnestly. Despite everything, he had to know. "She's been rejected for upgrading. They... they put her in the incinerator."

Y/n looked at the ground. "I'm sorry about Jackie."

Rose didn't seem sure how to respond to that. Didn't know if Y/n was mad at her for telling him about this universe's Y/n and his mum. Pete responded for her. "We were too late," he lamented. It was more fitting than saying nothing, or dismissing it as okay when it so very much wasn't At first Y/n worried Pete blamed himself but then he added, "Lumic killed her," and it was immediately clear his anger was not self directed.

The Doctor took charge there. "And where is the famous Mr. Lumic?" He demanded, turning around the room, looking for the man they'd all heard so much about but had not had the chance to see. "Don't we get the chance to meet our lord and master?"

One of the Cybermen stepped forward. "He has been upgraded."

"So he's just like you?" The Doctor's voice had dropped to a deadpan.

"He is superior," the Cyberman corrected. "The Lumic unit has been designated Cybercontroller."

This memory came sudden and without warning. Y/n's vision was wiped and he was seeing something else.

"Oh come on love, you can't expect me to be able to control everything."

"You can make it snow but you can't turn the heating down a little in your own ship?"

Immediately he knew something was wrong. Because that was his own voice, coming from where he was speaking now. He was himself... but he didn't know this memory. He was talking to a man as well that he didn't recognize. The man had longer hair than the Doctor's. A bit floppier. His chin was broad, his shoulders wider. His eyes were darker, not in color but in age, like he'd seen more. Lived longer. That thought occurred to Y/n because the Doctor was the one man who had the eyes of one who had lived so long that it was impossible anyone had reached further back. Had seen more. Had been through enough to even come close to that depth and age and darkness. Yet this man... surpassed that easily. And all with a smile, tottering around in a tweed jacket and a bow tie.

Y/n moved closer to the man, reaching out and running a hand along his jaw. "I miss when you wore a proper tie. I can't pull on this thing like I used to."

The man blushed. "Well, bow ties are cool. Had to switch it out no choice. I've got to look cool now, don't I?"

"Of course you do." And then they kissed, and Y/n thrown back into the present with confusion as to what the hell he'd just seen, and also tripping over himself internally to try and catch himself up to what he'd just missed, because they were mid conversation and Y/n had not a single clue what was going on in his head or out of it.

The Doctor was rambling, going on and on about how someone could do something to stop Lumic. Speaking in generals, and talking on and on and getting rather specific. Y/n saw him look several times in the same spot and followed the Doctor's eyes to see a camera. What... was going on? His brain was processing too slowly, understanding what was being said a second after it had been said. And with how much the Doctor was saying and how fast he was saying it, Y/n just couldn't keep up.

He closed his eyes, raising his hands to knees the base of his palms against his eyelids, trying to massage away the tension building mildly behind his skull. It began to fade and his mind began to right as Rose spoke up. "It's for you," she said.

"Like this," the Doctor responded, catching the phone as she threw it to him and plugging it into a port in the desk. And Y/n didn't have time to understand because suddenly he was full of agony. Not physical pain, but an internal poison that coursed through his blood and seeped into his muscle and shelled around his bone. Searing torture of a million minds screaming out all at once as they realized what they were. What had happened to them. A human, cold, surrounded by the dark, realizing they'd been ripped from their body and shoved into a machine. And it hurt. Oh, it hurt so much. IT HURT.

Y/n's knees gave out and he bent forward, pressing his forehead to the cold ground to seek some reprieve from the boiling heat just under his skin and the pain bouncing around in his head. He screamed and screamed and heard nothing else until finally the pressure faded and lessened and eased enough for his vision to clear. To his surprise, they'd moved. His hands had been pried off his head and he had been forced to his feet. It seemed he'd been dragged by Rose and the Doctor, who each had one of his arms around their shoulders. He was sure he'd been screaming, but it seemed that he had instead just woken up from knocking out cold entirely.

"I'm sorry Y/n I don't know what's happening but this building is collapsing and I don't know how far your immortality goes. Please come round, we have to climb this ladder and I can't carry you any further," the Doctor was begging. "PLEASE Y/N!"

Y/n forced his feet underneath him, standing shakily on his own. He nodded wordlessly, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. The Doctor and Rose shared terrified expressions but climbed the ladder anyway. Pete has already gone up and Rose was next. "Go," Y/n told the Doctor.

"No." The Doctor had the same look as when Rose had set her mind to going with Pete to save Jackie, and Y/n knew he didn't have energy to put to waste, so he just climbed. It was painful and draining and he almost stopped with no room for the Doctor, but Rose called his name and he forced himself to take a few more steps further up the swaying ladder. The Doctor got on and the balloon lifted off. Everything else faded as Y/n closed his eyes, resting his forehead against he stung by his face, focusing all his might on keeping on the ladder.

Finally, there was an electronic scream, and then everything else faded into silence. Y/n realized what he couldn't before. His mind had been full of faces. Hundreds and hundreds - maybe millions - of faces. All crying out. All horrified as they realized they were no longer human. No longer in their bodies. The same feeling that he had sensed in Sally in the hallway with Angela Price and the Doctor. That same sensation, but on such an astoundingly larger scale that it had mushed together in pure agony, blinding him and knocking him unconscious because Y/n was only human. He could handle memory, but the first hand shared pains of so many? He couldn't handle that.

When they landed, Y/n didn't y'all to anyone. He looked away from them until they backed off and then he shoved his hands in his pockets and made his way to the TARDIS, far ahead of the others. The wind whipped around him and the cold seeped into his skin like London air always did at night, and he aches for the lives lost. He mourned all of the faces that were in his head now. All the lives lost. All of those voices calling out for him, pleading for mercy. For reprieve. Begging for safety and release from the terrible thing eating them up slowly, starting at the edges and working it's way to their core, consuming every detail of them.

Finally, Y/n understood what the Doctor felt watching Gallifrey buen and fall. He didn't just see it, but he felt it. He internalized it and his heart throbbed with an understanding he wished he wasn't capable of. Far, far too many lives lost because one man was incapable of stopping it all from crumbling to the ground.

When he got to the TARDIS, he surged inside to his room, this time refusing to answer the door when several people knocked. The TARDIS light up again, alive and thrumming, and Y/n felt something course through him that was both new and so very familiar. Like the feeling of the weight of your hair, but only noticing after you cut it. Something that had been there for ages but only now he was seeing and recognizing. A warmth spread through his whole body and he heard a voice, clear as day in his head.

“I’m sorry.”

For some reason, Y/n wasn’t afraid. That wasn’t much of a mystery either though. Even though it made no sense and should be impossible and he should be shocked and confused and maybe even worried, he knew who was speaking to him, and he was okay with it. “It’s okay,” he mumbled, suddenly exhausted. “I forgive you.”

The walls of the TARDIS thrummed and Y/n knew she understood he was telling the truth.

“You need to let them in.”

Y/n looked at his lap. “I can’t, don’t you understand? I-” He squeezed his eyes tight, and he felt the feeling of sadness and regret, but not from him. What he felt was so, so much deeper than just sadness. It was... emptiness. Deep and eroding, like it was wrapping him in a darkness so deep he couldn’t tell the difference between his eyes being closed or open. So dark he couldn’t see his hand even if it touched his face. Like that, but a feeling. A feeling that seemed to change the world, sapping all of the color and muting all the sound, like it was far away. In the distance. Out of reach. He saw all those faces as they filtered through his mind. and he wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. But all he could do was limply stare at his lap and feel emotions that threatened to destroy him. “How can I explain?” It was hard to speak, to think enough past the numbness that seemed to be very quickly making it hard to do anything.

“They’ll understand.”

Instead of opening the door, Y/n just sat there. Suddenly there was a click and the door opened slowly, and Y/n turned slowly to see that the TARDIS had unlocked the door herself. “No,” Y/n moaned. “No!”

“Y/n?” Came from down the hall. “Rose, the door is opened!”

“NO!” Y/n screamed, curling away from the door and pulling a pillow off the bed to cover his face. He curled into himself, his body coiled impossibly rigid.

Despite his protest, he knew that the Doctor and Rose were in the room with him. Rose sat next to him on the bed, the Doctor kneeling in front of him. “Please,” Rose begged, sounding as if she was already crying. “I watched too many people I care about die today. I lost Mickey, and my dad... Please don’t shut me out Y/n. I can’t care it.”

“And it’s always about what you can handle, isn’t it Rose?” Y/n shoved the pillow away from him, turning to her with empty anger in his eyes. There was no life or fire behind it, and it was that which hurt far more than what he’d said.

The Doctor grabbed either side of Y/n’s face to force their eyes to meet. The Doctor searched Y/n’s face, then closed his eyes and began to search Y/n’s memories. He gasped, jerking back and letting his hands drop as he stepped back. “That’s impossible.”

“What?” Rose rushed. “What’s going on?”

Y/n sighed, rubbing his forehead. “The TARDIS... when you brought me back that day, the TARDIS was using you to do it. She was trying to create something specific. I don’t get it, but she... she put things into me that should destroy me, but because I’m immortal, it doesn’t. She put a piece of herself into my construct. It’s why I can see the Doctor’s past. She can see all of time and space, of course she could look into a person’s past and recognize it. She knows what happens, everywhere, always, at all times. She knows everything, and everyone, and she’s put the tiniest piece of that in me. But she wasn’t in complete control, because she was working through you. So she didn’t just give me pieces of the Doctor, she implanted chunks of him inside of me. Not like... I can’t understand half of what I see sometimes, but I can see everything. I can sometimes everyone. Or, sort of. On a smaller scale. A mass of people. If the Doctor is connected to someone, say, Cybermen... if his pain was similar enough to them, those pieces of him and the pieces of the TARDIS inside of me merge together, and I can see them. I can see them as they go insane, crumbling under a pressure so great that they combust and explode and crumble. Imagine that - an emotional so great for one person that it makes the wires they’re made of blow and they self destruct. Now imagine that in the thousands, in the millions. All compounded and shoved into one body. One mind. One soul. Imagine the loss that person would feel when it was suddenly silent. When they were suddenly alone, empty, and could feel the loss of all of those people on an individual level. Could see their faces, and knew their personalities. To have them erased in the most violent way... emotional and mental destruction. Going insane to death.

Rose covered her mouth. “Oh my god.”

The Doctor moved closer. “I... can take it away.” There was so much pain in his voice. An aching as he faced a goodbye he couldn’t handle.

Y/n caught his wrist, stopping him. “When I agreed to be your companion, I knew the risks. I knew that this life could kill me. Or worse. I could be suspended forever in every single disease in the entire universe and locked away, sick and in pain, forced to die slowly. I could get shoved into a metal suit with my soul stripped away, turning more people into things just like me. I could be one of the empty children, forever searching for my mummy, y skin replaced with leather and incapable of dying, but far, FAR from human. Lost. Floating. Nothing. I saw it time and time again, and even fell at the feet of a fate far worse than death several times. I was ripped apart by a werewolf after the throne and put back together again because my life has been cemented in time to withstand anything, always. A fixed point. And I choose that life, Doctor. I choose unfathomable pain and loss and heartbreak. I choose emptiness and darkness and a void of emotion that threatens to consume me. I accept being impossible, and the incredible weight it will put on me forever because it hurts - GOD, it hurts - but it will never kill me as it should, because I’m only some mortal human.”

The Doctor looked like he was about to cry. “Why?” He demanded softly.

Y/n didn’t answer with words. He stepped forward, grabbing the Doctor by the back of the neck and pulling him into a kiss. A kiss that was infused with so much deep, resounding love that it made the Doctor shiver. When they parted, their foreheads rested together and they breathed quickly to catch up on all the air their lungs were demanding. “I can’t die, and I refuse to be lost. Without me, you will always end up alone. There will always be a time when you look around, and there will be no one to look to. You will lose everything you care about. Everyone you hold dear. And the TARDIS saw that and rebelled, because it’s too much pain, too much loneliness, to expect just one person to carry. You won’t ever bare the weight of the universe on your shoulders alone, Doctor. Not ever again. Not as long as you let me be here to help you. I will stay by your side until you tell me to go, and no one but you will remove me from that spot. Not pain. Not hope or happiness or dreams come true. There is nothing that can take me away but you.”

The Doctor melted, his shoulders sagging and his facial expression fracturing into part pain, part relief. The look of a man who had been on his own for far too long and was finally accepting that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to start over again. “You would do that for me?”

Rose stood, raising a hand to stroke the side of his face. “You do it for us. Its our honor to lessen that burden. To return the favor.”

He rested his forehead on Y/n’s chest. “Please don’t go. Don’t ever go.”

“Never,” Y/n promised. “I promise.”

Story Tag List: @shoochi @e-reads-fics

Male Reader Tag List: @sheepfather

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owillofthewisps · 4 years

Text

rosemary & thyme

notes: fun fact this was actually what started unspoken and as such this takes place in the same verse. i’d initially planned it to be in unspoken but sometimes things just don’t work like that. this is also self indulgent fluff for myself today bc my cramps are bad enough that i can’t stand for more than five minutes without starting to shake from the exertion lol

the third gif in this was what kicked this off the ground in the first place

title is from scarbourough fair, mostly thinking of the simon & garfunkel version.

also this is my 900th post on here lol

rating: teen. no real warnings, just fluff. maybe small hints of self-esteem issues and small hints of mostly dulled grief.

pairing: eskel/fem reader

word count: 2.5k

on a spring day, you re-paint the trim of your cottage. it is an old, old pattern, but you are determined to make something new.

“Must you?” you ask Lil’ Bleater.

You’re ensconced in a soft bed of clover that lines your cottage. The sweet, grassy scent of the clovers lingers in the air like perfume, a herald of spring. Hyacinths are dotted through the bed, swaying in the gentle breeze, their buds plump on their stalks, a promise of blooms in the soft indigo peeking through the edges of them, the last breath of a winter sunset.

Lil’ Bleater is intent on eating them.

She noses at a small clump of stalks, each tenderly green, still newly given life. The stalks break under the clamp of her teeth, and you sigh.

“Must you?” you repeat.

She glances up at the sound of your voice and considers you. Then she bleats, loud and indignant, and leans down for another mouthful.

You snort a laugh and turn back to your cottage. You trace your fingertips over the window’s trim, the wood worn riverstone smooth by the years and the rain alike. The paint has chipped, washed out to the soft blue kiss of a robin’s egg. Even the vines, each a delicate scroll of leaves unfurling, have faded into something autumnal, their color muted by nature’s touch. You follow one of them with your fingernail. They wind like the small trails in the woods, meandering yet purposeful.

Your father had steady hands. Even with you and your brother clambering over him, children gone woods-wild, his delicate brush strokes brought the forest to life in the walls of your home.

Sometimes, when the sun shines just right, you think you can see the past peeking back at you, imprints of images long painted over glimmering just beneath the coats of paint.

Lil Bleater butts against your back. “Ow,” you tell her, even though it’s only a short bite of sensation.

The goat prances around your seated form and flops into your lap, all hoof and horns. She squirms until she’s comfortable.

She’s still munching on a hyacinth stalk.

“You owe me new flowers.”

She ignores you.

You sigh and readjust. She’s a warm weight in your lap, the heat of her softened by the thick fabric of your skirts. The goat makes a miffed noise at your movement. You stroke a hand over her horns, the smooth bone cool against your skin, like a spring river just beginning to warm. She nestles down into the cradle of your skirts with a soft noise. Your attention returns to your cottage.

You touch the window trim again, lay your fingers against the faded paint once more. The small flowers - delicate little things, unfurling prettily in soft layers of petals - were your mother’s favorites. They go back to the oldest layer, you know. You trace the one colored for you, and then walk your fingers over to the one for your brother.The ache settles between your ribs, fills the hollow space there.

“It’s still here,” you whisper to Lil’ Bleater. “It’s just built upon, right?”

The goat snuffles, mouthing at the hem of your bodice.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s still here.”

You pick up your bowl, paint the color of the soft blue of the midmorning sky splashed up the edges of it, and sweep a broad stripe of it over the faded flowers.

*******

“Stop,” you tell Lil’ Bleater, pulling your paintbrush from her ever-hungry mouth. “You’re going to get paint on you, and then Eskel and I will have to give you a bath, and none of us will find that enjoyable.”

She’s relentless, butting lightly at your arm and nibbling at your sleeve. You nudge at her with a grumble.

“Trouble finds trouble, I see,” Eskel says from behind you, his deep voice lined with laughter.

“You’d best be talking about the goat on both counts, dear Witcher.”

“Of course, sweetling.”

He wrestles Lil’ Bleater off of you, gentle despite the goat’s squirming. The goat announces her displeasure loudly and butts against his knees. She darts away before he can stop her, pausing just out of reach and bleating at him before she prances off in a familiar direction.

“I really should fence in my garden,” you muse, turning back to the trim. The fresh coat of paint gleams in the afternoon light, shifting to something sea-bright, the sky melting into water.

Eskel sighs. “I don’t think it would help.”

“Me neither.”

He settles behind you, one arm looping around your waist, his thick thighs framing yours. The smithy has left its touch on him since this morning, a hint of soot scent sweeping over you. Eskel’s rough fingers flirt with the hem of your bodice, his thumb sweeping over the ridge of the embroidery. It is hard to keep apart from each other, the first few days after he comes back to you. You gravitate towards each other like small suns, anchor yourselves in each other’s space with unthinking touches. A quiet assurance that you are both here, together.

You lean into the warmth of him. He’s broad against your back, a pillar of strength, and then he softens. It’s just a hint, but you can feel the way he uncoils for a breath. He winds his other arm around you.

“Missed you,” you say.

He laughs, low and sweet, and the rumble of it resonates through you. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

“I always miss you,” you tell him matter-of-factly.

Pressed against him, you can feel it when Eskel’s breath hitches, catches in his throat.

You turn just enough to press your lips against the curve of his jawline. It is carefully placed, your soft kiss, just beyond the edges of his angry scar. He swallows, the muscles of his thick throat rippling. You hum softly, turn back to your cottage, and lean over to pick up the small stick of charcoal that’s half-buried in the clovers.

Eskel moves with you as you draw closer to the cottage. The charcoal stick scrapes against the paint as you sketch, soft clusters of yarrow flowers blooming slowly beneath your careful hands.

“This is a different pattern than the previous,” Eskel murmurs. His voice is rich against you, flows like warm, honeyed mead.

“Mhm.” You rub a thumb against a wobbly line, wipe it out of existence. “The previous one was my father’s.”

His arms tighten around you, scaffolding to keep you steady. “How many years?” he asks.

“Long before I was born,” you say, rubbing out another poor line. “He added to it throughout his life.”

“There was one for you, wasn’t there? One of the little flowers had your color in it.”

You glance back at him, at the sunrise of his golden eyes. Eskel has a gaze that strips you, sometimes, that peels away the world until it is just you and him. “Aye,” you say softly. “There was.”

He brings you trinkets, sometimes, in that same color. Little things from his journey on the Path. Nothing grand, but carefully chosen, often fitting into the niches of your cottage perfectly. Tiny curios to replace those you’d left behind in your first cottage, as if they can capture the first night he spent there with you soft in bed with him, tucked close around his broad frame.

Eskel slips a hand to your free one and slowly twines his fingers with yours. It’s almost shy, and you turn your palm skyward to better hold him. Your interlaced hands rest on the plush of your thigh, his thick knuckles pressing soft divots into the flesh.

You start to sketch again, adding a sweep of sorrel leaves to frame the yarrow, the soft curve of the leaves wrapping carefully around the buds.

Eskel is quiet behind you. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady like the tide, a cadence that feels as if it belongs solely to you.

Eventually, you pull away from your sketching. You tilt your head and examine it. It’s by no means fine work. You do not have your father’s steady hands, cannot bring life to charcoal drawings in the same way. But your months of practice have paid off. The yarrow buds match the ones speckled along the roadside, and the sweep of sorrel leaves could be the fields that surround your cottage.

“What do you think?” you ask.

Eskel shifts. He leans forward, just a hint, and touches just beside one of the veins of a sorrel leaf. Each inch of his chest is solid against your back. “You’ve practiced.”

“Yes.”

He squeezes your hand. “It’s nice.”

You laugh. “I’ll take nice,” you say. “I suppose.”

“Next time I’ll be more complimentary, then.”

“Good,” you say, and you let go of his hand so that you can wipe the charcoal dust off on the very hem of your skirt, already dirt streaked at the edges. Then you press the charcoal stick into Eskel’s hand. The small stick is dwarfed in his massive hand, and want pulses through you for the briefest breath. “Your turn,” you say. Your bold words have never sounded so shy.

Eskel stills.

That ache that fills the gaps of your ribs pulses, goes sharp at the edges, thorns against your bones.

You feel him draw in a breath.

“If you want,” you say, the words stumbling off your tongue. You keep your gaze ahead, focus on the sheen of the paint. It’s the same pigment your father used. When you crush the ingredients beneath the pestle, the scrape of it against the mortar sounds like your father’s voice. There has never been a blue that evokes such tenderness in you.

Eskel’s fingers close around the charcoal stick.

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s quiet, but not to him, you know.

Eskel always hears you.

“You’re sure?” he asks, and though the words are steady and his voice is the same mellow, deep tone, there’s something wavering in him, an uncertainty that cloaks him.

“Yes,” you say. “I told you - I rarely change my mind.”

“Rarely is not never.”

You ache to glance back at him, to find the honey gold of his gaze, to see the map of his scars against his handsome features. You know you cannot. Something ancient in you knows that if you break this moment, it will never return.

“Eskel,” you say quietly. “Not about this.”

He swallows.

He shifts forward. The motion takes you with him, carries you forward like a wave to the shores. He hesitates just as the charcoal rests against the pristine paint above your sketches.

You let your eyes flutter closed, your lashes whispering against your skin, the barest breath of sound, and feel some of the tension melt from Eskel’s broad frame. You curl yourself into the cradle of his chest. The charcoal scrapes against the wood, a brisk sound softened by the murmur of the spring breeze. The fingers of the breeze stroke through the trees, rustling against the leaves until it’s something of a melody. You listen quietly, let the song of it wash over you, feel Eskel warm and steady around you, and find yourself drifting hazily through time.

The sound of the charcoal fades. There is only the wind now, only the breeze catching in the meadows red-veined sorrel before it slips between the trees. You wait, rubbing a thumb idly over the thick muscle of Eskel’s thigh.The sun is filtering through your eyelids, lighting even the shadows of your closed eyes.

Eskel fidgets. It’s the slightest of movements, but from someone so disciplined, it rings across your senses like a skipping stone leaving ripples across a pond’s surface.

You lay your head back against his broad shoulder and open your eyes. “Well met,” you say to him as he glances down at you, and his eyes burn bright, amber wreathed by sunlight.

“Well met,” he says back, laughter tucked just under his tongue, but then his eyes flicker away.

You nudge at his jawline for the span of a breath, and then you turn your attention to the window trim.

The ache filling the gaps of your ribs fades away.

Eskel has woven sprigs of rosemary through the sorrel stalks, the sharp-tipped herb softened by the dainty ovals of thyme leaves. You can tell where he began to draw. The charcoal is lighter there, not pressed firmly down, but the lines grow darker as the herbs grow more plentiful. The black of the charcoal is stark against the blue. They’re both oddly delicate, the sky blue softened to a pale robin’s egg, and the spider web of charcoal lines lies over it like fragile lace.

His arm tightens around your waist. You reach down and lace your fingers through Eskel’s, a woven pattern strong enough to carry both of your weights. His shoulders loosen. You can feel his slow, steady heartbeat.

“Come,” you say after a moment, “you can help me with the rest of the paint.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I hate grinding for the colors,” you say, rising to your feet and clapping your hands against your skirts. “It takes too long. But your Witcher muscles must be up to the task, yes?”

Eskel pushes himself up in a graceful movement, that sleek dexterity of a Witcher. “If I’d known it was only my muscles you keep me around for-”

“You’d have stayed anyway for the sex.”

He coughs at that, but his smile is broad. “You’re confident.”

You shrug. “It’s good sex.”

He laughs, a low growl of a sound. “That it is.”

You glance his way and find yourself struck by the sight of him. The afternoon sun is kind to him, makes his dark hair glisten and his eyes practically glow. You reach out to him with a small smile, wind your fingers through his once more. He lets you tug him along.

You pause just before the threshold of your cottage, glancing back as Eskel ducks inside. The clover still carries the mark of your bodies, the plush of them pressed down where you had been. There’s a bit of paint splashed across them. You idle for a moment, let the breeze tease at your skirts.

Things will be different once you cross the threshold.

With Eskel’s softly sketched herbs spun in a delicate web around your yarrow and sorrel, your cottage is no longer just yours.

You inhale softly, let the scent of the clovers wash over you. It’s grassy and sweet, with a hint of earthy dirt just beneath. It smells like home.

You turn around and go inside.

taglist: @tutuwho @witchernonsense @whitewolfandthefox @riviawitch3r @hina-chans-stuff @restingnurseface @raspberrydreamclouds @ambivertomnivore

#eskel x reader #eskel x you #eskel imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine

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thanks--for--listening · 3 years

Text

figments of the dark

yes i read all the grishaverse books after watching the show yes i’ve now written kanej fic yes they’re my dream couple no i’m not okay mentally. SPOILERS FOR CROOKED KINGDOM this fic takes place right after it.

(also on ao3)

She kept pace with him initially. Walking down to the harbor, he watched as the Suli couple moved closer and closer, the details of their appearance materializing with each step. The gray of the man’s hair creeping in at the edges. The woman’s long braid lying gracefully over her shoulder. Their hands clasped together, tugging each other along as the distance between them and their daughter disappeared. Inej was nearly jumping out of her own skin, but she stayed by his side, only breaking into a sprint when there was nothing but a few feet separating them. It was the most impressive feat of strength he’d seen from her. From anyone, if he was being honest.

They swallowed her whole. Neither were particularly tall, but they towered over her nonetheless, their arms wrapping effortlessly around her delicate frame. As he stepped closer, he could hear them amidst the sobs, the prayers usually whispered under Inej’s breath now spoken loudly and without reservation. Their foreignness was familiar. Kaz might not have cared for gods or saints, for myths and legends, but the sound of their devotion still soothed his racing heart.

He stood back as they held one another. A feeling deep in his gut ignited softly, a spark burning in isolation: not strong enough to turn into a flame, but with enough heat to leave a scar. It wasn’t resentment — he would have given anything for her to have this moment, would have let the rest of the world crumble around them if that’s what it cost — but an aftertaste of something else lingered as he watched them. No matter how often he won, how deft defying the odds or complicated the scheme, he’d never have anyone waiting for him when the dust settled. Not like Inej did. Not like Jesper did. His victories had long been celebrated in solitude, and he’d come to terms with that years ago.

Still, the feeling seemed to whisper, a voice in his head that sounded like someone he knew. Still.

“Kaz!” He blinked the thoughts away, straightened his back as they walked toward him. “Mama, Papa, this is Kaz Brekker. He’s saved my life more times than I can count.”

“Your daughter paints me in a better light than I deserve.” He looked at her as he added, “No one has ever protected me the way she has.”

Their eyes were locked, and he saw it again. One of the first lessons Ketterdam had taught him was to read faces as if they were words on a page. Any hand could be won, any man could be manipulated, if one could learn to see beneath the surface. Nobody could hide forever. Their hearts would give them away every time.

Now he was grateful for the lesson. Not for the victories it had led to, or the money he’d won, but for the undeniable truth of what he saw. Adoration. When Inej looked at him, it was as if the entire harbor floated away, and all that was left were the tears in her eye and the smile on her face. It didn’t matter that the real joy had come from her parents; he would use any excuse to be on the other end of that look, regardless of whether he deserved it.

Kaz didn’t even notice her father until Inej stuck her arm out, spoke in quick and hushed Suli. He didn’t have to know the language to understand — Mr. Ghafa had moved to embrace him, until Inej stood in the way. Kaz had been lost in the endless depths of her eyes, drawn to them like a sailor to a siren, so fixated he would have drowned rather than tear his gaze away. Inej, his better in every way that mattered and every way that didn’t, had never lost sight of the world around them. Even now, when the threat came in the form of a grateful father, when her focus should have been at its weakest, she was still protecting him.

He wanted to tell her that he would take it. The touch, and the revulsion that came with it. The gratitude he’d done nothing to earn. He would suffer any pain, subject himself to all kinds of agony, play whatever character she wanted, even the farm boy he knew had died in that river. He would hunt the world for her wretched saints and construct an altar of his own, if it kept that smile on her face.

“Thank you,” her mother said, the words still muddled by the tears that had yet to stop. “Thank you for keeping her safe.”

Safety didn’t exist in Ketterdam, and it certainly wasn’t what he’d given her when he’d taken her out of that Menagerie, but he kept his mouth shut, nodded curtly. That wasn’t his story to tell.

“Every day, we searched,” her father said. “They told us to give up. They said you were lost, that those who took you would never let you go. They said you wouldn’t make it no matter where you’d gone, but we said no. Our Inej has angels on her shoulders and wings on her back. She can survive anything.”

If she hadn’t been before, Inej was crying now. With every passing moment, Kaz felt more and more like an intruder. He wondered if it was some sort of retribution for each time he’d sent her to creep in through someone’s window, to become the audience they weren’t aware of. How much had he learned from her being privy to moments like this, so intimate and exposed? What had it cost her to push back the guilt that came with the encroachment?

“I can,” she said. “But I didn’t have to do it alone.”

He listened half-heartedly as she told them about Wylan and Jesper and Nina. The house she was staying in, with a staff and a view and a life that was much more palatable to those unfamiliar with the stench of the Barrel. Painting over their history was effortless with those kinds of tools. The only question was how long it could last.

As they began walking, he forced his face into neutrality, buried any evidence of the thoughts that ran through his mind. They would have to find out eventually. Perhaps not all of it, and ideally not all at once, but in due time the truth would become unavoidable. They spoke of survival as if it was an honorable thing, but where that ship had taken Inej, only those with the sharpest of claws and malleable of morals made it out alive. Dirtyhands may have become his title, but nobody around here could claim cleanliness. Not even the dead.

The path made itself clear, the flip of the final card coming to him with striking clarity. A death blow delivered by the river, turning a winning hand into a losing one in a single fluid motion. They had been looking for their lost child, for a little girl who only ever pushed the limits in a performance. But the secret to the Dregs was that everyone was already dead. They may have called themselves Crows, but like phoenixes born from the ashes of their old lives, rebirth was an entry level requirement. Whoever they’d gone searching for, the Ghafa’s had found someone else. He didn’t know when they’d realize it, when they’d look at their daughter and see a stranger in her place, but he knew the moment would come. And for the first time in his short and miserable life, Kaz longed to be wrong.

Tuning back into the conversation, he caught the tail end of a list of relatives, each one having done their own part in trying to find her. Inej stood in between them as they walked. Kaz let himself fall back just slightly, a pace behind theirs. It was as much privacy as he could give out on the street. Things may have improved for the Dregs in the past few weeks, but that didn’t mean people weren’t still watching, waiting to find them in a moment of weakness, waiting for their chance to steal the throne Kaz and his crew had built from nothing.

“We’ll send a letter as soon as we make it to your friends’ home. Nobody knew what to believe when the messenger came to us with news about you. Half the family were convinced this was all a scam, a ruse to kidnap us as well.”

“Your aunts will start planning the celebration before we even board the ship home,” her mother said with a smile. The tears had eased up, replaced with effortless joy and comfort. “Preparing the food will take half the length of the trip, at least.”

Inej let out a moan. “Nobody in Ketterdam knows how to cook properly.”

Her mother’s smile grew, something he hadn’t thought was possible. “Anything you want, I’ll make. Saints willing, I’ll be cooking for you for the rest of my life.”

“You’re in for a treat,” her father added. “Ever since the circus ended, your mother has been cooking non-stop. Everything will be better than you remember.”

“Wait,” her eyebrows scrunched together. “What do you mean, the circus ended?”

The smiles faded. “We tried,” he said, his voice tainted with the somber weight of grief that grew heavier over time. “But how could we go on without our star? How could we look to the sky and see someone else walking amongst the clouds?”

“It wasn’t fair,” her mother said softly. “To the family. They needed the performances to survive, but we…we needed every moment to search for you. We needed you to survive.”

They’d slowed their pace, and even though he slowed with them, they now stood nearly side by side. Kaz left a gap the size of a person between him and her father in a pathetic and slightly selfish attempt at disappearing. He’d have pulled an Inej and evaporated altogether, had she not asked him to stay.

“I’m sorry,” Inej said, and he couldn’t see her face clearly but he could hear the tears in her voice.

“For what, zheji?”

“For being the reason you stopped. Performing was our lives. It was everything you’d worked toward.”

“Inej, you are our lives. You are more important than any stage or crowd. You are worth more than any money in the world.” Her mother stopped walking, grabbed hold of her face as she said, “I would walk away from the circus a thousand times if it meant you were safe.”

Inej just nodded. The feeling snuck in again, quick and quiet and sharp; he forced it back down as they started walking again. He refused to let his pitiful, despicable nature ruin any part of this moment for her.

“And who knows?” Her father said, the cheer in his voice somehow both authentic and artificial. “Once you come home, maybe we can put the show back on the road. Perform as a family again.”

Oh. So this was the moment. He’d known it was a possibility when he’d made the deal, but his mind had refused to accept it. The life he led required foresight, examining every outcome for every choice, but he hadn’t found the strength to prepare for this ending: the moment she left.

His step staggered ever so slightly. It shouldn’t have been noticeable, shouldn’t have disrupted the rhythm of their walk, but like a conductor trained to spot the lone instrument out of tune, Inej turned. She stared first at the ground in front of him, then brought her gaze up. Met his. An inquisitive look flashed across her face, as if she was searching for the disruption. Or perhaps she was searching for something else.

He tried to school his features into something legible, to show her the answer she was looking for. The permission, although it wasn’t his to give. The forgiveness, although there was no guilt to absolve. Even when he wanted to fall onto his hands and knees and beg her to stay; even when the thought of her living across the true sea made the air around him grow thicker and his lungs smaller, made breathing a painful, labored thing. He nodded his head slightly even when every nerve in his body fought against it, because if there was anyone who deserved to turn their back on Ketterdam and leave it all behind, it was her. If leaving was what made her happy, he’d send her off without a single word of protest. If she wanted to fly on her own land, on her own accord, who was he to ground her, to tie her wings for the sake of his own spoiled heart?

Inej didn’t say anything, but the look on her face…Kaz wasn’t one to cling to hope, but he grasped desperately to her reluctance, to the way she bit her lip and kept her eyes away from her parents. Even if she also kept them away from him.

—

Jesper had a thousand questions.

He’d spent half of dinner begging the Ghafas for stories about Inej as a child, and the other half endlessly praising Mrs. Ghafa’s cooking. Kaz couldn’t fault him for the latter — Inej and her mother had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen, and what they’d come out with was quite easily the best meal he’d ever had. The way they managed to extract flavors he’d never tasted before from the ingredients he’d had at his disposal for years was an art form in itself, one that rivaled even his own general resourcefulness. And the smell. Envy reared its ugly head at the thought of Wylan and Jesper getting to enjoy the lingering scent long after the meal had been devoured.

“We had a guest faint during one of her performances.” Her father was telling the story with the same enthusiasm as he had with every one that came before. Where Inej was silent and still, her father was big and bold, every move exaggerated and every word announced rather than spoken. Kaz wondered whether it had always been her nature, or whether he was witnessing what Inej might have been had she not been forced into the shadows.

“Faint? Because of Inej?”

“Oh, yes. You see, we realized that we couldn’t make it look too easy. Not that it was easy, of course, but when Inej walks that rope, it looks effortless. So we staged a wobble, a moment for her to pretend to lose her balance. Oh, the way people panicked! They’d hold their breaths and try to hide their eyes, but none of them could ever look away, not until she made it to the other side.”

“Was the woman who passed out okay?” Wylan asked.

Her father shook his head. “You misunderstand. Women never looked away. They stared with intensity, as if their eyes could carry her to safety. The poor man collapsed right there in the front row.”

“He didn’t even see the rest of my act,” Inej added. “That’s the real travesty.”

“Maybe he’ll come back and see how it ends once you’re home.” Kaz saw it again, the feeling streaking across her face like a runaway star. Only this time, it wasn’t reluctance: it was guilt.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what, zheji?”

The first words had come out softly, but when Inej looked up at her father, she spoke with the determination that Kaz had grown used to. “I can’t stay. I can’t rejoin the circus.”

“So you’re out of practice. It’s nothing a little time can’t fix! You have magic in you, Inej. That doesn’t just go away.”

“No,” she said. “I can’t rejoin the circus because I have to come back. Here, to Ketterdam.”

Her mother reached across the table, put her hands in her own. “They took you against your will. Against our will. Whoever stole you can’t stop us from taking you home. Nobody can keep you here anymore.”

“No,” she said, “you’re not hearing me. I want to go home. I want to see the family, to spend time with you. But I also want to come back.”

“I don’t understand,” her father said, and Kaz could hear the desperation creeping into his voice. “What could a place like this possibly have that would be worth leaving your family? Leaving your home?”

“Papa, it’s not about leaving you.” Jesper was practically bouncing out of his own skin, and Wylan’s eyes scoured the room in search of anything else to look at, but Kaz kept his gaze fixed on the table in front of them. A part of him knew the noble thing, the polite thing, would be to silently excuse himself, to give the Ghafas this moment alone. But Inej had started it with them there, and Kaz didn’t have the willpower to walk away before he heard her answer.

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about everyone else.” Inej spoke with fervor, impassioned with purpose and righteousness. It fit her better than being a spider ever had. “There are hundreds of little girls and boys going through exactly what I did. Only they don’t get rescued. They don’t have anyone looking out for them.” She spared a quick glance his way; he pretended not to notice. “I can’t go home while they suffer.”

“So it is us who should suffer, then?”

Inej groaned. “Mama, that isn’t fair and you know it.”

“Life isn’t fair,” her father said. “The world is full of terrible people, Inej. You can’t—“

“Trust me when I say I know the terrors of both men and women alike.” Venom had slipped into her voice. Kaz watched the shock slowly register across her parents’ faces, watched as they blinked at the girl who had replaced their daring but soft-spoken daughter. He wondered when they’d truly process her words. Back in Ravka? On the boat home? Maybe it would come while they lay awake tonight, dreams poisoned by the realization that some version of their worst nightmare had come true. That even though she stood in front of them now, seemingly all in one piece, Ketterdam had still taken something from her, and nothing they ever did could give it back.

“I only meant to say,” her father continued, his tone shifting into something gentler, “that this battle is one you’ll likely never win. There’s no end to greed. Not in this lifetime. Perhaps not even in the next. Every enemy you defeat, every man you force into accountability, will only be replaced by two more looking to use his failure as a stepping stone.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to adjust my aim. Target the root and not the weeds.”

“Why?” Her mother groaned, frustration and terror written all over her face. “Why does it have to be you? Someone else can save the world. Someone else’s daughter can play the hero. Why can’t you just come home?”

“Who, Mama? Who’s gonna save them if not me? Who’s going to watch out for them when their families are told they’re dead and nobody else comes looking?” She turned toward her father. “I know it’s a losing hand. But I’m not the same person I was before. I know how to win with anything now, how to bend the rules so they work in my favor.”

“But you don’t have to,” he begged.

“If nobody ever tries, nothing gets better. I have to try, Papa. I owe them at least that much. I owe myself that much.”

The silence spread quickly. He knew there was nothing in the air, but the tension felt like a gas leak, like one spark could set the whole house ablaze. Kaz watched the way they stared across the table, each waiting for the other to break first but neither one wanting to watch them burn. Even if he hadn’t been a betting man, he would have known who to back in this fight of wills. Whether on the ground or in the air, Inej would hold steady. If nothing else, he could count on that.

Jesper clapped his hands, the sound echoing across the room that felt both overwhelmingly big and suffocatingly small. “So! Who’s up for a little music?”

—

Kaz found her exactly where he expected to. The sound of Wylan’s piano faded as he cracked open the window, pulling himself up onto the roof even when his leg throbbed in protest.

Inej didn’t move, didn’t do anything to acknowledge his presence. She didn’t have to — she always knew where he was, just as he did her. Climbing up to her perch, he let the sounds of the city surround them. It never mattered what time of day it was: someone in Ketterdam was always awake, and therefore, no one was ever truly alone.

“They don’t believe me,” she said softly. He fought the urge to turn toward her; he knew that some words were more easily spoken to something rather than someone. “They think that the minute I get home, I’ll just forget about everything here.”

“Unfortunately, I think Jesper’s singing is going to be permanently ingrained in all our minds.”

He spared a quick glance, caught the corners of her mouth creeping upward. “Who needs to remember? I’m positive the sound will carry all the way across the true sea and into Ravka.”

“We should be grateful for their diminished armies, then. If they had the means, I’m positive this performance would be a worthy cause to go to war.”

She laughed then, just once, but saints the sound was enough to send electricity through his entire body. He’d start a war himself for that sound. He’d crawl into the Ice Court with nothing but his own two hands. He’d try and heal the shattered bits inside himself if it meant he got to hear her at her happiest, if he got to be the one to make her feel that way in the first place.

Kaz wanted to stay like this, to poke fun and let the future disappear, to laugh and let the hard words hide beneath the sound, but he’d never had a habit of doing what was good for him. The dead of night exposed questions that cowered in the light of day, and for all his strength, he couldn’t resist knowing the answers. “Would it be so bad? To forget this place?”

“I could never do that. Not even if I wanted to.”

“You don’t know if that’s true. Time away, back with your family, it could help. It could…heal.”

Inej finally turned toward him, the daggers in her eyes as accurate and deadly as the ones strapped to her wrists. “Do you really think you could just leave and pretend like none of this ever happened?”

Part of him wanted to lie, wanted to believe in a world where the past stayed locked in history and the future could be its own thing entirely. If not for himself, then for her. But while the sentiment may have been foreign to her parents, Kaz and Inej spoke the language of the Dregs. There was a reason people got tattooed when they joined: being a Crow wasn’t something you could ever leave behind.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

“Exactly.” She turned forward again, stared at the city as if it could give her whatever answer she was looking for. “All night, I could feel my parents looking for a ghost. They remember a girl whose only dream in life was to walk across air, but there are other things that matter more to me than the fucking applause.” She leaned back without losing her balance. “I don’t think they’re ready to see the person I’ve become.”

“Then they’re missing out on the strongest, bravest, and most honorable person in all of Ketterdam.”

Inej raised an eyebrow at him. There was curiosity in her eyes, and behind it, something more. Something he hadn’t seen on her yet, despite spending a considerable amount of time stealing glances, soaking in the sight of her whenever he could afford to. He couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked like pride. “Since when do you care for honor?”

“Since you watched me at my weakest and my worst, and still deemed me a worthy cause for devotion.” He kept his eyes on her now, emboldened by the light of the moon and the truth of his words. “You look to your saints for guidance, but I look to you. So long as you stand by me, I know I haven’t strayed too far.”

As he spoke, he carefully slipped his hand out of his glove; when the only sound left was the echo of his words around them, he reached for her hand, let his own slide into place within it. Immediately the rush came, the concoction of emotions all tangled up and twisted. He squeezed, let the pressure of her reciprocation ground him in the present and on dry land.

Pain would always come first. No matter how much time passed, no matter who he was with, Kaz wasn’t sure that would ever change. For so long the agony had held a chokehold on anything else that might come with it, suppressing desire until it was all but nonexistent. The longer they held onto one another, though, the stronger it became. Inej dulled the anguish until it was no sharper than a blunt knife, until he could feel everything else without being blinded by the blade.

Eventually, she let go, only to shift and drop her head onto his shoulder. She rested largely on his jacket, but there was a sliver, right by his neck, where their skin came together. It set his pulse on fire. It felt like exhaling. Like holding something so delicate in his hands he didn’t dare breathe and risk disturbing it. The weight of her against him sent all his senses up into disarray, and he wondered for half a second if this was what the rush of parem felt like, because with Inej leaning against him. he swore he could see, hear, feel everything. The pain all but evaporated. The world came gloriously into tune, and now that he’d heard the sweet sound it could make, Kaz wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to tolerate a sour note.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the sound nearly blending into the ambiance provided by the sky above and ground below, nearly drowned by the synchronous beats of their hearts. “Thank you for bringing them back to me.”

“Anything,” he responded just as quietly. “No matter the cost nor the reason. If you ask, I’ll do anything.”

“Why?” The question was so genuine, and he wasn’t sure he had an answer. How could he possibly put into words the feeling of needing her happiness as much as he needed air to breathe? What could he give her that could show just how deeply he craved her, and how terrifying and exhilarating and all-encompassing that desire was?

“You asked me earlier about my tell,” he said after a moment. His eyes were fixed on the city in front of him, but he could feel her gaze. This time, it was he who couldn’t say the words to her face. “I gave you a half-truth. My tell, my true vulnerability, the thing that gives me away every time, is you. When you’re by my side, no one else matters. Not the rest of the team, not the job. Nothing.”

“Is that why you…?” She didn’t have to finish her thought. He knew what moments she thought of, the constant battle inside himself she became victim to. The back and forth, longing turning to avoidance that never managed to last. A cycle he had yet to fully break out of.

He nodded, just enough for her to see it. “Van Eck knew. That day he…when he threatened to kill everyone else, he set the trap that I walked right into. In the moment when we were all in peril, he followed my gaze and saw who I couldn’t afford to lose.”

“That’s funny,” she said, and he stared down at her, the confusion written all over his face. She tilted her head back slightly, just enough to look at him without breaking the contact. “Had he turned his eyes to me, he would have seen the same thing. I guess we damned each other that day.”

“It’s not funny.” He desperately tried to keep the edge out of his voice, but control was a fantasy when his mind went back to that night, to the days he spent in fear of Inej being tortured or killed or worse. “I vowed to never let anyone hurt you like that again because of me. Because of what you hurting would do to me.”

The quiet settled back in, as if it had never left, as if their conversation had already dissolved into oblivion. Her head shifted slightly, eyes turned back to the city in front of them. He longed to watch her, to search in her face for the thoughts running through her mind, but she still rested against his shoulder, and he would rather throw himself off the roof than disrupt the comfort she seemed to find there. Patience was something he’d once considered a virtue, but now it was practically nonexistent.

“We can’t control the rest of the world,” she finally said. “Nor can we stop people from coming after us. Torturing yourself to stop someone else from doing it for you doesn’t solve anything; it only guarantees pain.”

“I’m no stranger to suffering. I’d rather withstand self-inflicting wounds. Those I can control.”

“It's not just you who suffers at your own hand.” She broke apart from him, shifted her body until they were face to face. A chill settled in where her head had been.

When Inej was walking above him, traversing through territory only few could manage, he’d allowed himself to pretend she was safe. That her perch protected her from the terrors that struck on the ground. But now, sitting above the rest of the world, all he felt was exposed. He was not Inej. He had no control here; be it to the elements or his enemies, or the one who held his heart in her hands. Every part of him was vulnerable.

“When you hurt yourself, when you consign your life to misery on the basis that it’s coming anyway, you hurt me as well. When you keep your distance, I’m the one who ends up untethered. You want to protect me from suffering on your behalf, but all you're doing is delivering the death blow yourself.”

“I…I never meant—“

“I know,” she said, her voice gentle and calm and everything he’d never deserved. “But I refuse to accept that pain any longer. I can’t love you if you spend all your time demolishing yourself. I’ll go down with this ship, but I can’t stay if you’re the one poking holes in the deck.”

“You won’t have to.” He’d never been one for vows, but he spoke them now, wondered if any of her beloved saints could hear him. If they would even dare listen to someone as depraved as he. “I can’t promise a miracle. I won’t lie to you and spew falsities about changes in morality that I know are nothing more than a cheap trick of the light. You deserve better than that. You deserve better than me. So every moment you choose to stay by my side is one I’ll devote to earning it.”

A crash from below sent them both to their weapons, before the sound of raucous laughter eased their grip. Kaz wondered if they’d ever stop anticipating the fight, if that instinct normally developed at childhood’s end, or if it was simply another consequence of living in Ketterdam.

“I should probably go rescue my parents. We’ve left Jesper and Wylan to their own devices for too long.” He watched as she floated down the roof, as if the surface itself was flat and level, as if the force pulling them down to the ground was only optional. When she got to the windowsill, he expected her to disappear, but instead she stopped, hands gripping the edge of the roof. “You deserve better, too,” she told him. “Better than you’ve got. Better than you’re going to get. One day I’ll make you believe it.”

Kaz didn’t say anything, didn’t so much as breathe, not until she dropped through the window and out of sight. He stared at the spot she’d left behind. There was no trace of her, nothing he could point to to prove she was there. Only the catch in his breath and the chill on his skin.

—

It was something he’d almost gotten used to by now. The smell. Saltwater had been one of the first things he’d learned to endure. Success and revenge both relied on the seas, so he’d spent as much time by the water as he could, until he could tolerate the scent without having to empty the contents of his stomach after so much as a whiff. It had been a lesson, he’d told himself. Every time served as a reminder that in order to beat Rollins, he’d need to leave the broken child behind. He’d need to become something better. Someone new.

He didn’t know if it was the smell now that was nauseating, or the sight of the boat anchored on the harbor carrying Ravka’s double eagle flag. Inej’s parents had already begun making their way to the dock. Jesper and Wylan had given their heartfelt goodbyes back at the house; Kaz had said nothing, but followed a step behind them, just as he had upon their arrival. Inej never stopped him. He took her silence as an invitation.

They’d passed The Wraith on their walk, and now his eyes kept trying to drag him back to it. Her ship turned his body and mind into a contradiction, elicited responses that shouldn’t have coexisted. Pride and fear, joy and sorrow, guilt and righteousness. It tempted him like a puzzle he wasn’t clever enough to solve, made him think that if he just kept looking, he might be able to sort it all out. To find an answer to a question he couldn’t ever ask.

“You’ll watch over it when I’m gone?” He turned to face her, unsurprised that she followed his gaze even when the boat lay out of view.

“Of course. I don’t abandon my investments.”

“Tell Specht he can start trying to put together a potential crew while I’m away. And that he’s got the job as my first mate if he wants it.”

“I’ll pass the word along.”

“Tell him to look into the girls first. The ones from the Menagerie.”

“They may be hard to find,” he said casually. “Now that Heleen is shut down, most are scattered to the wind.”

“Then it’s a good thing he’ll have you.” Kaz raised an eyebrow at her, and she rolled her eyes. “I know you’ve kept tabs on them. Offered a place in the Slat, a new name and fresh start. Offered them a ticket home, too, if they have one.”

“I work for The Wraith,” he said in response. “She expects me to rid the world of evil women and men. Can’t do that if the girls have nowhere else to go.”

“What a formidable employer.”

Kaz smirked. “Rumor has it she’s got heartsick fools wrapped around her pinky, and slavers and scum crushed beneath her fist.”

“Is that so?”

“If the whispers are to be believed.”

“Sounds like a handful.”

“Only for the scum.”

“And for the heartsick fools?”

Sincerity slipped back in and he let it, forgoed the smirk and the sarcasm entirely. “For them, it’s an honor.”

Her own smile faded, and he wondered if he’d made a mistake. If the price of genuity was her laughter and lack of tension in her shoulders, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to pay it. “When I return — and I will, no matter what my parents tell themselves — who am I going to find?”

He wanted to tell her that he’d be the same person she left behind. That she could dock her ship and they could walk besides one another the way they have before, that nothing had to change if they didn’t want it to. But that wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. And maybe, despite his own internal protests, that wasn’t the truth, either.

For as long as Kaz Brekker had been alive, he’d had one singular purpose. Every choice and decision, every move he made, was done in service of that goal, the heist within all the heists. Brick by brick required time and diligence, so much so that it hadn’t left room for an after. It didn’t matter what name he used; the dominance, the relevance, the very existence of Pekka Rollins was never going to survive. Until the dust settled and he was still standing, Kaz didn’t think he would, either.

But here he stood. And here she stood. The waves crashed against the harbor behind her, each one with a different incentive: the threat of drowning, the promise of infinite possibilities, the rueful fate awaiting any who would seek to control them. The sea dragged out what was left inside the infamous Kaz Brekker as easily as it pulled in the tide. In its wake, a rare type of tranquility remained. He had no plan, no scheme. There was only one thing left to give.

“I’m not sure,” he told her. He prayed she could hear the truth in his words. “But I know that each time you traverse the seas, I’ll be here on the shore. And whenever and wherever you decide to land, I’ll be there. Anything you need — support, supplies, a place to lie your head — you’ll have. What’s mine is yours. It always was. It always will be.”

Inej stared at him. If they were other people, he knew this would be the time for desperate hugs, for clinging to one another in some last ditch effort to fight off the sands of time. But they weren’t other people. They were Kaz and Inej. Products of the Barrel. Broken in all the same places. And he wasn’t sure he could handle holding onto her just to let her go.

So they watched. Her eyes held the kind of radiance that the poets preached about. The wind pushed her braid back just slightly, as if it was trying to pull her toward the sea. The hilts of her knives glistened in the sun, peeking out only in places where he knew to look. If he was a religious man, he’d tell her she looked like a goddess, a deity escaped from whatever world lay beyond their own. If he followed the faith, he’d tell her that no saint, not even the one blessed with sunlight, could possibly outshine her. If he wasn’t a coward, he’d confess that he had already begun to pray for her, to beg the water to bend to her will, to keep her ship and her mission and her body and soul all in one piece.

Years of walls crumbled under the weight of her gaze, and he let them with no resistance. He wasn’t sure what she saw when she looked at him, but he hoped she could hear the words he could not say. And the selfish, undeserving part of him wished she’d feel the same.

The blaring horn from the ship fractured the moment. Neither of them flinched, but he watched her turn back, glance behind her at the vessel waiting to take her home.

“I should probably go,” she said, but her feet stayed planted, her eyes already back on him.

Courage came in the form of fear, his desperation to keep her in front of him shoving out words he hadn’t planned on saying. “When you return, who am I going to find?”

“I’m not sure.” She spoke slowly, and he wondered whether admitting it came with the same distress, the same relief, as it did for him. “But no matter what happens, I can promise you that I’ll come back. Not just to Ketterdam, or my ship. I’ll come back to you.”

“Why?” He felt sliced open just asking. No one else had ever had so many chances to destroy him without taking a single one. Part of him wondered when the shoe would drop, when the inevitable would happen and she’d turn her knife against him. How would her face look when she had his life in her hands? How long would it take her to realize he would welcome death with open arms rather than resist her? Kaz could think of no better way to die, no better way to live, than at her mercy.

“A shadow,” Inej answered with a smile, “can only stray so far before the sun pulls it back where it belongs.”

He shook his head. “I’m the shadow; you’re the one who deserves to walk freely of me.”

She stepped closer, and his breath caught in his chest, sat right above his heart in glorious, agonizing anticipation. “Then every night I’ll pray for shade, so us figments of the dark can disappear together.”

Inej reached up, and it was only then that he noticed the gloves on her hands, thin and sleek, the same color black as his own. Despite the barrier, his heart still fluttered when she brought her hand up to his chin. She stood like that for a minute, her eyes searching for permission, and Kaz didn’t know what she was asking for but the answer would always be yes, yes, yes.

Leaning toward him, she turned his head slightly, brought her lips to his cheek. They only touched for a second, maybe two, but it was enough to elicit another internal vow. He would find a way to fix as many of his jagged, shattered parts as he could, because the next time she brought her lips to his skin, he wanted to feel euphoria unburdened by anything else.

“I know I’ve said it before,” she whispered, “but thank you. For all of it.”

Whatever words, whatever courage he might have had, evaporated as quickly as it had come. The ship horn blared again but he kept his gaze steady, stole one last look, memorized the moment before it could fade. Inej lingered, as if she was doing the same, before she took a breath and turned around.

Kaz watched. He watched her board the ship side by side with her parents. He watched her turn back as it began to pull away, the lone traveler facing Ketterdam rather than the endless sea. He watched until the ship disappeared into the horizon, the sight of it swallowed up by the glare of the sun. And even when it was gone, he watched for just a little bit longer, as if his eyes could carry her across the sea and into the safety that only existed in dreams and on a stage.

Turning around still hurt. Part of him longed to stay anchored to the harbor, to wait for her in the very spot she’d left him. But instead, he pulled his watch out of his pocket and began walking toward the Barrel. There was no time for standing around and waiting patiently. Not when he worked for The Wraith. She expected him to scrub their dirty home clean, and despite all his failings, Kaz Brekker refused to disappoint.

#i love them your honor #kanej #kaz x inej #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #also do not hesitate to tell me if u like this #im a bitch for validation from strangers on the internet #six of crows #crooked kingdom #crooked kingdom spoilers #shadow and bone #also shoutout to rule of wolves for the Suli word for daughter #that was a big W #(i wont say anything more about that tho don't worry no spoilers here)#fanfic #TFLAO3 #six of crows fanfic #kanej fanfic #grishaverse

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bigasswritingmagnet · 3 years

Text

When History Comes Calling ch 2/14

Fandom: Mass Effect Rating: Teen Pairing: none, some background Fshep/Garrus

Summary: In 2170, Mindoir was attacked by slavers. Hundreds were taken captive, hundreds more were slaughtered. Kiryn was the only Shepard to make it out alive. For years, he buried his grief, kept his head high, and did whatever he needed to survive.He survived Mindoir and the batarians and when the Reapers came he survived them too.

But when the war ends and he escapes his batarian masters to the Citadel, the discovery that his twin sister is alive and well might just be the thing that breaks him. The Hegemony's greatest assassin will remember what it means to have something to lose.

AO3 link in notes!

belated and special thanks to @reblob-blob for beta-ing, and @snuffes @thehumantrampoline for their assistance <3

---

His plan had been sound - find the largest assortment of refugees in the safest location. Keep a low profile. Get the lay of the land in the world outside batarian space. He remembered the Citadel being touted as a beacon of safety and civil obedience, but after 15 years in his… particular profession, Vondur had learned that there was always a seedy underbelly. Sure, he was going to have to start from scratch, but with his skills it wouldn’t take long to rebuild his reputation.

In practice, though.

In practice, it was hundreds of shipping crates stacked on top of each other, the smell of unwashed bodies and dirty laundry, a constant jumble of voices crying and shouting and arguing, bright lights glaring down like spotlights. Guards at the exits, eyes suspicious and watchful; dull-eyed bureaucrats processing the new comers without sympathy or interest.

It felt like the slave pens.

He found a dark corner out of sight of the main crush of people. It looked out over one of the Citdael’s arms, the orange city glow dotted with spots of black where the power was lost or the buildings crushed to rubble -- the night sky turned inside out. He wrapped his hands around the railing and tried to find the moment.

It was a technique his very first instructor had taught him, and one that he had come to rely on heavily. Ignore the past, ignore the future, ignore even the present. By the time you acknowledge the present it is already the past. Find the moment you are in. The breath in your lungs, the beating of your heart. The feeling of cold metal warming against his palms, the light reflecting off passing ships lighting up the insides of his eyelids...

The feelings that the present was stirring up - old fear, nausea, memories of being helpless and alone -- all faded, leaving him clear headed and calm once more.

When Vondur opened his eyes, the world had righted itself. He was still here, but now he could think. And he could notice, consciously, the person coming up behind him. He’d been aware of their presence, but only by instinct. Now he could analyze the clues he’d picked up -- perfume, the rustle of clothing, the weight of the tread -- and know not to attack the civilian human female coming up behind him.

“Excuse me?”

He pretended to be surprised when he turned. The human gave him a shy smile. She was small, about five foot even, with her blonde hair pulled up into a high ponytail. Younger than he’d been expecting - maybe 16 at the most. Either fashion hadn’t changed in the last 15 years, or the colonies were more fashion forward than he remembered them being, because her clothes would have been considered retro when he was her age.

Most interesting, however, was the lanyard around her neck. From here he could see the word ‘volunteer’ in big orange letters on the ID card that hung from it.

“Hi there! My name is Sarah. I’m a volunteer for the Citadel Refugee Project. I help new arrivals get settled in after they’re processed.”

Her words had the patter of a memorized script, but suddenly she hesitated.

“So, um, I’m not sure if anyone told you-- and I’m sorry if I’m wrong, but I’ve been seeing a lot of them and-- I thought, if it was me I’d want someone to make sure I knew-- I just-- it’s just that I--”

“It’s okay,” he said, giving her a casual, nonthreatening tilt of the head.

She straightened up and cleared her throat, and didn’t quite meet his eyes when she said “administration can get you in touch with a doctor who can deactivate and remove batarian control devices.”

Vondur, having only just righted himself,was once more knocked off course into a whirl of unpleasant memories.

Like all slaves, Vondur had received the implant when he was first captured. At first, he had been constantly aware of it, perpetually afraid that any bump or electric shock would set it off. As the years passed it had become normal, a part of him the same way his biotic implant was. Filomet never had cause to threaten him with it, let alone put it to use. Most of the time, Vondur didn’t think of it at all.

Vondur reached up a hand and touched the back of his head. In the soft place at the base of his skull was his implant. Just above it, a thick ridge of scar tissue that did not completely hide the small, hard lump of the device.

Remove it?

Why shouldn’t he? He was a free man, now. Able to choose his own path. He would never need to answer to anyone else ever again. Yes, he’d planned to keep up his… profession, but now they would be his jobs, his choices. The payment would be entirely his, not whatever sliver of a percentage Filomet felt generous - or frightened - enough to pass his way.

He could choose who he would kill.

Sarah was looking up at him nervously. He did a mental check of his expression - impassive, neutral, displaying no trace of the shock she’d given him. Good.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice as level as ever. “I would like to see the doctor.”

Sarah said she would walk him to the office -- a handful of desks -- located in one of the courtyards -- the squares of space the shipping containers opened into. It was staffed by actual employees of the CRP. They managed identification paperwork, locating families, finding temporary housing, medical support, ensured steady supply delivery, and in general jumped the bureaucratic hoops Citadel administration demanded be jumped. These were the souls who actually solved the problems, Sarah said.

“The Citadel set up the camps and they send food down but they don’t really care. They spend more time making sure nobody gets into the rest of the station than they do helping people.” Her voice held a heavy bitterness that surprised him; the kind that came from experience.

“You’re a refugee,” he said, and she gave him an awkward half smile and a one-shoulder shrug.

“Yeah. I mean, I was. I guess I’m technically a citizen of the Citadel now. But I came in on one of the shuttles. I made a lot of friends down here, and I knew what it was like. It didn’t feel right to just… leave and never come back”

“Understandable,” said Vondur, who didn’t understand at all. He had made friends - or at least bonded - with some of the other slaves in the pens. When Filomet had taken him away, Vondur had not looked back. He wanted to get as far away from that part of his life as possible.

I did help them, he thought, irrationally defensive, I saved them in the arena. I stopped Filomet from using bait slaves. There was nothing else I could have done. It’s not like slaves can buy slaves, or free them. I needed to focus on survival. There's nothing wrong with that.

Sarah was still talking. She was, it seemed, quite the chatterbox. And very… peppy.

“It’s not so bad down here. Especially now the war is over. The Reapers were kind of a major bummer, y’know?” She flashed him a grin.

‘Major bummer’. Billions dead, worlds destroyed, your understanding of galactic history and your place in it completely upended…

“Mmhmm,” he said.

“They do holiday celebrations, and you can go to virtual classes- oh, and we have vid nights now. You should definitely submit a suggestion, because they’ve played Fleet and Flotilla like a billion times. What kind of vids do you like?”

Vondur floundered for an answer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched an actual film. It would have been on Mindoir, but he couldn’t think of a single title, couldn’t even remember what kinds of vids he used to watch.

“I don’t watch a lot of vids,” he said. That was a legitimate response, right? Plenty of people out there didn't watch vids.

“Oh. Well what do you like to do?”

This one was even worse, because Vondur did have answers, and not a single one of them was something he could say to this girl. He liked working on upgrades for his sniper rifle. He liked to spar and train to improve his skills in killing people. He liked to practice shooting.

He liked to work. Not to kill. But everything up to that point, the challenge of it, the rush of adrenaline. There was, in his heart, a grim satisfaction in a difficult task completed.

“I like to read,” he said, lamely. Desperate to change the direction of the conversation, he said "And you?"

“I love vids. I want to make my own when I’m older. I especially like the classic stuff. Did you know the Blasto vids are based on a human series from the 1970s? It’s called Dirty Harry; you should check it out. Blasto wishes he could be that cool.”

“Definitely,” he said, wondering what the hell a Blasto was. An argument broke out ahead of them, catching Vondur’s attention. And oh, by the glorious Pillars of Strength, there was a familiar face in the crowd.

Vondur stopped suddenly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I think I see someone I know.”

Sarah beamed up at him.

“Of course! I’m so glad for you! I’ll see you around-- wait! I forgot to ask you your name!”

“Thomas,” Vondur said. He'd chosen the name as one that was average and inconspicuous, but not too average or inconspicuous. Then, because it was a thing he remembered people said, added “Call me Tom.”

“It was nice to meet you, Tom,” she said, and stuck out her hand. It took him a moment to realize what she was doing, but just a moment. He shook it, and gave her what he hoped was a friendly smile. It wasn’t a very big one.

“Same to you.”

He waited until he was sure she wasn’t going to stick around to watch, and headed for the group of arguing batarians. They’d lowered their voices, but their body language told him they were barely holding on to their tempers. They were too busy to notice his approach, and Vondur liked that just fine.

It was so much more fun this way.

“Hello Ukarem,” he said, and watched the batarian go rigid. Very, very slowly the batarian turned and looked up at him. Vondur felt no small satisfaction seeing all four eyes go wide with stark terror.

“Vondur,” he rasped.

“Isn’t this a funny coincidence. Glad to see you made it to safety.”

The batarian opened his mouth, but all that came out was a strangled groan. Vondur glanced at the other batarians. He didn’t know them, but from the looks on their faces, they knew him.

He put a hand on Ukarem’s shoulder, dug his fingers in. He could feel the batarian trembling.

“Let’s take a walk. I’d love to hear all about it.”

“But…” one of the other batarians tried, braver than the rest. Vondur looked at him, focusing his entire attention on the lone soul who dared. Holding eye contact, Vondur tilted his head back ever so slightly. You are so beneath me, so little a threat, the movement said, that I do not need all four eyes to watch you.

It didn’t matter that Vondur didn’t have another pair; body language was body language, and Vondur knew how to send a message.

The batarians edged backwards, and Vondur steered Ukarem away.

They walked in silence for a minute or so, as Vondur led them to a less crowded area.

“I have money,” Ukarem said.

“That’s good,” Vondur said, mildly. “Financial stability is very important.”

“If this is about that job on Camala--”

Ukarem had provided wildly inefficient intel on the state of the target’s security. Vondur had been shot several times, and very nearly died. His target had managed to escape; one of Vondur’s few failures. Because the target was human, rumors started that Vondur had botched the job on purpose out of species sympathy. He’d had to kill several humans in very nasty ways to repair the damage to his reputation.

“Clouds long cleared,” Vondur said, in that same mild tone. “How long have you been on the Citadel, Ukarem?”

“I was in the Terminus system on business,” he mumbled. “Came here as soon as I heard they were taking people in.”

“Really? Why not Omega?”

“Seemed safer. The reports that were coming through…”

Vondur walked him over to the railing where they could watch the ships go by, hidden behind several large potted plants. Ukarem tried to dig his heels in, babbling nervously.

“Look, Vondur, you don’t have to do this, I can make it worth your while, whatever it is--”

“I need a favor, Ukarem.”

The batarian froze, then relaxed, relief pouring off of him in waves.

“Oh! Oh, yeah, sure, sure. Name it.”

Vondur leaned casually against the railing, looking out at the ships rather than at Ukarem.

“I think my least favorite thing about the Citadel is how suspicious they are. You can’t just walk in and out. You need paperwork. An ID card, birth certificate, background checks, proof of citizenship…” He looked over at the batarian. “You know what I mean. You have to be in the system if you want to get anywhere out here.”

“Yeah” he said, but his expression was puzzled. “But… you were born out here. Couldn’t you just…?”

“I wouldn’t want to raise a fuss,” Vondur said. “A lost child, presumed dead, escaping his dreadful masters and regaining his freedom, rising from the ashes of destruction to take back his old life? That would attract a lot of attention. The kind of attention that could be very… disadvantageous for someone in my field of business. But most importantly, Ukarem, I don’t want to.” The last was said in a voice hard and cold and full of dark promises.

“Right, right, sure, of course.” Ukarem was nodding very hard.

“Besides, if I went the legal route, well, I wouldn’t need your help. You’d become rather useless to me. And you like to be useful, right Ukarem?”

More nodding, Ukarem having apparently lost the ability to speak.

“You have friends on the Citadel, right? Friends who can get me what I need?”

The nodding continued.

“You should let them know I’m willing to pay a little more for express delivery. I’m in a bit of a rush.”

Nod nod nod. Vondur worried Ukarem’s head would go flying off.

“Oh, and before I forget… I’m still getting settled in, but once I am, you can let your friends know that my services are available. On a case by case basis, of course.”

Ukarem froze mid-nod, his eyes very wide.

“Really?” he blurted out. “But-- but you’re not-- you’re--”

Vondur patted him on the shoulder and turned to leave.

“If your friends could get back to me in the next two days, I’d really appreciate it.”

As he mixed in with the other refugees, following the herd towards the daily food distribution, Vondur wondered why he didn’t feel as light as he’d been expecting. He’d just solved several major problems in one go. Now he had the right connections, he was going to get the documents he needed, he’d be able to find some work…

So why was there some deep, biting dissatisfaction in his mind?

It was Ukarem’s surprise that he was looking for work. The sentence he hadn’t dared to finish. ‘But you’re not a slave anymore.’ Idiot. This was his trade, his craft. Throw away fifteen years of work honing and perfecting his skills just because he didn’t have to? What else was he supposed to do? He didn’t know how to do anything else. He didn’t need to know. And this life had been his choice. Filomet had stood in his cell and given him options, and Vondur had chosen. A short, brutal life in the mines, or the best weapons and training Filomet’s money could buy.

It had been an easy choice, and it had been his.

It had.

#mass effect #femshep #mshep #twin au #alternate universe fic #commander shepard

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mythicamagic · 4 years

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Impostor Syndrome: Sesskag oneshot

Summery: Kagome is resurrected by a grief stricken husband- brought back to fill his late wife Kikyo’s shoes. While the characteristics unique to Kagome are rejected by Inuyasha, there’s a certain Daiyoukai who has a fascination with her blue eyes, sun kissed skin and curling hair.

Rated T (angst, relationship drama, romance and hurt/comfort) 7,000+ words.

AN: Inuyasha plays a more antagonistic role here but in case you’ve never read my stuff before, just know that I do like him and love me some good platonic best friends Inukag, as seen in Conversing with Emotion and Swimming in Silk. It’s just that I like to play around with the characters, so forgive me for how he’s written in this one.

No smut here but please enjoy.

Impostor Syndrome

There once was a young man who married for love. Born a half-demon, he never anticipated anyone loving him, let alone a priestess; enemy to his father’s kin.

But just as he did not fit in with demon or humankind, she did not belong within the role assigned to her either. An extraordinary woman wishing to be ordinary. To be free from the weight of expectation placed upon her shoulders.

And so they’d fled.

After marrying for love the young man experienced pure, quiet happiness with his wife. She had a calming spirit that could turn hard as flint, blinding in her cold ruthlessness. She could slay enemies efficiently and with poised control yet turn soft and loving for him alone.

They lived for a time together in the forest, keeping to their personal haven.

Because of her skill, the young man trusted her power not to fail on the night of the new moon.

He howled his grief and despair long into the early hours of morning after discovering her broken body lying in the grass of a clearing.

But that was not quite the end of the man who married for love. Instead, he attempted to play God.

—-

She took her first breath and broke into a coughing fit. Rising up from the cold floor, a young woman shivered. Glancing down, she found herself covered in sticky sweat, completely bare.

“Kikyo,” someone breathed, barely above a whisper.

The young woman started. Her hand was caught between two larger ones that clasped her fingers tight, squeezing. Blue eyes raised to the stranger with muted confusion.

He blinked with equal confusion and mounting anger, sniffing. “You don't… smell like her,” the words came faintly. “Why doesn’t she smell like her!” He burst, causing the woman to jolt.

“Master Inuyasha, the spell you desired is a finicky one.” A slippery, hoarse voice came from behind them, dripping fake pleasantries. “Be patient. Your wife may not look or smell quite the same but her memories will return from the dead.”

Inuyasha glared over his shoulder at the witch who lingered in the entrance to his hut like an unwanted spectre. “She better. This ain’t what I agreed to,” he stood, fists trembling.

The girl at his feet stared with furrowed brows, uncertain why disappointment brimmed in the stranger’s eyes. Nonetheless, he seemed to try and correct his attitude, reaching down to grasp thin arms. Roughly tugging her to stand, he supported her around the waist when she wobbled. “I guess we’ll just take this slow,” he sighed. “I’m your husband, Inuyasha. And your name is Kikyo.”

She blinked and tried to steady herself on trembling legs, frowning.

The very first words out of her mouth were;

“I’m not Kikyo.”

—-

Perhaps those words didn’t help endear her to Inuyasha. Nonetheless, he resolved to start from scratch.

‘Kikyo’ was given his late wife’s clothes to wear, smoothing the priestess robes over her body. However, with every opportunity, the woman slipped out of the robes in order to wear a yukata or kimono instead. Anything but the miko attire. It set his teeth on edge. At least she held the holy power of a priestess like his wife.

She understood his language and already knew the basics of reading and writing. Inuyasha took this to be a good sign since his late wife had been educated.

When it came to other things, the woman tried her best to learn the necessary herbs for healing as instructed. Yet her attention often wandered away, lost in a daydream.

“Oi,” he grunted. “Focus. Kikyo was dedicated to this stuff.”

“But we already have enough herbs from yesterday,” sighing, she straightened and rested the basket of herbs against her hip. “Can’t we do something else?” Blue eyes lingered on the treetops. “Is there a beach near here? I’d really like to see the ocean.”

White ears flicked and pressed to his skull. “Where’d you hear about beaches? I never took Kikyo to one.”

She continued to gaze longingly at the trees, as though looking through them to somewhere else, somewhere far away. Inuyasha grit his teeth, bristling. Grasping the woman’s chin and turning it slightly to better inspect the structure of her face, he tsked. “Damn it… wish your eyes were brown like they used to be,” he grumbled. “Hurry up and remember everything already. You’re not acting right.”

Blue eyes slid away, lips thinning. “I’m just acting like myself…”

“Keh, you ain’t anyone else but Kikyo,” dropping her chin, he straightened. “Things are weird right now but they’ll go back to normal as soon as you remember, I promise.”

The young woman buried her feelings anew. She’d been doing that a lot lately. When he walked away and called for Kikyo, it took her a moment to remember that she’d been assigned such a name. It didn’t sit right on her tongue.

—

Inuyasha lived fairly isolated within the woods with his wife. However, there were those who knew where to find him. Namely: his half brother.

“Don’t you think it’s about time you used it?”

“I have used it.”

“Experimenting with the sword on Jaken and a little girl does not count,” Inukimi hummed with amusement, watching her son with dancing eyes.

Sesshoumaru’s narrowed, head tilting back and brushing long silver hair over his shoulder. “As this one has stated numerous times; a sword of healing is a useless prop for a warlord to wield.”

His honoured mother hummed, resting her pale cheek in her palm boredly. “I do wish your Father were still with us to temper that disrespectful tongue of yours. Consider my words, pup. That sword should be used, and preferably to save a life that is precious to you. Don’t squander it, dearest. I thought you hated wasted potential.”

With a snort, Sesshoumaru took his leave. Disappointment radiated off Inukimi but he hardly cared. Whatever ‘lesson’ Father had intended for him to learn about Tenseiga was ultimately useless for a demon like him.

Returning to his own stronghold, Sesshoumaru listened to the reports from his advisers, before making his way down a hallway. Strange that his blood did not sing with the thrill of victory. Reports of his army’s success in battle were usually a favourable thing. Lately, however, there was no burning satisfaction. Perhaps he merely needed to visit the front lines again for himself. Jaken was most likely instructing Rin in her morning lessons at that time, so he made his way towards the gardens.

Whispers flitted into the air, irritating his ears. Sesshoumaru zeroed in on the hushed mutterings and paused mid-step. The Lord of the Western lands did not care much for idle gossip, yet a particularly prevalent one kept cropping up lately.

“Did ye hear? Master Inuyasha’s wife perished.”

“The priestess Kikyo?”

“Mn- and do not repeat this but I hear he revived her with the use of dark magic.”

“No!”

“Yes. Though I suppose he’d need to rely on such means. It is not as though Lord Sesshoumaru would lend him Tenseiga.”

At the mention of his name, a frosty gaze swung to the servants down the hallway. They squeaked and hurried away.

Though he loathed agreeing, the validity of their statement couldn’t be denied. He and his brother were not ‘close’ by any stretch of the imagination. Still, Sesshoumaru felt mildly curious about the whelp’s situation.

This curiosity resulted in the Daiyoukai gliding through the sky that afternoon. It took a few hours, but Sesshoumaru followed his memory towards Inuyasha’s humble hut. He did not land gracefully before the house, instead keeping to the surrounding bushes. Moving near silently under the heavy shade of the trees, pointed ears twitched.

Thwack.

Sesshoumaru scented the air and minded some low hanging branches aside, revealing the figure of a dark-haired young woman in the clearing ahead. She drew a bowstring back and arched her spine slightly, pulling taut. Taking in a breath, she released in time with the arrow sailing free.

Sesshoumaru’s eyes widened slightly, watching it fly through the air. Blazing, rippling light flowed around it like a fireball, crashing into the target and licking at the paper with burns before fading away.

“The hell was THAT?!”

Sesshoumaru dazedly forced his attention to Inuyasha, who stomped into view. “One: ya missed the bullseye! Two: your stance was wrong, and three: Kikyo had amazing control over her powers. She never woulda let them loose like that! Ya stupid or something? Do I gotta tell you the basics over and over?”

The miko sighed and dropped her arms, making a face. “Can’t you encourage me for once and say ‘good job?’ I try my best every time!”

“I’ll tell ya 'good job’ when you do one!”

Sesshoumaru raised a brow, watching as Inuyasha fell quiet. He reached up and contemplatively curled his fingers into the woman’s thick dark hair. The woman stilled, becoming watchful.

“It’s startin’ to kink at the ends again. Go wash it,” he grunted so softly Sesshoumaru’s hearing strained a little to catch it.

Blue eyes dimmed. The woman broke from Inuyasha’s touch to flee, hurrying away from their training grounds.

Sesshoumaru pursued.

Silently moving through the trees with all the grace of a jungle cat, limbs shifted and eyes assessed, gleaming bright in the shadows. Sesshoumaru leaned against a tree, remaining hidden by the foliage. The sound of muffled sobs reached his ears, almost buried under the noise of a waterfall. Salt fanned through the air. The woman knelt in a pool beside the falls, stripped down to a white underlayer yukata. She poured a bucket over her head, shuddering. Biting back sobs, she miserably combed shaking fingers through her hair, pausing to inspect the naturally curling dark locks.

“Just flatten. Why can’t you stay straight?” She sighed.

Sesshoumaru rose a brow as the young woman raised an arm, pushing back her sleeve to glare at her skin. “And don’t even get me started on you.”

When she did not elaborate, he found himself walking through the greenery, pushing past the bushes to inquire: “What exactly has your flesh done to offend you, madwoman?”

Starting violently, she fell back to land on her ass, creating a small splash. Blue eyes flew wide, flitting over his figure. Sesshoumaru let her drink him in. He often had that effect on people.

She gathered herself a little quicker than expected, rising. “I was just annoyed about being so tanned. My uh… husband,” the word was faint and sounded almost like a question. “He said his former wife was pale but she spent all her time outdoors. How’s that possible?!”

Sesshoumaru blinked languidly, tilting his head slightly. “Hn. This one was led to believe Inuyasha had resurrected the priestess Kikyo. However, you seem more like a replacement than her double.”

Flinching, she began ringing her hair. Water droplets slid down rosy cheeks and fell from the dark, dishevelled strands of midnight black locks. The white yukata plastered to her body almost indecently.

Sesshoumaru lifted his eyes from where they’d been lingering and caught her gaze. Colour leaked into her cheeks, darkening them further as she huffed. “You know Inuyasha, then?”

“This one is his half brother, Sesshoumaru.”

“Oh,” her eyes clouded with thought. “I didn’t know he had a brother. I don’t get to talk to anyone else but he still doesn’t tell me much about himself.”

Sesshoumaru watched as the woman bowed slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m-” she caught herself, lips thinning. A dark look crossed her features before the name was pushed past her teeth like mud. “Kikyo. I'm… Kikyo.”

“No, you are not.”

The woman jolted and stared, fingers curling into her sleeves tightly. “I don't… have another name,” came a fragile murmur.

“Then give yourself one,” he uttered flatly, uncertain why he lingered. He supposed it displeased him on some level. Sesshoumaru did not like unnecessary waste. What he’d witnessed earlier of her powers hinted at a deep well of untapped potential in the girl. She’d likely not unlock it if Inuyasha kept her mind on trivial details like 'straight hair.’ “This one gave himself the name Sesshoumaru, or Killing Perfection. When a demon comes of age, they may choose a new one for themselves,” he elaborated. “I have been bred for war. So that is the most fitting name.”

She blinked and rubbed at her eyes, before raising her head, lips curving. “The 'killing’ part, sure. But 'perfection?’” She teased.

“I am very good at it,” he said in a silky tone.

Bursting into a laugh, the strange woman gave the brightest smile the demon lord had yet to witness, blue eyes glimmering. “I see. Thank you for the advice. I’ll do that.”

He frowned slightly, suddenly feeling a little odd. Hyper aware of his lack of reason to be there now, Sesshoumaru turned on his heel and walked away. In his eagerness to leave, he quite forgot to check in with Inuyasha himself.

A few days went by before Sesshoumaru made the journey back to Inuyasha’s home once more. Peace reigned throughout the Lord’s lands so he allowed himself the 'entertainment’ of watching Inuyasha’s latest drama. It was most definitely not to glimpse the miko again, nor to monitor her progress.

She seemed to have improved her aim, yet the reiki remained unfiltered and untrained. What was Inuyasha doing?

Ah, it seemed he was in the middle of their latest shouting match.

Clearly yelling would not make the girl learn any faster. Golden eyes cut to the sky. Why did he have to get involved?

“Concentrate your energy into the arrow.”

“Huh?” The woman glanced over her shoulder, now left briefly unmonitored by the whelp. She shifted the bow and arrow in her hands, dressed in traditional red and white miko attire today. They made her look like a Kikyo doll. “I don’t…know how,” she confessed. “It always feels like there’s so much of it. Like I’m trying to hold onto water that’s pouring too quick. I can cup a little into my hands, but the rest overflows.”

Sesshoumaru hummed, gaze ripping itself away from the light catching in her hair, causing some strands to shine a strangely blue hue. “Practice yields results. Eventually you will manage to filter the 'water’ into the arrow and allow the excess to flow back into you.”

She nodded and faced the target, elbows drooped and feet too close together. Biting back a sigh, he approached.

A hand met her elbow, pushing to raise it. “Keep your arms in this position…” his deep baritone became clogged with a velvety rumble, finding her scent not unpleasant when it brushed over his senses. His palm met the base of her spine, prodding to arch her back. She felt warm to the touch.

He then slid a foot between her own, nudging her legs to part wider. A rapid heartbeat thundered in his ears. “This is the correct stance.”

“A-ah, thanks.”

With a palm pressing against her back, Sesshoumaru felt it when she inhaled a breath, coiling static energy into the wooden arrow and releasing it.

The arrow flew free, missing the bullseye. However, the holy powers raced over her bow in an agitated manner before settling back down instead of scotching the target.

Better, he mused.

She gave a much louder whoop of success.

From that day on, he visited the miko in secret once each week. It pleased the slumbering desire within him to witness the smile come to her lips the instant blue eyes fell upon him. Like she’d been waiting. Whenever they met and the demon’s knuckles grazed her waist- her arm, her hair- the woman scrubbed herself afterwards in a hot spring or pool, mindful of Inuyasha’s keen nose.

Sesshoumaru’s voice was crisp and clear, instruction brief and to the point in his teaching. She tried her best as his pupil, grumbling sometimes but not outright complaining. Instead, the nameless woman threw herself wholeheartedly into what was demanded of her.

Two months later, she finally hit the bullseye with perfect control. Not a hint of reiki over-spilled.

“I did it!” The woman glanced over her shoulder to look up at him, beaming from ear to ear.

Sesshoumaru stared. Her happy scent washed over him in waves. His lips parted to drink it in easier. Faintly, the sleeping want for her stirred and stretched awake like a disturbed cat.

It was while staring that the dip of her collar hinting at succulent flesh laying just beneath- that something caught his eye. Her clothing shifted downwards, revealing a glimpse of something unmistakable.

A love bite.

The situation suddenly dawned on him, the ridiculousness of what he was doing. He should not get involved with Inuyasha’s wench. Hell, he shouldn’t even be there. What was he doing? He had wars to plan, subjects to lead. And yet he’d been waiting each day for that favoured time he’d visit her anew. Mentally he took a step back.

“Sesshoumaru?”

He frowned at the familiarity with which she used his name. At his pensive silence, dark brows pulled together and she bit her lip maddeningly.

Foolish miko. This one’s teeth should be the ones to catch your lips and bite down-

“Oi, Kikyo!” Came a distant shout.

They both jolted, Sesshoumaru raising his head. He did not run nor hide, because Sesshoumaru did not flee from anyone.

From out of the forest greenery, Inuyasha burst forth, snarling. He raised a hand and flexed his fingers. “I thought I smelled ya. The hell are you doing here, Sesshoumaru? Back off. That’s my wife you’re hovering around.”

“Is that so?” He uttered, raising his chin in a lofty manner. “She is so changed in appearance and scent this one mistook her for a different human entirely.”

Out of his peripheral vision, the woman flinched. For some reason, this set his teeth on edge. She should not think it an insult. Inuyasha’s words were starting to infect her, seep into the woman’s self-image, rotting it like poison.

Not that this one cares.

Inuyasha snarled. “She’s gonna go back to normal soon, it ain’t any of your business!”

“No, it is not. In fact, it is far beneath my notice,” he uttered, claws flexing. And then because he could, Sesshoumaru blurred through the air and struck. His fist plummeted into Inuyasha’s cheek, sending the hanyou sailing away and crashing into the ground.

His half brother sputtered and snarled, sitting up and holding his cheek. “The fuck was that for?! You wanna fight?”

“I have little inclination to linger here any longer than necessary,” Sesshoumaru lied, turning on his heel and passing the miko. Sadness fanned out from her scent, irritating his senses. She didn’t look at him, which the Daiyoukai found displeasing and unacceptable. Nonetheless, he walked away.

—-

Dark, wild hair had been tamed back into a low ponytail the next time he saw the miko. It was unfortunate that she happened to also see him. Oddly, the usual method of concealing his youki hadn’t worked, and she’d zeroed in on his presence within the trees. Perhaps she had much-untapped potential.

“Sesshoumaru?”

Gracefully dropping from the branches elicited a gasp from the woman. “Y-you’re injured!”

Sesshoumaru glanced at his shoulder wound. Blood had leaked into the red crest patterning his clothes, dying it a deeper crimson. “Hn.”

“Don’t you 'hn’ me! What happened? Why aren’t you treating it?” She fussed, approaching to grip the clean material of his white silks and try to pry them away from the wound, squinting at the slash marks.

“In a few hours this one will be healed. There is little reason to fuss, woman,” he tried to bat her hand away but surprise froze his veins when she caught his striped wrist. Her hands felt soft and smaller than his own, but firm and sure.

“I’m going to fetch my supplies. You wait here or I’ll damn track you down myself, got that?” She threatened, blue eyes sparking in such a way that they made the male twitch and wish for a different kind of touch from the miko. Sesshoumaru bit the inside of his cheek, watching her hurry away.

When she returned, Sesshoumaru had reclined against a tree, arm draped gracefully over one bent leg. The woman dropped to her knees before him and reached for his collar, gaze flicking to his wordlessly for permission.

He granted it by glancing away mutely, throat tight. For some reason, saliva pooled in his mouth the moment she began undressing him. It was foul to be affected so. She only aimed to aid him. Still, Sesshoumaru sat rigidly still while her gentle scent flitted and teased his senses.

“I think I’ve found a name for myself,” she hummed while cleaning his wound.

“Hn?”

“It’s Kagome.”

“That is acceptable.”

She giggled, “I’m glad you like it.”

“I did not say that.”

Kagome bandaged the flesh, despite him informing her that it was not necessary. He also did not stop her. Every faint brush of her fingertips became distracting, silently invited.

“It’s a really nice day,” she hummed, wiping her brow. The humidity made her bangs puff up. He hated that he found it endearing. “Perfect beach weather day. Does Rin enjoy going there? I’d love to meet her and take her paddling,” she babbled and cooed.

“I have not taken her. Why do you wish to go to the beach so badly? You mention it often.”

“Huh? I don’t think I’ve talked about it to you before?”

Sesshoumaru fell into moody silence, inwardly kicking himself. Thankfully she carried on, thinking she had a faulty memory rather than accusing him of eavesdropping. “I don’t know why exactly. I just keep feeling like it’s where I’ll find something important. Like I can see this image in my mind of the sun setting beyond the waves. It’s peaceful, but also kind of scary at the same time. Maybe it’s the last thing I saw before I died? Who knows.”

He glanced down, feeling hot breath fan over his exposed chest. “Hn…I suppose you were brought back from the same place Inuyasha intended to pull Kikyo from.”

“Mhm, though I don’t remember anything else about my previous life.” Kagome shrugged, fixing the silks back over his bandaged shoulder and smoothing the hankimono back into place over his chest. She fixed his collar with gentle hands, fussing like a wife.

A wife…

Sesshoumaru frowned slightly, startled to find her attention on his mouth. His heart started to pick up, blood heating when those intoxicating blue eyes flitted up to drink him in.

She abruptly broke the spell between them by getting to her feet and picking up the forgotten bandages and alcohol she’d used for disinfectant. Sesshoumaru’s hand snapped out to lock on her wrist.

Kagome stilled, lips thinning. “Please let go, Sesshoumaru.”

“Do you intend to return to that whelp in such a hurry?”

“At least I’m not 'beneath his notice’.”

Golden eyes cracked a fraction wider. So, his words had truly been the ones to cause her sadness. They’d bothered her. His grip tightened slightly, causing her to flinch.

“You’re hurting me, let go.”

“A human like you should be beneath my notice,” he uttered, shifting to stand before her. Sesshoumaru took a step closer, leaning down. Pale strands fell loose from behind a pointed ear, rushing down to hide their faces from view behind a curtain of silver. “You are Inuyasha’s wench, a miko, a mortal. Many unsuitable things wrapped into one. And yet I linger…I wonder why.”

“So do I, since you clearly don’t want to be here,” she hissed lowly, cheeks blooming red.

Slit pupils grew a tad larger, dilating. Sesshoumaru inched closer, on the cusp of grasping something as their lips were but a hair’s breadth away- before she snapped her hand out, slapping him across the face.

Kagome ripped herself free, panting slightly and raising a hand to her lips. “I’m only good at archery now because you taught me, and I only wanted to be good at it because Inuyasha told me to be better. I have a name now because you told me to get one. I keep…doing things just because other people want them for me! You could’ve asked me to kiss you just then and I would’ve-” tears pricked her eyes. “Just like Inuyasha has asked me to kiss him and…”

She hugged her arms tightly to her body, shuddering and bowing in on herself, folding like crumpled paper. “I don’t know who I am. What I want. I-I don’t know if things would be any different with you, Sesshoumaru. So please, just leave me alone. You’re making me question things. I obviously do strange things to you too so let’s just drop whatever this is.”

Sesshoumaru sneered, “you are content with being his doll, then?”

“At least being a doll doesn’t hurt! He doesn’t see me, so it doesn’t feel as personal as getting rejected by someone whose opinion I care about!” Kagome snapped, light voice darkening into something raw and real. Sesshoumaru’s cheek stung despite her hand having left no mark, his skin too tough for such things.

Blue eyes filled with tears as she turned and fled, salt catching in the breeze.

—

Sesshoumaru marched with his troops. Remaining on the front lines of their latest battle, he raised his claws and bid the song of war to flood his veins.

The sensation did not come.

Bereft, Sesshoumaru found himself immensely sober with each life he took. The slash of his claws unhinging a jaw- his sword swinging to cleave a horse in two. All felt like a mechanism. Easy, flavourless.

After the enemy soldiers lay dead and he returned to his stronghold, Sesshoumaru listened to his men. They made merry throughout the night, demons through and through.

“Lord Sesshoumaru?”

Blinking, he glanced down at Rin from where he leaned against a pillar. She yawned and rubbed her eye with a tiny fist. “You’re covered in blood, my Lord.”

He supposed he hadn’t changed clothes. Looking at the little girl that he’d resurrected on a whim, Sesshoumaru was struck by a troubling revelation.

The Killing Perfection hadn’t enjoyed the killing.

A strange feeling permeated his being, new and foreign. Such insecurity did not belong in a being carved from confidence, but the blemish was there all the same.

He wanted the beach.

Giving a long, extinguished sigh, Sesshoumaru pinched the bridge of his nose with bloodied claws.

Sitting up from the futon, Kagome hugged the furs to her bare chest. Shivering from the chill in the air, she glanced down at Inuyasha’s sleeping face, a snore rumbling out of him.

An emptiness crawled higher within the bowels of her stomach, threatening to consume her lungs and steal her breath. Kagome pressed a hand to her mouth and hurried out of the hut. She’d given herself away. Allowed Inuyasha to indulge himself in her countless times now. And it wasn’t as though the hanyou hurt her- but every grunt and curse, every pleasured sigh of 'Kikyo’ dug deeper into her heart.

She’d told Sesshoumaru it didn’t hurt, but that had been a lie.

Squeezing stinging eyes shut, Kagome took a wobbly breath. Taking a few steadying gulps of air, she raised a tear-stained face to the crescent moon in the sky.

Setting her shoulders, something quietly shifted within the woman. She slapped her cheeks lightly and exhaled.

The next morning, while preparing breakfast, Kagome stilled when a hand reached over and lightly tugged on her wild bangs.

“Cut these,” Inuyasha said easily. “Kikyo had short, chopped bangs. I can cut em off later if ya want-”

“No.”

The hanyou blinked and froze, ears twitching. He then did a double-take, frowning. “What’d ya say?”

“I said no,” she muttered, resting clenched fists on her knees. “And there’s another thing; My name isn’t Kikyo. It’s Kagome.”

Inuyasha stared for a long while. Slowly, bushy brows drew down. His lips thinned, golden eyes hazing.

Kagome held his gaze, feeling a thrill of warning rush down her spine. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She’d always been an impostor, from her very first breath.

—-

Many moons had passed by the time Sesshoumaru lay eyes upon her.

Remaining under the shade of the trees, he watched as she gathered herbs. Kagome wore miko attire, dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Her skin looked paler, and he wondered if she’d either isolated herself indoors for a while or layered powder over her tanned skin. Even her frame looked thinner, from what he could tell.

The wild bangs that had fluffed up so endearingly in the humidity had been chopped into neater, more orderly bangs on her forehead. She did not chatter to herself or smile.

Rather, she worked diligently in silence. Inuyasha skinned a rabbit not too far away, his face content.

Sesshoumaru could’ve left things be then. He could have carried on with his life, never to be blemished or disrupted by confusing thoughts and desires for his brother’s miko again.

But then he happened to catch sight of her eyes.

Bursting from the treeline, Sesshoumaru’s hand snapped out. Inuyasha’s snarl was ignored as the demon lord seized the woman’s chin and lifted it.

Sombre brown eyes stared back.

His own began to shake. “You are not her,” he breathed.

Kikyo frowned, her voice tempered and steeled like matured wine rather than the bright, confident tones of the other miko. “What are you talking about, demon? Unhand me at once.”

Sesshoumaru remained frozen until a hard force collided with his side, knocking him back enough to release her. Bellowing out an enraged snarl, Sesshoumaru’s hand snapped out- locking tight around Inuyasha’s neck as they struggled.

“Where is the miko Kagome?” He demanded.

White ears flicked and pressed to his skull. “The fuck are you talking about? Whose Kagome?”

“Your wife!” Sesshoumaru snarled, flicking his fingers out towards Kikyo. “This is not the woman you had with you previously. Where is she?”

Inuyasha sank sharp claws into his striped wrist, but the Daiyoukai barely flinched. “Keh…ah I get it now,” he growled. “It wasn’t working out, so I asked the oni sorceress who first used the spell on her to reverse it. I then tried to bring back Kikyo again and it worked out,” golden eyes darkened slightly with hazy stability. “She’s back now. Kikyo’s returned to me. It just took a little time- had to remind her of all her memories, but this time it’s definitely her, not like the other one.”

The other one…

Kagome’s breathtaking smile briefly came to mind.

Sesshoumaru’s grip tightened until Inuyasha chocked and squirmed, sinking his claws deeper into the Daiyoukai’s pale flesh until they scraped bone.

“By 'reverse it’ what do you mean, whelp?” He snarled, throat so tight it strained.

“Gah!- she’s a doll again. A clay pot! Ogoranko took the clay body back!”

Sesshoumaru released him, sending the hanyou staggering to the floor. Heedless of the blood pooling to the surface, running down his tattered wrist, he turned and collected white energy around himself, bursting away from the earth within a bright, glowing orb of light. He left behind the reunited couple, Kikyo’s gaze apathetic as she watched Inuyasha struggle to catch his breath.

—

Flying as pure, unfiltered instinct, Sesshoumaru forgot himself. He was no longer a warlord bent on total conquest and domination of the lands. No longer an inuyoukai with superior breeding and impressive lineage. He was nothing more than the simple, consuming desire to see someone again.

The glowing orb blasted straight through the door to Ogoranko’s workshop. She shrieked and grabbed her scythe- but felt it be knocked aside seconds before a hand met her neck, grasping tight. Her head met the wall, grey hair flying around her as a harsh choke sounded out. She wriggled, trying to get free.

The light died down, causing her eyes to widen and narrow. “You are not one of my previous customers…what does the Lord of the West want with me?” She hissed.

“Where is the clay body you took from Inuyasha?” He uttered quietly, voice like the finest steel wrapped in velvet. A calm before the storm.

Her brows drew together in confusion. “I-if you wish to have a loved one returned to you, I can perform the spell-” his hand tightened.

“The body. Where is it?”

“Gah- ah! O-out the back!”

Sesshoumaru released her and sped outside in a blur of white. He moved around the back of the meagre house, heart dropping into the depths of his stomach.

A large, deep pit had been dug into the earth, opening wide and vast. Countless clay bodies had been dumped inside it like a mass grave. They were featureless, faceless, yet retained the arms, legs and the general shape of a human. Sesshoumaru stared down at their discarded forms.

A cough sounded out beside him, Ogoranko rubbing her throbbing neck. “They’re quite useless once they’ve been used one time. They can’t be reformed into clay or burned down. Only thing left to do is bury them. Urasue herself taught me the spell but my techniques aren’t quite as refined as my great master. I can fashion a new body for you though my Lord- ah…my Lord?” Red eyes widened with disbelief as he pushed off the edge of the pit, sailing down. “There is nothing down there,” she called after him.

Sesshoumaru ignored her.

Landing on a mound of bodies, he began filtering through the different scents left behind on the clay surfaces. Moving some puppets aside, he lifted a few out of the pile and discarded them, deaf to how they chipped or shattered. Pushing his sleeves up, Sesshoumaru worked with single-minded intent, skin becoming stained with dust as he dug both arms down through the piles, searching.

He began to pant. Panic erupted in his chest though he were in no danger. Sticky fear leaked into his body like tar. Where was she? Why couldn’t he…

The scent of salt caught his attention. Lifting his head, Sesshoumaru softly muttered to himself; “the beach.”

Ogoranko blinked, observing him. It wasn’t every day you witnessed a demon lord lose his mind, especially not one of his calibre. “Yes, the ocean is just south of here.”

Sesshoumaru looked at the bodies. Their heads were all facing forwards, staring up at the sky with blank, smooth faces of clay. His frayed attention slid over them, and he moved to another pile, catching sight of one head turned south just as a familiar scent caught his nose.

Reaching out, Sesshoumaru picked up the fragile body, lifting it into his arms. She looked exactly like the rest, no distinguishing features, save for her attention on the sea beyond.

“What happened when you reversed the spell on Inuyasha’s wife?” Sesshoumaru said faintly.

Ogoranko hummed, “I took her back here and then discarded her with the rest. Ah, did you favour her, my Lord?” Her voice dipped into suggestive tones. “I can resurrect her for a reasonable price. Say the word and I shall-”

“Now I see.” Sesshoumaru appeared next to her, gaze blank and removed. A thrill of warning rattled down the oni sorceresses spine at how perfectly calm and apathetic he appeared towards her existence. Like how one might view a candle they were about to extinguish. “You prey upon a creature’s grief and offer a solution. Something too good to be true,” chuckling in a deceptively gentle tone, he held the clay miko a little closer. “And if I gave her over to you, yes…you’d resurrect this body with a soul. But not hers. A random one. That is all you are capable of at your level.”

Organko quickly reached for the knife hidden in her obi, intent on striking it through his windpipe.

A hand impaled itself through her chest. Easily. So painfully easily he may as well have cleaved through butter. Choking, she cried out, staring into his merciless, wintery eyes, the likes of which she’d never seen in all her years of rifling through souls in the afterlife.

“Only a God can restore a soul to their rightful body,” Sesshoumaru uttered, rippling his hand free of her torso and shifting to hold the clay figure with both arms, walking away.

Ogoranko wailed and clutched fruitlessly at her wound, crumpling to her knees and bleeding out, never to rise again.

He took her to the beach.

Soft, pleasant oranges bathed the clay in a gentle glow. Sesshoumaru set the body down on the white sands, steeling himself. He then reached for Tenseiga with a bloodied hand.

Drawing the sword forth from its sheath, he inhaled the salty breeze, soothed when it combed silver hair back from his shoulders in a sweet caress. Tenseiga lay silent.

Frowning, Sesshoumaru gripped the hilt tighter. “You will do this thing for me and bring her back,” he uttered in a dark voice. “If my Father wielded you to resurrect life from a body that has recently been cut down, I will imbue you with my own will. Heed me well,” he fed youki into the blade, effectively mirroring Kagome’s imagery of running water. His burst forth like a geyser, forcing itself into the blade so quick the sword could barely contain it. “Find the soul of the one I seek.”

Tenseiga rattled, wishing to be free of him. Sesshoumaru held tight, threatening to break the sword in two.

Blue light burst forth from the blade, shining so bright it rivalled the setting sun. Sesshoumaru closed his eyes and tried to focus on Kagome’s fleeting scent on the clay.

“Kagome. Come.”

A faint, flickering presence could be felt, drawing just out of reach from Tenseiga’s light. It hesitated, worn thin.

Blood ran down Sesshoumaru’s torn wrist, landing on the blade. “I desire you to join my side,” he admitted in a hushed tone. “However, it is your choice. If you must live, do not live for anyone’s will but your own this time,” the words came to him like a quiet revelation.

He then struck the blade down over the clay body.

Tenseiga made a noise of distress, blue sparks bursting forth before the light sputtered and died, swallowed up by the sun.

Sesshoumaru tried to force the blade to awaken once more, but it remained silent. Nothing about the clay shifted.

Sliding the sword back into its sheath with more force than necessary, thin lips peeled back to show gritted teeth. “Useless,” he chastised the blade. Easier to think Tenseiga was to blame than to accept that Kagome…bright, beautiful Kagome- should refuse to live again.

Giving one last look at the clay figure, Sesshoumaru turned on his heel and padded away. He’d allow her to be taken by the sea she so adored, rather than dig a grave. His heart sat like a heavy stone within his chest. Every nerve ending shrieked, skin-crawling like it did not belong on his bones.

Crack.

Pointed ears twitched.

Crack.

More cracks joined the first, spilling out like spiders webs. The clay began to split, crumbling away like sand.

A woman sat up from the overcoat, coughing. Sesshoumaru stopped dead, turning back with disbelief. Golden eyes widened.

Broken clay fell from dark hair, catching in the curling, wild mane. Her tanned, bare skin caught the light of the sun. Frightened, wide blue eyes struck an unknown part of him right into his core. Sesshoumaru blurred through the air.

Strong hands caught her elbows as she tried to stand, the two kneeling together. Kagome sobbed as she bowed into him, wrapping trembling arms around his neck. Calloused palms, rough with years of swordplay, slid around her waist and dragged up her spine, bringing her into his warmth.

“I h-heard a voice, calling my name,” she said, voice tenuous and thin as she sobbed. “It was yours.”

“Hn, Ka-go-me,” Sesshoumaru’s lips peppered her soft hair, the shell of her ear, her wet cheek.

Giving a broken noise, she clung to his solid figure, blunt nails sinking hard into his back. He did not mind the sensation.

“S-say it again.”

Sesshoumaru ran his hands over her body, moving his mouth over her jaw. “Kagome.”

She shivered and bowed in on herself, hiccuping. They remained like that for some time, Sesshoumaru unused to the burning, open display of feelings yet having no choice but to weather the storm of emotion with her, both hers and his own.

Feeling a wet and sticky sensation down her back, Kagome pulled away to touch the area above his bleeding wrist. “Silly, you’re injured.”

“It is of little consequence.”

“Of course its of consequence,” she sighed, rubbing her cheek. Silence reigned between them for a moment, only broken by the gentle crash of waves on the rocks. The ebb and flow of the tide.

“…Why did you come back for me?”

Noticing the goosebumps racing over her flesh, Sesshoumaru curled mokomoko around her middle. Golden eyes flitted away towards the sunset. “This one dislikes waste.”

“Ah,” a quiet, fragile laugh escaped her. Gratitude welled up like an inflated bubble when he flicked the secures of his armour open and lifted it away from his chest, discarding it into the sand to land with a heavy thud. Pressing close with no barrier between them, Kagome tucked her knees up, sitting on his lap. Sesshoumaru’s trailing sleeves slid over her bare form, regal nose buried in her hair. “I don’t know why I even returned,” she mumbled. “I mean look at that. We’re on a beach at sunset. My one wish is fulfilled. I don’t really know what else to live for…just that I want to.”

“I find myself dissatisfied with my own wish these days. My desire for supreme conquest,” Sesshoumaru admitted, a sin, surely, for a warlord to feel no passion for the prospect of battle.

Kagome hummed, watching the waves. “Maybe it’s possible to simply move onto a new wish. Dreams and desires can change, can’t they?”

“Hn, we may yet find new ones to pursue.” Tired golden eyes slid down to her, catching the sunlight just as the great orb slipped beneath the horizon. “Together, foolish miko.”

Kagome lifted her head. She watched him for a moment, before pressing a long, firm kiss to his jaw. “I’d like that very much, Killing Perfection.”

Bowing his head to catch her soft lips with his own, Sesshoumaru cradled the back of her neck, curling long fingers within dark hair and silently adoring the way it tumbled wildly down her back.

The Demon Lord was not supposed to be a part of the man who married for love’s tale. And yet, like a bookend, the story ends with him on a beach.

Embracing the discarded woman.

End

#sesskag #Sesshoumaru x Kagome #Sesshoumaru #Kagome Higurashi

138 notes · View notes

tiaragqueen · 4 years

Text

Paroxysm

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Shinazugawa Sanemi x Maid! Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,6k+

✂ Trigger Warning: Implied possessive behavior, death, violence, blood, injuries, yandere theme

[Edited]

***

I like his hairstyle and clothes, and I’d like it even more if he’s given a moment of happiness.

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“If life's standing still and your soul's confused, and you cannot find what road to choose. If you make mistakes, you can't let me down. I will still believe.” - At Your Side [The Corrs]

The war had long ended, and yet, the toll it left was still felt until today.

Being the daughter of the housekeeper who had been residing at Ubuyashiki estate since her early adulthood, you were already familiar with the existence of demon slayers and their stringent training, including the pillars themselves. Though, your knowledge of the latter was superficial at best. You only learned bits of their backgrounds, motives in joining the Corps – which, to your relief, were all noble unlike some slayers who only entered for the money – and combat styles. Your interaction was limited to some of the friendlier ones, such as Kyōjurō, Shinobu, Kanroji and, to some extent, Uzui.

Of course, you weren’t, by any means, despised the quieter ones. You occasionally had a lighthearted talk with Himejima and once shared a peaceful moment with Tokitō, whose death rattled you greatly for its macabre circumstances.

And yet, for some unknown reason, you ended up with Sanemi instead.

Perhaps, it was the pity that compelled you to work for him. After all, he had lost his remaining brother in the cataclysm of war against Muzan and his subordinates. Indeed, Sanemi might be the least amiable pillar, but he wasn’t a horrible person to be around. As long as you were mindful of his mood and not caused an unnecessary ruckus, Sanemi would treat you civilly.

Besides, he never really lashed out to you, anyway. Even when he was still in the Corps, and you happened to slip before his eyes, he would silently help you whilst muttering something about your clumsiness.

Overall, he was as aloof as he could be around females, and you delighted in that ‘mellow’ side of his.

Peeking through the doorway, you spied Sanemi in his usual spot on the porch and smiled slightly. It was relieving to see him become one with nature instead of wringing every last drop of stamina through incessant training. You slipped out and quietly kneeled beside him, respectful of the appropriate distance to avoid disturbing his restless equilibrium.

“Good afternoon, Shinazugawa-sama. Do you need something?” you asked cordially.

Sanemi merely stared forward as though he refused to acknowledge your presence, but you knew better. After the war, he had grown more sullen and distant to the point of ignoring the people around him, almost echoing Giyū himself. An inexplicable pang pervaded your body at the abject sight, and how it wouldn’t likely to change anytime soon.

It was a good thing you had experiences of housekeeping, otherwise, you might’ve incited his infamous ire with your callowness.

You shifted a little on your spot, dismissing his silence for rejection or dismissal. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or ohagi?” you pressed.

“… What’s your intention?”

Cocking your head, you hummed questioningly.

Sanemi slowly turned his head towards you, pale eyes attempting to discern your true motives.

“People don’t find me nice at all, and yet, you chose to work for me instead,” he explained, squinting slightly. Ah, so he did realize. “Are you pitying me?”

When you offered no response, he scoffed knowingly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Do you think I can’t take care of myself? Why do you think I chose a small house for me?” he huffed. “I don’t need help from anyone.”

“But you accepted me.” you murmured.

Sanemi snapped his head in your direction. “What the hell was that?!” he growled.

You flinched. “I... I just want you to know that I understand your feelings.”

“You fucking know nothing!”

Cold fear throbbed your heart and rendered you motionless. Sanemi gradually recomposed and withdrew from the abrupt proximity of his face with yours, instead opting to direct his ferocious glare to the fence again.

Looking down to your lap, you slowly exhaled the anxiety.

“My father… He was killed, too. He was on the way to home after chopping some woods when he met a demon in the forest. I was a baby at that time, and we were very poor. It wasn’t until my mother met Ubuyashiki-sama did she finally have a stable job to feed us both.”

The recollection softened your gaze as you traced patterns on the floorboard.

“You’re right, Shinazugawa-sama. I know almost nothing about you aside from the general stuff, and I’ll never know the depth of your feelings. I don’t even know other pillars very well, and we often chat. But the grief, the sadness you’re feeling… I felt it too, and I still do sometimes.”

You took a deep breath and blinked away the tears that leaked through your lashes.

“Regardless of your opinion, Shinazugawa-sama, I’ll continue to support you. I can’t fight, and I don’t know how to wield a sword properly, but I hope my assistance can be of any comfort for you. We don’t even have to converse if that’s what you want. Just treat me like you usually do and I promise I won’t disturb your affairs.”

Sanemi was quiet through your story and retained a similar state when you bowed to him.

“I shall buy some red beans in the market. Please, excuse me.”

The market was animated as always. Children frolicked around while their mothers were preoccupied with bargaining and buying necessities. After fulfilling the task at hand, you decided to replenish your energy by strolling and observing the village. The advantages of working for Sanemi was the relative ease in maintaining the house than Ubuyashiki estate, and Sanemi himself wasn’t at all bothered to find you resting after completing your duty.

Some extra time for yourself was always a blessing, and you were glad to know that you’d picked the right choice.

“Why you look at that; a fair maiden walking alone in the forest.”

You blinked out of your trance and spotted a group of rugged men intercepted the beaten path. Assessing the looming danger, you mentally cursed yourself for getting distracted and warily retreated.

The tallest man, who you presumed to be the leader, hummed mockingly. “Where are you going, dear? The sun’s about to set, you know? The demons will come soon, so why don’t you join us? We’re on the way home.”

“I know that.” you snapped, keeping a cagey eye in case one of them decide to strike first. “And no, thank you for the offer. My master’s waiting for me, so I need to go now.”

A whiff of body odor clogged your nose as he began to advance, deliberately cornering you against a tree. “Aw… Surely they won’t mind me if I borrow you for a sec, right?” he cooed, clasping your chin in his rough fingers.

“… Like hell, I will.”

The neck that moved his revolting face closer to yours suddenly broke. Sanemi landed a few meters from you, his back facing the man who collapsed right before your very eyes. The sword you’d seen him holding and polishing regularly despite not being a slayer anymore trembled with barely restrained passion, the tip glinting under the fading sun.

He raised his head and smirked diabolically. “So, which one of your fuckers wants to move first?” he challenged.

When nobody dared to step forward upon sensing the egregious bloodlust practically radiating from his form, he grinned.

“No one? Well, that’s just too easy.”

His abrupt disappearance sparked dread within everyone’s chests, yours included. Your eyes frantically darted from one tree to another, hoping to catch a glance. Where was he? Was he leaving you? No, no, that was impossible. Why did he even bother to kill their leader if he would just leave you later? Besides, as bad as his attitude could be, Sanemi wasn’t the type to leave things half-assed.

So, where was he–?

A faint breeze hit the man furthest away from you. Your jaw slacked when Sanemi manifested behind him and swiftly sliced his head clean. The next person wasn’t able to react fast enough before Sanemi dropped to one knee and killed him. Granted, he was comparably leaner than the rest of his ‘companions’, but the sight of your master effortlessly slit his abdomen was just… appalling.

How hideous would it be if he were to face demons? You couldn’t even grasp the extent of his raw strength.

Sanemi rose to his feet in a single twirl and stabbed another man on the heart whilst kicking the last one unconscious. The deplorable man crumpled once Sanemi yanked the sword from his chest, and you would’ve joined him too had the tree wasn’t there to support you.

For a split second, you were glad that the leader tried to corner you earlier.

Under the setting sun, Sanemi merely stood among the bodies, chest heaving and sword bloody. You gazed at his back, reluctant to speak yet felt an uncontrollable need to state the obvious.

“You killed them.”

Gripping your kimono, you continued. “Y-you do know that they’re humans, right? Not demons…”

His silence skyrocketed your nerves. Finally, after a minute that dragged on for eternity, he opened his mouth.

“Anyone who hurts us is demons in my eyes.”

You withdrew against the bark as though it would hide you from his vacant yet penetrating look.

“Do you understand? Some humans aren’t all that different than demons. There's no point in pitying them.”

Sanemi sheathed his sword and nonchalantly walked past you, ignoring your stunned silence. “Wipe that pathetic look off of your face and let’s go home,” he demanded.

“B-but what about–?”

“The demons will eat them. Now, hurry up if you don't want to be their next meal.”

With a heavy heart, you averted your gaze from the massacre before you and nodded obediently.

“Yes, Shinazugawa-sama.”

Above, the moon gradually erased any trace of light from the view.

#anime yandere au #yandere anime au #anime yandere #yandere anime #yandere oneshot #yandere scenario #yandere imagine #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere kny #Yandere sanemi #Yandere sanemi shinazugawa #Yandere sanemi x reader #Yandere sanemi shinazugawa x reader #Yandere Shinazugawa Sanemi x reader #Yandere Shinazugawa sanemi

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highviewsmoved · 4 years

Text

⁂ shigaraki tomura x reader. (old god shigaraki & female reader) ❝ gods cannot love mortals. ❞

Similar to the seasons, death changes.

There are whispers of an ancient deity that descends when it is someone's time to go. Who appears when men fall in war, in sickness or in their own beds rattling their last breath.

The name of his is unspoken, for he has wandered the earth for years, collecting souls, leaving death and destruction in his wake. An omen of some kind, similar to the caw of a crow. He will exist.

He will be there and he will wait.

Death himself comes for her in early autumn, when the trees are bare, the branches similar to skeletal fingers pushing up from the earth; the leaves stuck wet to the ground after a morning of rain.

She is cleaning, yukata rolled to her legs and sleeves tied in tasuki to keep from getting wet from the splash of water. It was simple, an easy mistake. She suddenly missteps when she goes back to refill the bamboo tub, falling in head first into the freezing stream.

The locals, the people in her village warned her the water is vicious for its current. The current had stolen a child not too long ago, the mother’s wailing echoes could still be heard throughout the mountain. Water fills her lungs, suffocating her, as her head knocks against a rock.

She is now at the mercy of the beast, and she hopes the river deity will spare her. When she resurfaces much later she has blacked out, unknowing what or who had saved her.

She remembers the abyss; white and red.

And the face of a man who crumbles.

Her mother tells her she lived because he had spared her.

“Who, mother?”

“Death,” she says simply. “He can be merciful.”

She listens carefully while the porridge cooks, the smell delicious. She grips the rag between her fists tightly, and she thinks she has seen the face of death. He is very similar to a human.

Curiosity gets the best of her. “Is he always alone?”

Mother is quiet for sometime, she’s not sure she may have heard her. Until she finally responds. “Yes, always.”

She sees death when he takes the soul of an old man in her village, the grieving of the family being heard as others come out of their huts to see the mourning, and she sees him.

Death is there, and he comes with the snow in winter, so unlike when he comes in spring or in summer. The frost creeps into her lungs, as she watches him, holding firewood close to her chest.

The old man by his side as Death looks at her, his spider lily eyes holding hers, as if enchanted; and she feels the tickle of snow on her cheek.

She does not cry, but her heart feels heavy. How many more people will he leave with?

Death stumbles upon her; she is kneeling, gazing up at the old chestnut tree, and when he hears her calling he comes. She has believed in him.

“Do you take away my people?” She asks him, her hands on her thighs, talking to this deity who has been known for so long. The tale whispers about him being the one who appears when death and destruction are at bay. In the middle of battlefields, always by a sea of corpses he steps through. She is not afraid of him, perhaps she should be.

The branches shiver, light splaying through.

He is there and he does not speak.

Her voice shakes, her fists tightening. The feeling of pain gripping her throat. “Where do you take the dead?”

Tomura responds, in a tone crisp like winter. “Home.”

His voice is the hiss of a snake, coiled deep around her throat; a warning. “This is a small mercy.” He had been there when the cliff near her almost swept her away, he had come just in time as she thought of him. He had heard her heart.

She cannot deny him, it is true that all the chances he has given her have been at best, luck. Or maybe it is him saving her. This she does not want to believe. He has saved her many times but has not spared her people. She should despise him.

Her voice is steel and iron, “you have given me many.”

He looks at her, taken aback as if she had slapped him. She exposes him like a wound, she realizes this much too late.

“The last time,” he reminds her, tone poisonous.

She has not seen him since the leaves have changed and at dawn he comes to her, underneath the large chestnuts. The wicker basket has fallen, she cannot bear to look.

“Who have you come for?” Her question is lost in the breeze, tears wet against her cheeks.

She is tired of fighting, of trying to fight off death himself (she has not fought him, she has welcomed him) who has come every time the season changes and for the people in her village. For the people she loves.

He has come anyway. Despite no one believing in him, praying to him; except for her and her mother. She hoped he would listen.

“Do not ask such things if you wish to not know the answer,” his tone is cold but his eyes burn against her back; skin prickling at the heat.

She exhales heavily, breath shuddering. She has cried for hours knowing her mother's time is soon. Deep in her heart she has known he will come anyway.

“Please,” she cries gently, then with much more pain, “please don’t take her away.”

Tomura cannot hold her to that. No more. It is time. “You know already.”

Her chin quivers, trying so hard to be strong. “Then answer me this, when will you take her?”

He thought it was obvious enough, but he will give her what she asks. Only this time; always this time.

“At dawn.” Then with much more promise, “I am coming for her at dawn.” If it is this morning or the next or the next. She does not know.

She remembers the first time she saw his face, covered in a mess of hair, bright and glowing like starlight. His eyes redder than the spider lilies that bloom across the meadows. They say the meaning behind those flowers is rebirth, to say goodbye. He is clad in all black, the fabric wrapping around him tattered from travel.

“What is your name?” Her knees are touching soft grass beneath her, dewy from the morning. Her heart pounds considerably louder when his footsteps have quieted.

“Tomura,” it is said like a breeze, so gentle that it carries.

She swallows, curious about his name, so she speaks it and the tree branches bend against the power it holds. Leaves fall changing to brown. The wind howls quietly, slipping by through her hair and face.

“Why have you come here, Tomura?” The wind swirls above.

He approaches, shadowed by the shade. “I come to know.”

“Know? Of what?” She turns her head in a peculiar way, eyes full of wonder. How odd for a deity to make themselves known to a human. So many times this god of death and destruction has done this. So many times he has hid in the shadows of mourning.

“Of things I seek and do not understand.”

Her heart trills like a songbird.

“Am I something you seek and do not understand?”

It is brave to ask such things, the temperature has dropped considerably and the birds have stopped singing. Everything has grown quiet, even the god near her.

“Yes,” and he is gone, she turns quickly to see and notices the patch of brown earth where he stood, the lush green that surrounded him, had paid the price.

She has prayed to Tomura, the god of death and destruction to protect her people, he has not forsaken them. He has saved them despite the bitter feeling of grief still anew. The loss of her mother, the old man, and so many more. All of it is painful. Living is painful.

Home, he had said. He takes them to a place where they can rest peacefully is what he promised, but she cannot help but wonder if he had created this, or if this was how life always is.

Death is a cycle.

She dreams of a large hand, of a wasteland surrounding her; she wanders the terrain filled with nothing, and she sees him. White hair and dark cloak billowing in a wind she cannot feel.

“Tomura?” She calls, and he does not turn, he stands there. When she reaches him he has slowly become dust, withering in the wind, sweeping past her.

She is suffocating from the particles as it wraps around her. She awakens, the fire put out in her home, smoke rising, the fabric of her bedding stuck to her sweaty body. She knows what her dream is about.

He will soon be gone.

“Will you die?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I fade away.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

She runs to him, closing the distance, her embrace is tight against him, he can feel her heartbeat. Her time ticking slowly away.

She will die of old age. He will die because he loved.

She breathes close; warm breath near his ear, and he sighs. He has dreamed of this. Tomura’s mind goes elsewhere during nights away. He has always dreamed of her.

Her soul he has spared, slowly collecting the surrounding ones. She knew this, yet here she is, with him.

He is feared and known. She is a human.

Gods cannot love mortals.

“Live for me,” she gasps against him. “Fight and live,” she begs, her body shaking with guilt. She has unknowingly brought his end.

“I cannot.”

“What can I give you in exchange? My soul?” He exhales, sounding close to a laugh, a smile cracking his lips.

“I will not allow that exchange.”

She pulls away, eyes filled with bitter tears, and she has never looked more brilliant than ever. She is alive.

He longs to touch her like he has often wished of doing.

So he does. Fingers, crumbling slowly; he touches her cheek, and she is so surprised to find it warm; soothing like the summer sun.

She leans into it, wishing she could have this moment forever.

“Your name—“ she stops, then touches his face, his hair, his lips. Caressing all of him.

“Tomura means to mourn,” he says, eyes glittering.

“I will mourn you, yes,” she promises, his arms wrap around her waist, hands moving towards her shoulder blades. How long has he lived without this? Centuries. Her lips brush close to his temples, “but I will love you always.”

Tomura leans in close, foreheads pressed together, lips breadths apart.

“And I you.”

She awakens in the forest holding nothing but black fabric.

When it is her time to go from this earth, she is old and weary. She had grandchildren, marrying a kind farmer who passed before her. In her seat she stares out where the chestnut trees stand tall, woven in branches.

The blossoms from nearby waft in the wind. It is her time to go, she grips the piece of black fabric she has held onto.

She closes her eyes, and she rests peacefully, her heart stuttering to a halt.

The way it is painless, as it wraps around her; darkness is not as the stories say; it is not unforgiving. The tunnel of light she moves through as she is back in the wasteland from a dream she had years ago.

Tomura stands tall, cape billowing in a windless desert. She gasps, tears streaming down her face as he is turned to her. Not like the dream of where he seemed so far, but now he is so close.

She goes to him, embracing him once more.

“Welcome back,” she says against his chest, he holds her tightly, no longer crumbling.

“I have been here and I have waited,” his voice is still rough like wood being scraped.

He wraps her close, his hands still warm like sunlight, hair bright and eyes similar to spider lilies.

“You are human?” She asks, pulling away to look at him, eyes searching his features, he still looks the same since the last time she saw him all those years ago.

“Deities are born from humans,” he states, “we are one and the same.”

Her tears are wiped gently with his thumb, fingers gliding across her neck and collarbone. This closeness he has missed.

She grabs his hand and presses her lips to each finger. Tomura no longer takes, he has given and given until her soul found his. They were born for this moment, she no longer hears the sorrowful noise of cicadas in the summer sun, silence has never felt more welcoming.

It is not harsh or lonesome, they have one another.

“I kept a part of you with me,” she confesses against his cheek, and his hands glide down her back, the feeling of her he has craved for years since he left.

He keeps her so close that they could become one. “And you can continue to do so, as long as you stay with me,” he murmurs.

Her breath fans his hair as she brushes her fingers through the locks. “Always and forever.” She is finally home with him.

The promise between god and human has been made, and they stay like this for eternity.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #bnha imagines

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words-with-wren · 4 years

Text

i’m not gonna make it alone

Fandom: Rapunzel’s Tangled Adventures

Characters: Varian and Ruddiger

Words: 7,000ish

A/N: Tumblr removed all of my italics and I’m mad about this fact. Anyway I’m getting emotional over a boy and his best friend raccoon.

___

“Oh come on, really? Again?”

The animal stared down at him from the shelf. Varian pressed his hands to his hips, glaring up at it. For a long moment they stood that way, stalemate, neither willing to break eye contact first.

“Y’know,” Varian said, finally giving up. The raccoon seemed surprisingly smug at winning their staring contest. It chattered happily, bounding along the top of the self as Varian scrambled onto the nearby desk. “I really don’t know why you insist on coming in here - all the apples are outside.”

He stood on the desk, one hand on the wall. The top of the shelf was eye level now, the raccoon sitting smugly at the other end.

“And when Dad finds you’re in here again, he’s not gonna be happy,” Varian threatened. To be fair, it was just as likely Dad wouldn’t visit the lab - he never did - so the raccoon was probably safe.

It seemed to know that, sitting smugly, watching as though it were interested to see what he would do next. Varian scowled, laying a hand on the shelf and testing it. It seemed sturdy enough.

He was halfway onto the shelf when the raccoon decided it had had enough. With a chirp and a bound, it leapt forward, lighting briefly on Varian’s head before bounding onto his back and down to the ground.

“Hey!” Varian cried, twisting to watch. The twist was too much and his hand landed on nothing. A flash of fear shot through him and then he was falling, letting out a yelp as he did.

He hit the ground, a few empty vials he had knocked off in his fall shattering around him. For a moment, he lay there, eyes closed, waiting to regain his breath.

A low trill came from above and he opened to see the raccoon, sitting on his chest, grinning down at him (and yes it was grinning - Varian knew.)

“Yeah, real funny,” he muttered. The raccoon laughed.

~*~

“Varian, we talked about this.”

His father’s voice was disappointed, and somehow that was worse than anger. Varian looked down, gripping his arm, unable to meet his father’s eyes.

“I’m sorry - I just…” he began, but his father cut him off.

“Varian, this is the third time something like that has happened this month. You’re going to hurt someone.”

“I know! I don’t mean it. But Dad,” he said, looking up, spreading his hands wide, “if it works then bringing in the harvest would -”

“Varian!” Dad’s voice was sharp, enough to let Varian know the conversation was over. He looked down, suddenly fighting back tears. “Look, I know you want to help,” Dad said quietly, his voice a little softer. “But this isn’t the way to do it, son.” He laid a hand on Varian’s shoulder, and Varian turned his head away. “I just don’t want you to hurt anyone. Or yourself.”

“I know,” Varian whispered, not trusting himself to speak any louder. His father sighed, straightening and leaving the lab he had rushed into a few moments before, after Varian’s latest project had ended in disaster.

Again.

Varian sighed, sitting down heavily among the remains of the harvester he had been working on. He rolled a few stray screws in his fingers, watching the metal clink together.

A soft trill came from the window and Varian looked up, wiping his eyes quickly (he hadn’t been crying, he hadn’t).

“Oh, it’s you again,” he said. The raccoon chirped, leaping off the window and bounding towards Varian. He sighed, holding out a hand to it. That seemed to be all the invitation it needed - with a chirp, it bounded up to him, settling onto his lap. Varian smiled in spite of himself, running a gloved hand through the animal’s fur.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said quietly.

~*~

“Guess what, buddy!” Varian cried, pushing open the door to his new lab - it wasn’t quite as large as the one that had been destroyed when his water heaters had exploded, but it was enough for his needs.

Ruddiger looked up from the large, black rock he had been curled up on (that really didn’t look like a comfortable seat, but who was Varian to argue?) He chirped questioningly, wrapping his paws around the rock.

“It was a success. Well, kinda. I mean, we did create a tornado that almost sucked everyone up and destroyed the whole of Corona, but - eh-heh - no one got hurt. Well… no one important anyway, the judge of the contest was kinda a jerk.”

He moved around the lab, humming a tune slightly. With a glow of pride, he carefully unpinned the first prize ribbon from his chest, laying it on the desk.

“And I gave Cassandra the cassandrium! I think she liked it, well, I hope she liked it. I mean…” He turned, facing Ruddiger. “Do you think she liked it?”

Ruddiger shrugged, leaping off the rock and bounding over to join Varian. He quickly leapt onto the desk, staring intently at the ribbon.

“It’s pretty cool right,” Varian said. “I didn’t technically win, but my invention did the coolest thing! Even though it nearly messed everything up.” He sighed, laying both hands on the desk, his excitement after the expo fading slightly.

Ruddiger chirped happily, bounding onto his shoulders.

“Hey, woah, what’re you doing?” Varian asked. “Hey, stop, that tickles.” He broke down into giggles as Ruddiger buried his whiskers into the side of Varian’s cheek. Stumbling back a few paces, Varian grinned, reaching up to lift the animal off his shoulders. “You’re right, it was a good day. I should stop focusing on what went wrong.”

Ruddiger under one arm, he turned to face the rocks again. Rapunzel had promised to help, and he knew she would keep that promise. But he wanted to study them as much as he could, find out what he could and then go to the princess with that information.

“Okay, buddy,” he said, lifting Ruddiger to talk to him face to face. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Ruddiger chattered excitedly, wriggling out of his grasp and crawling back onto his shoulders. Varian grinned. It was kinda nice having the raccoon’s warmth around his neck.

~*~

“They will pay.”

His hands were clenched tight, his cheeks wet with tears and snow, grief and fear merging together into one burning ball of rage.

His father was frozen before him, reaching out in a last, failed effort to escape. Varian could barely take his eyes off the sight, but he couldn’t bear to look anymore. His father was frozen, frozen and still and silent and - and he could be dead for all Varian knew.

“My fault,” a voice whispered in the back of his mind. But he pushed it away before the thought became too powerful, before it took him over and made him helpless and unable to do anything due to his guilt.

“Their fault,” he told himself. It was their fault - the king, for not doing anything about the rocks. The kingdom, for refusing to help him. Rapunzel for not keeping her promise.

It was their fault and they were going to pay.

Ruddiger, curled under the desk, watched his friend, watched as he succumbed to grief, to anger, to the easy path of darkness. Ruddiger watched for a moment, at first a little afraid, but slowly he began to emerge from the shadows.

Varian needed a friend, and Ruddiger wasn’t going to leave him.

~*~

Ruddiger stayed. His father had left him. Rapunzel had abandoned him. Old Corona moved to their new land, electing a new leader. But Varian remained, determined to find the answers, to set his father free.

And Ruddiger stayed too, despite the cold of the air. Despite the snow coating the ground outside, the lack of apples and the chill that refused to leave the laboratory. Ruddiger stayed.

Varian didn’t know why, but he was afraid to question it. Afraid that if he did, Ruddiger would leave him, leave him completely and utterly alone.

And that terrified him.

So they worked together, mostly in silence, Varian occasionally ranting, shouting, raging. Ruddiger bullying him to sleep, to eat, to drink when he needed it.

They survived.

And Ruddiger stayed.

~*~

“It didn’t work!” Varian shouted, throwing the vial across the room. “Nothing works! Nothing ever works!” He slammed a fist into the amber, not caring that it hurt his hands, not caring that it would do nothing.

“Nothing ever works and everything I try fails!”

Ruddiger chirped softly, stepping a little closer. He had been more hesitant as of late, always present, but not as quick to leap onto Varian’s shoulder. Varian didn’t blame him.

“I keep failing! And failing! And hurting people and I don’t know what to do, Ruddiger!” Varian shouted. He turned, kicking hard at a slab of metal. It only succeeded in sending stabbing pain up his leg and he let out a bellow of rage, of anger, of grief, turning and slamming both hands into the amber. “I’m sorry,” he gasped out. “I’m trying, Dad! I promise. I’m trying.”

He sobbed, his shoulders shaking, the anger fading. Slowly, he sank down the amber, curling into himself and leaning against it, pretending his father was still there, pretending his father was going to lean down and hold him close as he used to when he was a child.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Ruddiger bounded forward, wriggling under his arms and pressing a cold nose to his chin. Varian sobbed, wrapping the raccoon in his arms. For a moment, he stayed that way, clutching Ruddiger tightly, curled against the amber, against his father. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, tears wetting Ruddiger’s fur.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. Ruddiger crooned softly, pressing close to him, trying to give him as much comfort as possible.

“I’ll figure it out, Dad. I promise,” Varian whispered, looking up at the imposing figure of his father, encased, trapped, silent. Ruddiger purred softly, curling up close, trying to be warmth in the boy’s cold life.

~*~

The flower wouldn’t work but he knew what would (it would work, it would, it had to). The flower had lost its power and given it to Rapunzel. Rapunzel, who had turned her back on Varian when he had needed her most. Rapunzel, who had promised him aid and thrown him aside when he asked for her to make good on that promise. Rapunzel who had forgotten about him, cast him aside, betrayed him.

Rapunzel would free his father.

Rapunzel would free his father, or Varian didn’t know what he would do. (But he refused to even consider that. This plan would work. It would work because every other plan had failed.)

Now that he had a goal to work towards, things became a little easier. He knew what he was doing, it was only a matter of doing it. And if anyone got hurt in the process, that was their own fault for getting in his way.

It wouldn’t have come to this if they had just listened to him. Helped him.

Ruddiger stayed, settled on his shoulders, on his desk, curled up close. Varian took advantage of that. He needed a distraction, someone to keep Corona busy while he caught his bait.

Ruddiger stayed, so Ruddiger became the distraction.

Ruddiger didn’t want to, but Ruddiger knew Varian needed him. He would do anything for the kid - even this. Varian was obsessed, focused on the goal, on what he was trying to achieve. Varian wasn’t thinking straight but Ruddiger refused to leave.

“It’ll only be for a few minutes,” Varian said, mixing chemicals together, goggles on as he peered at the glass that held them. “And then you’ll be back to normal.” He was justifying it, to himself, to the raccoon - neither of them knew.

But Ruddiger knew he wasn’t going to leave Varian. He would help in whatever way he could. Would do whatever he could to keep Varian from slipping too far.

Even if that meant being turned into a monster.

~*~

He had failed. He had failed again and it was their fault. Nothing worked, nothing had ever worked, nothing was ever going to work. His father was gone and Varian was never going to see him again.

He refused to show weakness. He stood in the prison cart, glaring out at the world that had turned its back on him. They had beat him down, beat him back, but he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him break. He was still strong, even if something inside him had broken a long time ago.

With a flash of fur, a familiar weight settled onto his shoulder. Varian reacted with surprise, hiding his reaction a moment later. He wasn’t going to show them any emotion. He was strong.

The cart began to rattle away and Varian sat, his shoulders rigid, his breathing tight. Ruddiger pressed his nose into Varian’s cheek and Varian lifted a chained hand.

“Why’re you here?” he whispered, his voice surprisingly hard. He refused to show any emotion.

Ruddiger didn’t answer, curling tightly around him and suddenly Varian was fighting back tears. Why was Ruddiger here? He had turned his only friend into a monster! Why did Ruddiger insist on staying with him?

He kept his composure with effort as they returned to the castle, as he was marched through the halls, chains heavy on his wrists, head held high. He kept his emotions behind a wall as he was shown into a small cell, as the door was slammed shut and locked behind him. He refused to break as the guards moved around, exchanging a few words, as the prison slowly grew silent.

Ruddiger shifted, crawling down his front to settle in his lap. The raccoon stood on his hind legs, lifting a paw and pressing it to Varian’s cheek.

Finally, finally, Varian allowed himself the luxury of tears. He let out a low sob, and that was enough to break the dams, to have him curl into a tight ball with Ruddiger in the centre, pressed close, tears finally falling, his shoulders shaking as he curled in the corner of his cell, the walls cold and unforgiving against his back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I failed again. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The tears came faster and he clung to Ruddiger, even though he didn’t know why Ruddiger was still here. He was giving up freedom, the world outside, the ability to run free and wherever he wanted.

He was giving all that up for Varian. For a boy who had failed everyone his entire life. For a friend who had pushed him aside. For someone who had turned him into a monster and no amount of apologies would ever make up for that.

Varian curled in his cell and cried , clinging to Ruddiger as his last sliver of comfort in a world where everyone had left him.

~*~

“He’s the one who captured the queen….”

“.... nearly killed the captain's daughter…”

“...attacked the princess…”

“... heard he killed his own father…”

He was used to the mutters by now. The whispers outside his cell. The ‘accidental’ shoves and pushes and kicks. The food brought for him somehow vanishing in transit. The night guards being just a little too loud for him to sleep comfortably (not that he slept much anyway).

He was used to it by now, and he refused to let them know they were getting to him. Slowly wearing away at his soul.

He deserved it, he knew. After everything he had done, he deserved worse really. Every bruise, every cut, every sleepless night - he deserved all that and more for what he had done.

Sometimes, he thought of Before. He thought of his father smiling at him after he had helped with the harvest. He thought of Rapunzel’s warm eyes. He thought of Cassandra actually smiling at him for the first time. He thought of Eugene, of finally meeting his childhood hero. Sometimes he thought of Before. But it hurt too much to think for long, to remember what he had thrown aside. To remember what he had lost. To remember how he had been abandoned.

It was better to focus on the now, on surviving the next day, on… on whatever came next. If there was going to be a next.

The door to the cell swung open and he looked up sharply, the now-familiar mask of anger and hardness taking over his expression. (Sometimes, it was exhausting keeping up that mask. Sometimes he wanted to break down and be a kid again. But he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing that. Not yet, at least. They needed to wear him down a little more for that to happen.)

One of the guards stepped in with a tray of food, closing the door behind him. Varian watched him warily, waiting to see if this was just a food delivery visit, or if it was going to turn into something more. Ruddiger shifted from the bundle of fur he had been sleeping in on the other side of the cell, ears pricked and eyes narrowed as he watched.

The guard stepped closer and Varian instinctively curled a little more into himself, trying to be smaller, sensing that this wasn’t just a food delivery visit. Sure enough, the guard stepped forward, paused, and purposely stumbled, releasing the food.

Varian flinched as the food tray clattered on the ground, the sound sending his heart racing. He scowled, trying to appear far less on edge than he was feeling. The guard leaned close, an ugly smirk on his face.

“Whoops,” he said, in a voice that made it clear he had done that very deliberately. “C’mon, kid - you got your lunch. Eat up.” He stepped back, smirking. Varian’s eyes flicked briefly down to where the prison slop was spread across the stone floor, then back to the guard. “Too good for you then?” the guard asked.

Varian didn’t answer, forcing himself to keep eye contact with the guard, despite the bruise on his cheek that hadn’t faded from the last time he had done that. He refused to show weakness.

“What are you going to do then, kid?” the guard asked. He stepped across the room and Varian curled into himself more, hugging his knees, keeping his eyes locked with the guard, trying to settle his heart again. “Kill me? Vanish me with your dark magics?”

“Not magic,” Varian muttered, instantly cursing himself for doing so. It was better to be silent, to not give them anything to build on. Better to let them wear themselves out and leave. Speaking was always a bad idea - especially contradicting them.

“What was that?” the guard said, taking a step forward. He was big. Varian bit his cheek - hard - and kept up eye contact. “Are you cursing me?”

Don’t answer. Don’t answer. It was better to be silent. Maybe he’d get a few more bruises today, and then he’d be left alone again. If he spoke up again, it would likely be worse.

The guard’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and hauling him up. Varian couldn’t help panic flashing across his face, a small noise of fear escaping. His legs left the ground, the guard’s face inches away from his own.

With a loud scream, Ruddiger appeared from nowhere, landing on the guard’s head. He was hissing, screeching, clawing at the guard’s helmet. With a cry of surprise, the guard staggered back, releasing Varian.

Varian landed heavily, gasping and scrambling quickly to the corner of the cell, the taste of blood in his mouth from his cheek. Ruddiger leapt to the ground in front of him, hackles raised, screaming loud enough to wake the dead at the guard. For a moment, the guard hesitated, then decided it wasn’t worth it. He let out a long snort, turning and making his way out of the room - stepping firmly into the centre of the spilt meal.

Varian was shaking as the cell door slammed shut. He pressed himself into the corner of the cell, wrapping his arms around himself and closing his eyes, trying to keep his breathing even. Ruddiger’s familiar warmth appeared beside him, pressing into his side. Varian reached up, pulling him close, breathing in his comforting smell.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice catching. Ruddiger trilled softly, pressing into him.

~*~

“So you’re the kid who kidnapped the queen. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Varian’s new cellmate was standing on the other side of the room, leaning casually against the wall. He was surprisingly well kept for a prisoner - his long hair flowing down his back, a well-groomed beard hugging his chin.

Varian didn’t answer him. He was sitting cross-legged on the bench opposite his new roommate, Ruddiger curled up in his lap. It was getting harder to appear casual and not retreat into himself, but something about this new prisoner made Varian think that his luck was about to change.

For better or worse, he wasn’t sure.

“I have to say, I’m impressed. I’m Andrew, by the way,” the man said. He pushed himself off the wall, moving to sit on the bench opposite Varian, perching on the edge. “And I have a proposition for you.”

Ruddiger growled, low in his chest - quiet enough for Varian to feel instead of hear. But despite the raccoon’s obvious dislike for the man, Varian couldn’t help but be intrigued. He wanted to get out, to leave behind the sleepless nights, the constant bruises, scrapes and cuts. He wanted to feel the wind again, to see the stars without the small, barred window blocking his view.

If this Andrew was going to be his way out, he was willing to listen.

“What?” he asked, shortly, not willing to give him any more. Ruddiger stopped growling, looking up at Varian. He ignored the raccoon, pressing a hand onto his head and petting him softly.

Andrew smiled, leaning back.

“I hear you’re good with machines - science. We might have a use for that.”

Science. It had been so long since he had been allowed to do anything alchemy related. People had been naming him magician for so long, part of him had almost started to believe it. He wanted to experiment again.

“I see that has you interested,” Andrew said and Varian quickly schooled his face back into its mask of no emotion. “I have friends, friends who are going to help me - and I think you are going to be the last piece of the puzzle.”

“I’m listening,” Varian said. He shifted forward, ignoring Ruddiger’s warning chatter. Ruddiger wasn’t the one dealing with the beatings, the hunger, the lack of sleep. Ruddiger wasn’t the one who was never going to be forgiven.

“My friends have a wand - it’s able to erase memories. We’re going to take over Corona - erase the memories of the king and wait until the princess comes back and we can own everything.”

Erase memories. The words danced before Varian, a lifeline in a sea of guilt. A light in the darkness he had been living in for the past few months.

Erase memories.

He could make them all forget.

He could make them forget he had kidnapped the queen.

He could make them forget he had betrayed them.

He could make them forget he had hurt so many people.

He could make them forgive him.

The sudden hope burst into his chest and he took in a quick breath. No one was going to forgive him - he had gone too far for that. But by erasing their memories, he could be someone again. He could…

He could have friends again.

“What do you want me to do?” he said. Andrew smiled, a smile that really should have put him on edge.

Ruddiger shifted nervously, chirping a warning, trying to pull his friend back from the dark path that had opened before him.

But Varian didn’t listen, taken in by the chance of erasing the mistakes of the past.

~*~

“Hey, Ruddiger, leave it,” Varian said absently. He was bent over the table, mask pulled up and goggles on as he carefully measured chemicals. (He was so close to making it work. Please, please if one of his experiments worked, let it be this one). Ruddiger chattered from across the table, one paw on a vial.

“I said, leave it,” Varian snapped, looking up. Ruddiger chirped, satisfied to have gained his attention and bounded across the table. Varian waved a hand at him. “C’mon, buddy, I have to finish this.”

Ruddiger trilled accusingly, gripping an arm and tugging at him. Varian scowled, pulling his mask down.

“You’ve been real unhelpful lately, you know that?” he said. Ruddiger glared at him. “Look, I know you don’t like Andrew. But I’m doing this, okay?”

Ruddiger chattered at him angrily.

“No! I’m not going to stop! This is my only chance, Ruddiger. Why don’t you get that?”

“Is the rat bothering you again?”

Andrew’s voice in the door caused Varian to blink, looking up.

“Uh, no no,” he said quickly. Ruddiger growled shortly as Andrew stepped into the lab, bounding in front of Varian. Varian pushed him aside in annoyance. “He’s just being a little bothersome today.” He paused, staring down at his hand as he opened and closed it. “Is this really a good idea?” he asked finally. “I mean… taking over. Making the citizens work like that. When the princess comes back she’ll -

“Hey, I thought you were cool, buddy,” Andrew said. He moved across the room, laying a hand on Varian’s shoulder. His touch sent a spark through Varian and he couldn’t help but lean into it slightly. “We can’t afford any distractions, alright?” Andrew crouched so he was eye level with Varian, lifting his other hand to lay that on his shoulder as well. Varian hesitated, glancing back at Ruddiger on the table.

The raccoon growled softly and Varian hesitated again. Part of him wondered if this really was a good idea. Erasing the memories of the king and queen was one thing - but the entire kingdom?

“You want them to forgive you, right?” Andrew said quietly, and Varian turned back to him, something twisting inside. He nodded slowly. “This is the only way. Get rid of the rat if it’s going to be a distraction. You don’t want to go back, do you?”

He stood, patting Varian on the shoulder and turning to leave. Varian looked at his feet as the door closed behind him, thoughts swirling inside. Andrew’s last words had sent a rush of panic through his whole body. Even the idea of going back made him terrified, the thought of returning to the cold stone walls, to the hunger and exhaustion and abuse of prison. He couldn’t go back.

No distractions.

It would only be for a short time - once he had the quiriniam perfected, Ruddiger’s memory would be lost as well and things could go back to normal. He took a deep breath, gripping his arm across his body and looking up at Ruddiger. The raccoon chirped, taking an uncertain step forward, concern clear on his face.

“Sorry, buddy,” Varian said, his voice hard. “But he’s right. If you’re going to be a distraction, I have to get rid of you.”

Ruddiger stepped back, trilling anxiously. But Varian didn’t stop to think, crossing the room and quickly scooping the raccoon up in his arms. He marched through the walls of the castle, holding Ruddiger firmly.

“I have to do this. Ruddiger is trying to stop me, I can’t let that happen. He has to go. Just until I’m finished. Just until things can go back to normal.”

The streets of Corona were empty as he ran through them, rain beginning to pour. He stopped at the bridge, holding Ruddiger up.

“It’s better this way, buddy,” he said. Ruddiger trilled, hurt clear in his voice. Varian shut his eyes and lowered the raccoon, placing him onto the cold stone of the path. “Go. Go, eat apples, climb trees, be a raccoon. You should have left long ago - so do it now. Go.”

Then, without seeing what Ruddiger did, he turned and ran. He ran back through the streets of Corona, telling himself this had to be done. There was no other way - no other way to make up for what he had done. Because he could never make up for what he had done, so he had to make them all forget.

Ruddiger sat on the cold stone, rain making his fur stick to his body, watching his friend abandon him. Watching his friend fall.

~*~

His father’s embrace was warm and Varian never wanted to leave. The casual touches his father so freely gave - a hand on his shoulder, a ruffle of his hair, a pat on his back - they made Varian feel more whole than he had for a long time.

It felt like some surreal dream he never wanted to wake up from. He had been alone for so long, to have his father back was almost too good to be true. To have Rapunzel’s trust again was even more surreal and sometimes, Varian wondered when it was all going to crumble around him.

It was strange, being back in their small house after everything that had happened. It was strange, being able to walk into the basement lab and not be faced with the stark reminder of his failure. It was strange to hear his father’s laugh again, to see his father smiling, walking, talking, alive.

He certainly didn’t deserve this second chance and he wondered why he had been given it. Part of him was too scared to ask for fear it would all be snatched away again and he would be back in the lab at the castle, working for the Saporians who had pretended to be his friends.

Or worse, in the small prison cell rapidly losing hope, losing who he was.

There was one more thing he had to do. Well, not really - there were many things he was going to have to do to make up for what he had done. To deserve the second chance he had been offered. But the first step in that direction was this.

A bag of apples by his side, he stepped out into the forest, glancing back once to make sure he could still see his father - to make sure his father was still there. Dad raised a hand as he caught Varian looking back and Varian returned the gesture, taking a deep breath and stepping into the shadows of the trees.

“Ruddiger?” he called, looking up, looking around, trying to catch the telltale rustle of bushes. “Ruddiger, you there buddy?”��

He stepped deeper, adjusting the bag and pulling out an apple.

“Ruddiger?”

Silence greeting his calls and he felt a rush of guilt - anger - grief. He should never have sent Ruddiger away. He should have listened to Ruddiger in the first place.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” he called, almost a whisper.

The trees rustled and Varian’s heart leapt. A shadow flickered beside him, coming closer to the ground and then - emerging slowly from the shadows - Ruddiger appeared.

“Ruddiger!” he cried, stepping quickly forward. Ruddiger scurried backwards as he did, a wariness in the raccoon’s eyes Varian hadn’t seen in a long time. He took a deep breath, telling himself to take it slowly and sat, crossing his legs. “I don’t blame you,” he said quietly.

“I - I’m sorry, Ruddiger.” The raccoon bounded forward a few paces, grabbing the apple Varian rolled towards him, watching him. Listening. “I know that isn’t enough, But… I should have listened. You were right, and I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to come back - you probably have your own life out here, right?” he said with a slight laugh. Ruddiger took another step closer.

“I just wanted to apologise,” Varian said quietly. “To start… to start fixing things. So… I’m sorry. I’m sorry I used you when I attacked Corona. I’m sorry I abandoned you. I’m sorry I threw you aside and… and betrayed you.”

Tears were beginning to prick his eyes and he took a deep breath, wiping a hand across his face.

“Thank you for sticking with me,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry I didn’t stick with you.”

Ruddiger chirped softly and Varian gave a small smile, tipping the bag and rolling out the rest of the apples. Then he began to stand, to leave and go home.

He was knocked back down by a blur of fur as Ruddiger bowled into him, curling into his arms. Varian gasped as the raccoon curled around his shoulder, butting him affectionately.

“Ruddiger?” he said quietly. Ruddiger chirped, crawling down his front and curling into his lap, looking up at him. Varian felt a lump in his throat - it felt good to apologise, yes, but he hadn’t expected to be forgiven.

He pulled the raccoon close, holding him tightly. They fit together perfectly, Ruddiger’s body warm and comfortable, familiar, comforting. He held Ruddiger and allowed himself the luxury of a few tears, tears because he had been forgiven.

Ruddiger purred happily, nuzzling his friend close. Part of him had been terrified Varian had fallen too far, that his young friend had fallen and was never going to be able to come back to the light. But now, sitting in a small patch of sunlight filtering through the trees, Ruddiger felt safe and warm and loved in his friend’s arms. Where he belonged.

~*~

Being terrified was draining. It wasn’t the first time, of course, but something about this magic-induced fear made everything a little worse. Maybe it was reliving all of his worst mistakes, maybe it was the fact that everyone was relying on him, maybe it was using his greatest mistake to save the kingdom.

Maybe it was because Ruddiger’s fur was stiff, his friend’s eyes frozen and still, unable to move, unable to even breath.

“Just like Dad,” a voice in his head whispered, accompanied by images the rocks made him see - the amber, slowly eating away at everyone he loved. The dark walls of the cell closing around him. His friends abandoning him again.

He gritted his teeth and kept moving, Rapunzel’s warmth beside him the only thing holding him together.

The sun was rising as they emerged from the tunnels, the mission complete. Varian felt exhausted, drained, tired. He wanted nothing more than to curl in a ball and sleep but he wasn’t sure what was going to be possible. Despite the exhaustion, he still felt on edge, unable to relax.

His father drew him into a warm hug, and Varian felt himself relax somewhat. He relaxed more so as Eugene ruffled his hair, as people smiled at him, saw him, not as a villain, not as an enemy, but as a hero.

Maybe he was beginning to earn his second chance after all.

It wasn’t until a grew ball of fur bowled into him that he let himself relax fully. Ruddiger pressed into him, crawling up and down, wrapping around his neck, giving him wet raccoon kisses. Varian held him close, burying himself in the comfort of his best friend.

He had been so afraid that it wouldn’t work. He had been so terrified the amber wouldn’t work and that even if it did, Ruddiger wouldn’t be freed. Again and again, as they walked through the tunnels he had seen Ruddiger - petrified and frozen. Terrified.

But now, Ruddiger’s fur warm against his skin, Varian closed his eyes and allowed himself to breathe. They clung to each other for a long time, reminding the other they were not alone.

Sleep easy when they returned home, Varian curled up on his bed, Ruddiger pressed tightly beside him.

~*~

Varian had managed to hold it together surprisingly well. Coming back from the tower was a bit of a blur. He was vaguely aware of Rapunzel’s warm hug, of Eugene crouching to make sure he was alright, of Angry and Catalina teasing him about some insignificant thing. It was nice, but he felt detached from everything, like it all belonged to a world he didn’t.

His father had pulled him into a warm hug when he returned home and Varian nearly broke down right there. Only months of maintaining his composure in front of others held him together and he forced a smile, convincing his father he was fine.

It wasn’t until he had escaped to the privacy of his room that he allowed himself to crack a little. He curled onto his bed, gripping his pillow and trying to keep his breathing even, trying to come back to the present.

A familiar warmth pressed into his side and he gladly replaced the pillow with Ruddiger’s warm fur, finally allowing himself to break fully in the presence of his friend. He sobbed silently, holding Ruddiger, letting it all out until he felt more like himself.

“I was scared,” he whispered. Ruddiger trilled evenly, comfortingly, and Varian kept talking. “I… it reminded me of prison. Cold, and dark and I… I was helpless. And… and Cass… she scared me but…” He hesitated, wiping a hand over his eye and pushing himself up into a sitting position. Ruddiger shifted off his lap, looking up at him.

“But most of all I - I was reminded…” He blinked a few times, trying to find the words. “Is that what I was like? Angry… so, so angry. So lost.” He said the last quietly, almost a whisper. Ruddiger stepped closer, standing up and laying a paw on his chest. Varian smiled down at him, pulling him into a hug.

“At least I had you,” he said quietly. “Cassandra is… she’s all alone. She’s going to do something she regrets…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, leaving the words hanging in the air as he found comfort in Ruddiger once again.

“Just I did.”

~*~

Ruddiger bounded in front of him as Varian moved through the camp, mentally checking through the preparation he would have to do. Dad had the helmet, at least he didn’t have to worry about that (he just hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. Please don’t let it be necessary.) He needed to pack a few more supplies, vials and chemicals in case he needed to fight, a few extra screws because those always went missing.

Ruddiger chirped loudly, taking a run around his feet and nearly knocking him over. He stumbled a few paces, bounding from foot to foot as Ruddiger scrambled up him, chattering in his face.

“Okay, okay!” Varian cried, plucking the racoon off his shoulder and holding him out so they could talk better. “What’s up?”

There was a glint in Ruddiger’s eye that made Varian a little nervous - a hardness, a determination. Ruddiger squirmed out of his hands, bounding across his arms and to the ground. He puffed out his tail and snarled, swiping a paw in front of him.

“Wha - no,” Varian said, suddenly realising what Ruddiger was saying. “No, no I’m not doing that to you. Not again.”

Ruddiger chattered, sitting and wrapping his tail around his paws. Varian shook his head, crouching in front of the raccoon.

“I can’t do that to you again! You hated it last time. I’m sorry about last time.”

Ruddiger stepped forward slowly, raising a paw to place it on Varian’s cheek. He trilled softly, comfortingly and Varian hesitated.

“I don’t…” He closed his eyes, lowering his head. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly. “I - I can make the formula again but… it’s your choice this time.”

Ruddiger chattered in affirmative, and Varian took a deep, shaky breath.

“Alright,” he said. Ruddiger chirped, bounding up his arm and settling about his shoulder. Varian squared his jaw, moving to the small workbench he had set up as a laboratory while they prepared for the attack.

He settled in, mixing chemicals, preparing the formula. Readying to make his friend a monster again.

~*~

He woke in the middle of the night. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, though his nightly nightmares had slowly changed to weekly and then fortnightly as the kingdom settled back to normal - whatever that was - after Zhan Tiri’s attack. But this time, it wasn’t a nightmare that had Varian blinking awake, peering around his dark room.

He resisted the urge to rush out of the room and check up on his father - those nights had been frequent in the days after his father had been freed. But he knew Dad was sleeping in just the next room, could hear the soft snores drifting through the house if he listened hard enough.

Still unsure of what had woken him, he scanned the room for anything that might have disturbed his rest. Soft moonlight shone through a gap in the windows, lighting a few things and finally, Varian’s eyes landed on Ruddiger.

The raccoon was curled in a tight ball at the end of Varian’s bed. He was shaking slightly, kicking occasionally. A few muffled noises escaped the small animal - noises Varian knew well because he had woken many times with the same soft sounds on his lips.

He pushed his covers aside and crawled to the end of the bed, gently laying a hand on Ruddiger’s fur.

“Hey, buddy,” he said softly. Many nights, once freed and… before, Ruddiger had nosed him awake from a nightmare, had curled up close as his demons chased him through his sleep. Now Varian was more than happy to return the favour.

Ruddiger started, sitting up suddenly, fur puffed out and eyes flickering with concern. Varian laid a hand on his back, making soft, comforting noises. Meaningless chatter. Slowly, Ruddiger began to relax, and Varian pulled him closer.

He pushed himself back across the bed, slipping his legs back under the covers. Ruddiger was still shaking slightly, curled close to Varian.

“My turn to comfort you,” Varian said quietly, lying back down with Ruddiger curled close to his chest. They lay like that for a long time, Ruddiger’s shaking slowly fading. Finally, he shifted, pressing his nose into Varian’s chin and letting out a long huff.

Varian smiled, wrapping his arms around his friend’s familiar shape. It wasn’t long until they both slowly drifted off to sleep, finding comfort in each other like they had always done.

#tangled #rapunzel's tangled adventures #tangled the series #tts #rta #varian #ruddiger #angst #hurt/comfort #whump #fanfic #writing #fluff #comfort #i have EMOTIONS about these two nerds #my writing

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