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senju-sekhmet · 3 years

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The Leash (Part 6)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death ~6800 words (this chapter, finished work: 80.000) Previous: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5 Read on AO3! Disclaimer below the cut!

DISCLAIMER! -i reckon I don’t need the paste it again… but in short: this is a purely self-indulgent work which contains a lot of my own headcanons and whatnot. this chapter especially so! lots of talking and thinking - curious to see what you think!! THANKS FOR READING <3 Ikuro greeted him with a warm smile at the interrogation headquarters. "You produce results fast," he commented after Tobirama explained to him where his research had led him so far. They were sitting in the small office adjourning the holding cell block again. Tobirama could only muster a huff in response. "It is possible I'm being put under pressure by time." His tone was perfectly caustic again.

Ikuro, on the other hand, was entirely unfazed. Tobirama decided he appreciated that about the man; he never had been fond of fainthearted individuals.

"I suggest we start with the least valuable prisoner," Ikuro then turned more serious, placing his broad hand on the table. "There is, after all, a chance this might backfire."

Tobirama nodded. A sensible thought. "That would be Akio." Then, he frowned. "However you noted he's broken already. Our goal is to gain information, too. All we'd confirm would be the drug wasn't lethal. And ascertain the bodily effects of this drug." As he spoke the words, he found the sensible approach - the logical one - didn’t sit too well with him.

Ikuro hummed affirmatively. "What do you suggest, Tobirama?", easily catching the uncertainty.

Tobirama crossed his arms. Frankly he had to ponder the question. There was merit in trying it in those who knew about the leash - but the danger of permanently harming or even killing them was there, too. However did they really know anything about the leash? Would they even relinquish their knowledge?

Had he reason to believe his drug could be considered that dangerous to not… take this risk?

He had no time. You had no time. "Let's try the strongest of them."

Ikuro's pale eyes lit up and flashed his teeth in a grin which otherwise might’ve let a shiver run down Tobirama’s spine. "That would be Zenji. The … polite fellow in the middle holding cell. You met him when you first came here."

Tobirama couldn’t have stopped the roll of his eyes even if he wanted to. He gave an exasperated groan. "Great. I’m thrilled to meet him again." That man would test his patience. Tobirama would refuse to guarantee for his safety.

Luckily, he wasn’t made to make any such promises. Ikuro rose to his feet, Tobirama followed suit. Before they set for the cells though, Tobirama explained his plan. Ikuro only nodded in agreement. An eerie kind of calm was settling over him when they finally entered the Stone shinobi’s cell block. It was not an unfamiliar feeling; rather a welcome kind of dissociation that had been well practiced in the warring states era. They all had, at some point, committed atrocious acts. Tobirama never looked back, his logic had been sound.

Just like this time. And what would follow here might be another ugly entry in a list of infamous cruelties - but another necessary one.

As they walked, he could feel the glances of the other prisoners on him as he passed them - and he spared none of them a single glance.

Once they stood in front of the cell, the lanky man’s eyes lit up in way too much delight. "How's the lady?", Zenji gloated immediately.

Tobirama ignored the question. If that was how he’d play it - he was ready. The ire burning under his skin was causing him to tremble almost still. A discussion, the man knew, might easily lead to bloodshed. And being riled up into beating up a chained up man was below Tobirama’s dignity. Although thinking about it provided some needed relief.

"Why are you keeping them like this?", he inquired quietly, hissing through clenched teeth, wondering about the fact all the cells were adjourned - what they did here, the others could hear.

Ikuro considered Tobirama with a thoughtful glance. "Additional pressure. They hear what we're doing to each of them on top of their own, ah, sessions."

Tobirama had guessed that was the reason.

He still felt like bloody murder. Rage like this - born from revenge - was a low motive, and Tobirama frankly despised himself for this. The only thing that mattered was whether one acted on their emotions or not, he knew. Yet he just had to remind himself of the fact that within less than a week, you'd run out of the despised drug they had tethered you to. And that the man in front of him, Zenji, might know how to save your life.

All things were relative, after all.

Ikuro unlocked Zenji's cell. The man was chained up in the same fashion he had been before - no movement allowed except maybe a wiggle of his toes. The chains were suspended from the walls of the cell and over and over painted with various seals, a few of which Tobirama recognised. Chakra sealing seals mostly, as well as other, sinister uses.

They both stepped inside and Ikuro locked it again.

Zenji gave a haughty laugh. "Not gonna speak to me? Awh, come on. Maybe I'll give you a hint about the leash if you do." He wriggled his eyebrows almost suggestively.

The blood was rushing in Tobirama's ear. His muscles were taut like a bow's string and it took every ounce of his willpower not to at least verbally jump at this man. Don’t, he chanted inwardly, don’t. Briefly, he closed his eyes and shook his head slightly as if to clear the berserk haze that wanted to settle over him.

Surprisingly, it worked somewhat.

Ikuro stepped to Zenji's side. "You're getting a treat, Zenji." A second later, his big hand had grabbed the back of his skull by his hair.

Tobirama stepped closer, procuring the vial from his pocket.

Zenji laughed haughtily. "Ah, ah," his eyes were trained on the vial. "Trying to recreate the leash?"

Tobirama stood right in front of him then, glare icy while the rage inside burned ever hotter. His expression was perfectly neutral, he didn't even bat an eyelash. "I'm going to tether you to the leash, eventually." His voice was nonchalant despite the rage that wanted to eat him up.

Zenji's eyes widened momentarily. Was there a hint of fear in them? But it was gone as soon as Tobirama thought he'd seen it. "You're gonna fail," the Stone shinobi spat, his smugness becoming caustic swiftly. "You can't ever hope to do that."

Tobirama tilted his head to the side, eyebrows rising slowly. "Why is that?", he asked, lazily, disinterested. Perhaps there was merit in trying to engage in a conversation with him, after all.

Zenji tried to whip his head from Ikuro's grasp, who just pulled harder at his scalp. "As if you'd be able to recreate it like that. You're fucking running out of leash and Y/n is gonna fucking die." His voice was dripping with hatred and no small amount of pleasure.

For just a second, Tobirama imagined ripping his throat out with his bare hands if just to ease the fury that was burning through every fiber of his body now; the gory picture helping momentarily not to act on it. Or at least verbally lash out. Still, he knew he’d despise himself for it - such an act was beneath him. The man was key to finding out how to save you. He had to keep telling himself in order to keep the white-hot rage crawling under his skin only. How he managed to retain his poker face was beyond him. Maybe the gruesome image did help.

He drew his lips into a condescending sneer. "I'm one of Konoha's most distinguished scientists. Don't think for a second I couldn't recreate anything your village came up with." His voice was dripping with arrogance.

Zenji was retorting with a sneer of his own. Ikuro's lips were drawn in a fine smile. "You're fucking desperate is what you are," he snickered, "That drug is impossible to recreate. Too complicated."

Tobirama gave only a lazy sigh and topped it off with an annoyed roll of his eyes. "Yes, I suppose for the likes of you that might be true." He leaned in a little. "I'm not you , though. Eventually, I will. And in the meanwhile, I'm going to test every single one of my experiments on you. You know," he mustered the man then a little as if he was nothing more than an object. "I'm wondering if you're actually afraid."

Zenji's eyelid twitched and he threw himself into the restraints binding him. Ikuro's grip was unrelenting, but he frowned slightly. "Afraid? Afraid?! You can't even risk me!", his voice was shrill and his face became contorted by fury.

Interesting. Ikuro thought so too - his pale eyes had narrowed and stared at Tobirama intently.

Tobirama remained impassive, just swishing the vial back and forth with a leisure movement of his wrist. The truth was he was far from that. He wondered if beating on this man until he spilled the beans really wasn't an option. But he was so close. Zenji had already made a mistake, and Tobirama had caught onto it, of course. Still, he needed confirmation. "I don't see why." He knew better than to keep up with this kind of verbal wrestling. That would only yield power to the prisoner.

Still, the hint had been obvious.

Zenji clenched his jaw tightly now. He, too, seemed to have realised his mistake.

A shrill voice floated over the corridor. The loony witch from the far end, Tobirama figured. "Zenji, you fucking idiot!"

She did sound coherently pissed now.

Unluckily for Zenji, that was the confirmation he needed. Time to take a shot at the obvious target. Tobirama leaned back, genuinely smug now. Both eyebrows arched up, his tone as sweet as sugar. "You're the only one left who knows how to create the leash, hm?"

Zenji apparently decided to break through the figurative front then - his lips drew in a condescending sneer again. "Alright, smart science boy. Assuming you brought all of the remaining leash with you to this godforsaken village," he began in a tone that made Tobirama's neck hair stand up. "Your precious lady has had about seven days to live, give or take, since we got here."

Tobirama already wanted to beat his face into a pulp now - how he spoke of your life in a simple calculation; an unfortunately very correct one - it was maddening. His heartbeat thundered through his skull as his world was incinerated in white-hot ire; he could barely feel the pain in his jaw from how hard he bit down on his teeth.

Zenji continued. "Now I kinda lost feeling for time in this fucking cell, but it couldn't have been more than two. So how about this, Tobirama Senju - all I have to do is last a few more days and then my knowledge will be meaningless because-" he leaned forward, wearing a huge, fat grin, "- Y/n's gonna have left this world, screaming and writhing in agony."

Tobirama's heartbeat was through the roof now. His fists clenched so hard, the vial might break in them but he did not move an inch.

"Unless,... you put her out of her misery beforehand."

For the fraction of a second, eerie silence filled the cell.

Tobirama's fist shot out before Ikuro could even do so much as realise what was about to happen. A sickening crunch echoed through the cell as it made contact with Zenji's lower jaw, who howled in pain in response.

"Tobirama!" Ikuro cautioned, pale eyes ablaze now. The situation was getting out of hand.

Tobirama almost didn't even register the warning. All he heard was the rhythm beating inside him as a fine tremor of fury shook him. His scarlet stare held him pinned, eyes ablaze - if looks could kill, Zenji would be dead now.

This man. How dared he.

How dared he to insinuate- To even think Tobirama would- That he couldn’t-

Zenji spat blood before Tobirama's feet. "I'm gonna fucking relish telling you it all once she's dead," he repeated, blood trickling down his chin, but mien filled with hatred. "You're never gonna crack how the leash is made in five days!" He drew his lips into an ugly grin, marred by the blood blood of his split lip.

Tobirama's fist balled again to deliver another blow to his face, but Ikuro cleared his throat authoritatively. In an instant, Tobirama's free hand had grasped around Zenji's broken mandibular bone and forced it forward with a lot more pressure than necessary. He made sure to put extra force on the side he had punched, just to be safe. If Ikuro had cautioned him not to worsen the prisoner’s injury, Tobirama did not hear it. He didn’t care, either. Zenji should be grateful Tobirama didn’t punch him again.

The prisoner howled in pain as he was barely able to resist his mouth being forced open simply due to the injury, Ikuro supporting by tilting his head back now. "Time for your medicine," Tobirama announced in an ice cold tone as he poured the contents of the vial into Zenji's mouth.

In an attempt to gag or wheeze it right back out he already tried to constrict his pharyngeal muscles, but Tobirama had seized his cricoid and pressed down harshly enough to force him to swallow - or else he'd suffocate.

Which he did, just a moment later.

For good measure, Tobirama kept the pressure up a few seconds longer, however.

When he released him, Zenji wheezed. "Fuck you," he spat, but his pupils began to dilatate already.

"Start," Tobirama commanded Ikuro in a pressed tone, shaking from fury still, who nodded and rested his hand on Zenji's head in order to assault the man's mind.

Tobirama meanwhile went for his throat to monitor his body with his chakra - sadly, he really did need to keep him alive. Which was difficult, as his focus was still clouded by the rage - the maddening fury he’d chastise himself for later.

The effects of his drug were - initially - comparable to the leash. The sensory overload of the brain worked the exact same way he had witnessed in you after indigestion - though now, it mingled with Ikuro's chakra, who was smothering him in what probably was a genjutsu or some other kind of mental assault. Tobirama couldn't help but marvel the expert level with which the man proceeded, comparing it to the brute force he had used on Akio. There was something to be learned here in the ways he didn't just smother him but let his chakra seep through every little crack of Zenji's mind, delivering mental stabs whenever he felt a crack in his mental fortress while coating him in a constant onslaught of pressure; a thick blanket of neverending slices at Zenji’s mind that made Tobirama shudder. It was much like watching a snake kill its prey - winding around the struggling victim tighter and tighter; the hopeless struggle of the despondent creature seemed to still as it starts to realise its demise while the snake viciously enjoys every drip of agony it can milk from it until finally, the unfortunate soul can no longer breathe.

Zenji's chakra on the other hand was sluggish - but not as subdued as Tobirama had hoped. The effect was there and the man definitely should feel his control over his chakra being significantly hampered, but it wasn't the same as Tobirama had seen in you. Stunted, yes, but not as frozen.

He was on the right path, after all.

Still, the screams Ikuro elicited from Zenji were music to Tobirama's ears. Just like the fact that physically, the man was fine. Tobirama flat out refused to heal the broken jaw, however. He didn't know how long the session lasted, but somewhere along the line, Zenji hat stilled. His head had tilted forward, the body limp.

"Enough," Ikuro announced finally, frowning.

Tobirama gave the man another brief once-over to make sure he was fine - besides the abused mind - then he removed his hand from his throat. His head felt dizzy. The ache in his heart was as agonizing as ever now that the rage had subsided. Ikuro clicked his tongue and waved his hand for Tobirama to follow. They headed back to the office. This time, he didn't feel the gazes of the other prisoners on his back.

Interesting.

Once in the office, Ikuro crossed his arms. "I don't think I need to explain-"

Tobirama cut him short with a wave of his hand. He didn't have time for a lecture. "I lost my composure. It won't happen again."

Ikuro stared back for a moment longer, then he walked to the desk. "Should I get the impression you're too emotionally biased to interrogate this man, someone else will have to conduct your experiments here."

"Understood." Like hell Tobirama would allow for that to happen.

Ikuro nodded, then folded his hands in front of him. "This was an interesting session nonetheless."

Tobirama crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Well, I'm glad you perceived it as such." He didn't cut back on the sarcasm.

Ikuro exhaled a sigh. "We have ascertained that Zenji is the only one who knows how to create the leash. And when I tried to pry open his mind, I found your little experiment made him a lot more susceptible to my methods." A fine smile formed on his lips.

Tobirama frowned slightly. The compliment felt sour still - he remembered how this was what you had suffered, and how it hadn't been near what the leash could do. In fact, by the end of the session Zenji's chakra control had been almost normal again.

No withdrawal effect, either.

"I did not break him still," Ikuro continued, "But I could take brief glimpses at the leash's creation, if I upped the pressure a lot."

That comment alone sent a jolt down Tobirama’s spine and he took a quick step forward. "Tell me."

"I'll show you," Ikuro held Tobirama's gaze with unwavering determination, and Tobirama stared back into the pale, turquoise eyes.

Then suddenly, he felt an image being pushed onto him - a genjutsu. Almost instinctively, he wanted to release it simply for the intrusion it caused - then he remembered what this was for. It was quite delicate anyway - fragments, loose images and echoes of sensations. Zenji's, Tobirama realised. He was holding a bottle filled with a clear substance. His chakra did something - a process that Tobirama could only guess at because every time he - Ikuro - tried to look closer, it was as if someone shoved him away. Still, there were some leads. Ways in which his chakra threaded through the liquid. Tiny - but something to go with - pieces of a puzzle. Where he still was missing about most parts of. It hinted at the utmost delicate process that seemed to be the creation of the leash - but it was proof. Proof that it truly was something of a chakra weaving process that created the leash.

"Release." Ikuro announced.

Tobirama's head was swimming again. A hand raked through his hair.

This was a lead. He should feel excited. Hopeful. Eager to work on it. Yet his mind wouldn't push past the crushing sense of dissatisfaction with this experiment, his outburst - and worst of all, Zenji's promise.

I'm gonna fucking relish telling you it all once she's dead.

Five days. He just had five days left and all he had was a vague lead and an experiment with a lukewarm result at least. Time - he was running out of time . His heart was thundering in his chest as his breaths came deeper than usual. He closed his eyes briefly.

If only he had more time.

Giving up was not an option. He'd just work harder. He'd sacrifice who knew what to make this work.

He breathed in deeply to try and alleviate the budding agony and dread inside him. It didn't work well. The pain stabbed at his heart, the sorrow had gripped him again. Tobirama was sure that if he closed his eyes, he'd see your face - in sheer agony.

Unless,... you put her out of her misery beforehand.

He swallowed the lump down his throat. It felt dry. The emotions that were swirling inside him were tiring him out; much like the days before, it was all too much. First the rage, and now the looming sense of doom and this utter despair he felt he couldn’t escape. He didn’t want to feel more, he couldn’t he was spent, but he did nonetheless, like a wound that couldn’t, wouldn’t stop bleeding. He was taking deep breaths against - against all this.

His gaze wandered to the clock.

Damn. You should have been awake for quite some time now.

"I will be back as soon as I have synthesised my next experiment. This is a start." He bowed curtly to thank Ikuro, who nodded in reply. "I need to go. See you soon."

Then, the world around him lurched as he teleported straight to your room.

________

Your nightmare had been exceptionally vivid this time.

Not just a horrible patchwork of memories from the past few weeks but a concise, terribly real scenario. Every single bit of the memory had felt like as though you were back in the dreadful hideout for sure. The screams echoed off the wall as they carved your flesh like a sculpture, the pain a thousand times worse due to this damn drug. By the time it had ended, your tormentor had cut you apart.

But you wouldn't die.

You never died.

The agony just never ended.

It all faded into a memory of pain supplied by your abused body. Eventually, the world was black. Then you slept. And when you woke, it still was dark.

With a sigh, you removed the blindfold from your eyes. Everything stayed dark. You forced yourself to take even breaths.

This had been the third time you had taken the leash since you had been rescued.

How many more would follow?

Your breathing picked up.

Dark. It was all too dark.

Your eyes wandered to where you knew the window was, curtain drawn closed. You really had to tell Tobirama to keep that open if you now started to become afraid of darkness so much. Then again, that might lead to more questions. Questions you didn’t want to answer. For now, the pain in your whole body was a dull echo, but you knew that’d change drastically again when you moved. No matter. You had to. The world was closing in around you and and your heart was hammering against your ribs so harshly you thought it might jump out.

Yelping past clenched teeth you dragged your haggard form to the window again, staggering through the darkness, not even bothering with the nightstand lamp this time. You didn’t need to. You whimpered deplorably from the aches that now flared through all of you, echoes of the torment that stabbed and burned.

You still felt so weak. It was dumb to think you had recovered much already - and without your own chakra, no less - but still. You absolutely detested this weakness.

This helplessness.

You grasped the curtain for support as much as you had to to pull it open. You had to fumble for it with a shaking hand, the other grasped the window sill below.

“J-j-just o-open…”, you stuttered as you ripped aimlessly at it.

Your breaths were coming so fast now your sight was blackening, your limbs feeling fuzzy. The panic was driving tears into your eyes and wrenching sobs from you.

Was this how you’d start every day, now?

Bright sunlight flooded the room finally. Instantly, both your hands clung to the sill then for support while you doused in the sight of the village. The very obvious signals your body was giving you to rest again were ignored in favour of relishing in this moment.

Safe. You were safe.

You sniffled as the tears dried down and the fright ebbed down. Somewhat. You wanted to stay like this longer, but you knew you really shouldn’t. Besides, the more you calmed, the more unbearable the pain became in all of you. Plus, if Tobirama caught you now, he’d be livid. He hated repeating himself. It wasn’t as though he was wrong, anyway.

You opted for sitting on the bed again and looking out of the window from there. A small comfort.

“Okay,” you murmured to yourself in preparation of the way back. With a deep breath you let go of the window sill and turned around.

A moment later your shaky foothold tipped, the ankle twisted - and with an agonised yelp that nearly had been a loud scream, you fell to the floor. Instinctively you broke the fall correctly, your training ensured that. Even in this deplorable state.

But the pain was searing. It damn near was equal to the torment - or at least it felt like that. You curled into a fetal position on yourself as your mouth was open in a silent scream.

You didn’t want anyone to get in now.

Tears were flowing freely over your cheeks. You kept silent. Silence had been a lesson well-practiced - though of course the Stone shinobi had made you scream so much your voice still was hoarse, that had been after a lot of silence.

You’d endure this, too.

Even so, lying on the cold floor - it felt just like after all the times they’d tortured you and then shoved you back into that dark pit. Helplessly on the ground with the agony fresh on your mind and weakened by the leash, by all the misery you were in. Unable to move from sheer pain alone, really-

Your chest was closing in again.

The room was becoming darker.

No, no, no. Not now. It’d be fine eventually - right? Wait, what if it wasn’t? Shit, where did that come from now? You mustn’t think like that. But here you were. Alone. On a cold floor. In pain- Bleeding?

No- You were sure if you opened your eyes now, they’d open to nothing but darkness. “N-no…”, you whimpered miserably, your arms covering your face as you curled up even tighter.

Cold.

Everything was cold, you are alone - There is nobody here, they’ll come again, and again for you.

…

“What the hell?! ”

You had no idea how long you had been laying there when the familiar, furious voice ripped through your consciousness like a horn’s blow. The world was slowing down again. You suddenly became aware of the fact you had been wheezing erratically. Trembling. The tears - an odd tear would run over your cheek. But you had stilled perfectly. You heard fast steps approaching. You tensed.

They stopped in front of you. Clothes rustled.

“Y/n?” - the voice was different now - panicked. Softer.

Slowly, you opened your eyes to see Tobirama’s black clothes in front of you. He was crouching. His hand was on your shoulder, you realised. A warm touch.

Your breathing levelled out.

You were safe.

You had just fallen down. Silly.

“I fell,” you admitted defeatedly, your gaze seeking his face hesitantly. This was embarrassing enough as it was, but Tobirama - he looked perfectly anguished himself. His scarlet eyes mustered you up and down, there was urgency in his expression. You sighed and began to heave your chest off the ground with your arms, ignoring the pain again.

“You shouldn’t have-,” he began in a scolding tone, but the moment you moved, it became stern. ”No, don’t do that.” The worry was mellowing it down still.

His arm snuck around your shoulder to heft you up from the floor. You became utterly stiff from the pain that shot through you as you were moved, but you uttered no more than a hiss past your clenched teeth. Your arm moved to rest around his waist for support, but the way you fisted the fabric of his black shirt was telltale, nonetheless.

Which Tobirama picked up on easily. “Just one step,” he muttered tersely. Frankly with the force he put in his grip he might as well carry you, but you appreciated the fact he granted you this shred of dignity. You took the step as gracefully as possible, which was simple given how Tobirama shouldered near all of your weight. You whimpered as you sat down the ankle you had fallen over on the floor.

“Easy,” Tobirama supplied immediately, holding you closer, his free hand securing your waist tightly.

His arm released you only momentarily as you leaned forward to spin and sit on the bed, but his palm lingered on your shoulder the whole time. He grasped your legs gingerly to help swing them into bed again when you turned to lie down.

You stared up at the ceiling once you had pulled the blanket over you. The trembles had ceased; your breathing was normal again.

You were safe.

Tobirama didn’t waste time, either. “What have you been doing?”, his tone was as strict as it was accusing. The mellowing worry had turned down a notch now that you were in bed again it seems.

You felt bold when you turned your gaze to meet his again. He was frowning, the scarlet eyes were ablaze. “I did say you could knock next time,” you answered in a small voice.

The answer was prompt. “So you’d have time to get back into bed, you mean?”, strict was becoming angered rapidly.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’d have made that in time.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, the face scrunched in a frown and the eyelids narrowed to slits. No, he was pissed off. You sighed.

Your scathing comment didn’t even make him bat an eyelash. “Yn/!” If anything, the quip had angered him more, if that outburst was anything to go by. “You must rest,” he began sternly. “Most likely that stunt has ripped at your healing wounds and inflicted damage - setting you back. Not to mention you need to recover more strength first.” He extended a hand as he argued, frustration leaking into his voice.

“I know, Tobirama,” you snapped back. Both of your aching arms rose to your face to cover it. “I am painfully aware.”

He fell silent for a moment, the comment earned you a low huff from him. “So then why do I see you anywhere but your bed whenever I come around?”, again, his tone was unfazed. More stern, in fact. You knew your comments were riling him up.

Because I feel like I’m suffocating when I’m alone in the dark and that fucking window is the only thing that convinces me I’m free.

“I’m going a little crazy here,” you supplied, figuring that wasn’t even a lie. “I’m either drugged, becoming delirious or flat out in pain, as you know.” That much definitely wasn’t a lie.

It made Tobirama balk a little. Peeking past your hands you saw his shoulders droop, his arms at his side now. Weird. You had expected something along the lines of ‘it’ll be over soon’ or ‘pull yourself together’ - not in an ignorant or diminutive way, but rather something to remind you this was temporary. That all you had to do was be stronger for a little while. Tobirama wasn’t great at comfort to begin with, so he’d stick with the logical aspects of the situation, naturally.

“Tobirama?”, you inquired then, when he didn’t speak up again.

“I know,” he then answered, the anger fading somewhat. His mien remained firm, but he took a seat on the edge of your bed now to level out the height difference somewhat. Because that hadn’t escaped your notice either. “It is a difficult situation, but you must rest. I don’t want you going on walks now. At all.” His gaze lifted up to your eyes again - the frown still present.

Your hands dropped to your side again. Now was your turn to avoid his gaze. “I just wanted to pull the curtains back, Tobirama,” you explained in a quiet voice, your ironic undertone vanished. “I had to look outside.”

You heard him take a sharp breath and then - “Y/n, you mustn’t-”, then he abruptly paused. For a few moments, the room was completely silent. "Is… that why you were crying?", he asked suddenly, his voice dropping the strictness, completely soft again.

You didn’t answer him, but you closed your eyes. You had to, they were becoming wet again.

“Y/n…”, Tobirama whispered brokenly, his hand reaching for yours at his side. His grip was tight, his thumb ran smoothing circles over your skin. You exhaled a little gasp when you felt his chakra graze over your network in the way you were so familiar with, so warm and welcome.

“I’ll try not to get up again,” you murmured after a moment of quiet comfort. “Maybe just leave the curtain open.” You sighed. It wasn’t as though you didn’t understand his objections to you moving around - your ankle was testament to that - but the panic was just so much worse.

Tobirama didn’t reply to that directly but simply kept caressing you both outwardly and inwardly. “Alright.” He finally spoke. “Perhaps… I can try to be here earlier, too.”

You opened your eyes again to find his gaze was cast down at your body again, his eyebrows furrowed in worry again. You never had seen Tobirama in this much distress since these last few days. “You don’t have to. You’re busy,” your voice was becoming more somber again.

“We talked about that already.” Back to the firm tone, shutting the discussion down, it seems. Tobirama hated discussing in the first place, and with your time basically dictated by a vile drug that he had to administer regularly there wasn’t even much arguing ground on your behalf. You rolled your eyes.

His hand released yours and was pushing the blanket aside then, “I’ll see what I can do for you now,” he mumbled, then, already focused as he turned himself to face your side more.

You gave a low sigh. “I’d say save your concentration and chakra, but-”

Tobirama’s voice instantly was terse again. “Y/n.”

You rolled your eyes. “Exactly.” You resigned and helped by pulling up the gown somewhat as he placed both palms on your abdomen again. You felt his chakra’s presence intensify as he began and couldn’t help but gaze at his face while he first examined you and then went to heal - his eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. Over time, that became more dismayed. Of course.

Much like the last time, the procedure took its pretty time simply for how intricate the work was - how little chakra he could actually use in terms of overloading you still, and when he did, he’d have to put it to its best use. The thoroughly comfortable feeling was settling in soon however as the aches dulled and you began to relax under his treatment. You’d never deny this wasn’t good, no. Especially when he directed his attention to your ankle, the sensation was warming, itchy almost in how the joint began to ache less in tune with the healing warmth swirling inside of it.

After quite a while he retreated with a finishing brush over your network, which you let warmly hum in response. As much as you could, anyway. It’d never not feel alien to you how your chakra was there - inside you - and yet not ready at your disposal. When Tobirama drew his hands back, his face remained scrunched up.

“As I said,” and here he was again, scolding, naturally. “There was quite some damage to your wounds. And you sprained your ankle.” He crossed his legs and rested both arms on the edge of the bed. “I’ve repaired quite a lot of it. Y/n, you’re barely-”

You wanted to prop your head up your palm and rest on your side, but you were positive he’d yell at you. You opted for quipping again. “-healed and need to rest.”

His frown deepened. “I can also just physically stitch you up if the sight of those ripping serves as a better reminder for you. Because that’s what you’re doing, internally.”

Ouch. He fought back. “No, thank you.” You deflated and sighed. “I’m trying.”

That served to mellow him down significantly again and his shoulders slumped somewhat. He didn’t speak up again though, but his gaze had fallen to the floor, seemingly lost in ponder.

You simply eyed him for a moment before you tilted your head slightly. “Well, I ruined the mood, didn’t I?”, you attempted a little laugh, but Tobirama could only shrug his shoulders in what you think might’ve been an ironic motion. You frowned. “What’s wrong, Tobirama?”

His gaze lifted to gaze at you from the side, cautiously now. It didn’t sit well with you. “Just stay in bed, Y/n.”

You arched up an eyebrow. That was not what truly had been on his mind now. The lack of sternness in his voice proved that. “I know I should,” you began, “but that is not what is on your mind.” His nostrils flared slightly. “Tell me, Tobirama. Is everything getting too much for you? You don’t need to take care of me, too. That’s why I am here.” It still baffled you how much he did in the first place, yet-

“No,” he firmly cut you short. His arms crossed in front of his chest as he slightly leaned back. “I’m fine taking care of you and researching this leash.” You believed that much with how much conviction he spoke it.

“Then what is it, Tobirama?”, you demanded now. “Because I have the fleeting notion it’s to do with me.” And you didn’t like that at all.

He closed his eyes and sighed. “It’ll be fine, Y/n. Don’t worry about that. Just rest and get better.”

Anger started to flare in you. To be bedridden and get basically yelled at for drawing curtains back was one thing. But to actively be kept in the dark was another one. However you’d still try reason first before you went to demanding things because open confrontation only got you so far. “I’m injured, Tobirama. Not mentally capacitated. You might as well tell me, because I caught on the fact something is weighing on you and at the very least I’ll now worry as to why that is. Even if you tell me not to. So, please.”

Tobirama straightened and squared his shoulders a little. "Honestly, the only thing you have to worry about is your own recovery." He was getting more terse again.

You were onto something. You narrowed your eyes. "Fine. Don't tell me. I'll just get up after, scream until someone gets around and demand to speak to Hashirama." You had every intention of going through with that. You'd have to be fast though - weakness would settle in soon.

Tobirama clenched his teeth, his head whipped around to you to stare at you downright menacingly. "You will do no such thing."

"I absolutely will, unless you tell me."

Tobirama’s eyes closed slowly. He shifted back to his original position. When he opened them again, his scarlet pupils darted to the side to pin you with an intense stare, his mien was grave now. Your pulse picked up. Instinctively you braced yourself by heaving your chest up with both your elbows. Thanks to his recent treatment, the pain was dull, for now. Tobirama didn’t even protest when you moved. It just served to make you more tense.

“Creating more of the leash is proving to be a difficult task I’ve not yet accomplished,” he finally churned out, slowly, against his will, almost.

You gulped. Wait. That meant- “How much is left?”, you asked before you could even comprehend what you just said.

Tobirama closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He didn’t want to tell you. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know anymore. “Five and a half days at our current rate.”

Around you, the world seemed to lurch like when he teleported you with the hiraishin seal. Your ears felt stuffy, your vision became a tunnel focusing on the face of your beloved and yet gazing right through him as darkness threatened. You felt numb.

Five and a half days.

Right now, you had five and a half days left to live.

And you wouldn’t pass peacefully, that much you had experienced before.

Your elbows gave out as you limply crashed back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Breathing was becoming harder as the figurative weight of the news was bearing down on your chest. Before you knew it, you were wheezing again. Ugly sobs were breaking past your lips and a wet sensation rolled down the sides of your face. Tears, you realised.

Faintly you realised Tobirama shifted. A hand took yours in it firmly, another on your shoulder. He was talking, but you didn’t hear anything. Not right away, anyhow. It was only when you felt his chakra again that you became more grounded again, but even then, it still was hard not to burst all over again.

“Y/n,” he pleaded, over and over again. Your blurry vision shifted to focus on his face, closer to yours now. It looked as agonized as you felt. There was a tremble in his deep voice. Your breathing levelled out slowly. Your free hand slowly reached for the one he had put on your shoulder as you sought his gaze again.

“Tell me more,” you urged, gulping.

“I’m not sure if-”, he hesitated.

“I want to know everything, dammit!”, you almost shouted.

Tobirama’s eyes closed, he winced as though you had physically slapped him.

And then proceeded to tell you - everything. What this leash was - besides what you knew it did to you - what he knew so far. The problem he faced. Instantly, you realised the task he faced was not just ‘difficult’. It was near impossible to achieve in such a short timespan.

“I’m doing all I can, I swear,” he finished, and the sincerity of the statement had the timbre of his voice shaking. His scarlet eyes were glistening - the hand you put on his on your shoulder reached for his face. No, you’d never question his resolve to save you. Neither his determination to keep you from any harm - his secrecy had just been another facet of that.

An eerie calm gripped you.

“I know,” you whispered, stoic. A sad smile stretched your lips. “If there’s anyone in Konoha who can figure it out, it’s you.” You believed that with every fiber of your being.

Tobirama frowned, tilting his head slightly. His breath shook.

“You need more time,” you added, your thumb caressing his cheekbone.

“There isn’t any, Y/n,” he answered, broken.

“Not if we proceed like this,” you agreed, somber. You couldn’t believe your next words, but here you were. You knew exactly what you needed to do - duty, if you will, albeit calling it that was odd considering it was your own survival that was on the line. Still. You were the one making the sacrifice.

“You start giving me what you have of the leash at the greatest possible interval.”

Tobirama’s face fell completely, the words hitting him almost like you had slapped his cheek.

“What?!”

#tobirama #tobirama senju #tobirama x reader #tobirama senju x reader #sekhmet writes

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shyrose57 · 3 years

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2nd part than.

8: (This ones longgggg) Their rooms all have the same beige (like brown mushroom color) walls and floors. As their not allowed to change that. But Watson has some bookshelves in his room along with a old adventurer cape that goes in front of his body and hangs to his ankles (Item-Ya Adventurer Cape is a perfect example. Idk the actual name for the kind of cape it is), some display cases featuring his strongest bows and arrows, along with a sword and axe, along with pictures of the group toghere and pictures from his travels on the walls, he has a single lone desk that is only used when designing new bows or arrows. Ran also has bookshelves, but his is bigger and takes up a whole wall, he also as a winter cape with fur on its shoulders hung up (he lived in a snow biome for a little while and made the cape himself), along with a single weapon case that features a lone damaged neitherite sword, he also has chests stacked along a wall filled with random stuff that he sometimes gives as gifts or uses to throw at people. Jackie has a few paintings and posters in his room, along with the only carpet in any bedroom (that he totally didnt steal from Grievous), a panting easel, he has a single display case in his room that displays the sword Porkius gave him for winning, theres also pictures of the group toghere and a small chest next to his bed filled with things that belongs to someone in the group. Grievous has a small bookshelf (one book is a naming book Watson jokingly gave him), a chest filled to the brim with blankets and pillows (cause for him comfort is a necessity), he also has a desk that he tends to fall asleep at when doing literally anything on it. Everyone also has a good sized wardrobe somewhere in their room that is filled with different outfits and w statue stands with either iron armour or empty. There is also a four-way-bunkbed in the living room/area, they typically use it when someone is having or had a very bad day and needs comfort, or when Jackie's separation anxiety is bad and needs to sleep with everyone nearby.

Ran loves reading and sometimes gets mad when someone intrupts his reading. Watson loves designing new bows and arrows and just designing weapons in general (Grievous does too and helps him sometimes). Jackie likes to paint and has a interest in adventuring one day. They are well known but only in Subbin and surrounding cities. Though word does travel about them at times which can bring people to Subbin. They have 2 titles actually! First is used in typical matches, while the second is used in more formal or serious matches (like those for general). Ran: The Enderman, Partikel Tari (Dancing Particles, referencing how when he fights when serious its like he's dancing as he teleports around the field). Watson: The Archer, Multi (Referencing how he has more experience than anyone in the use of all kinds of weapons and can quickly adjust to situations). Grievous: Multi-Named, Unpredictable (referring to how he is by far the most unpredictable person in serious battles). Jackie: The Child, Diremehake (Underestimated, referring to how he gets underestimated a lot during any battle). They get recognized quite often and get called their stage names, when they dont want to deal with people recognizing them they often either yell at them to go away or just run away.

9: They do all of the above! It depends on the match up (Jackie and Watson stay out of eachothers way mostly, Ran and Grievous make it one on one, and Ran and Jackie take them out quick). Oh the first time Ran threw Jackie was hailours. You could hear Watson screaming from the stands in fear and Jackie just head-butted the guy in the stomach. Then when Jackie recovered he just yelled for Ran to throw him again, and once again you could hear Watson screaming no and threats at them from the stands. Ran agreed and threw Jackie at the last person, who he just bear hugged as he hit and held them down. Then after the battle Watson smacked the two and chastised them.

10: At first he drops stuff and trips over his feet on a regular basis. But after about 3 weeks he fully regains his balance, and is able to finally walk without tripping at the start. While the attempts at bonding do work to get Ranbob and Cletus closer the two never get as close as the rest. Neither can really name what's stopping them from getting closer though. For the first week people need to constantly remind Ranbob to do all of those things. As he thinks the constant hunger, thirst, and tiredness is all normal when its not and their trying to get him to understand that. And while he eventually starts to do it himself, theres still some nights where he doesnt eat or drink or sleep. They just leave the two in the house, but later they do start to expand the house a bit to fit the new addition. He does not get his own place up, he just gives up after some time. He doesn't fall asleep out there to often thankfully, but since the house keeps falling on him he does get cuts and bruises quite often. He gets stuck in a rain storm only 2 times which isn't bad, but he does get semi-bad burns from them sadly that Benjamin has to sit him down for and have Charles distract him for long enough to wrap his wounds properly. And it only took Benjamin like 4 weeks before he finally got fed up and forced him inside and had him stay with them. He has dealt with a storm before when he was young! But it was when he was about 12 so its been a long while.

11: He spends all of his free time glaring at them. And for the first few days whenever he sees someone from his group hanging around his brothers, he'll go over and pick em up and just carry them away. The fishermen worry for a bit that Ran may hurt them, but Watson assured them that Ran knows the two groups like eachother and wouldn't hurt them incase that could hurt his families feelings.

12: Ranbob is extremely happy about potentially getting new members of his family! And eagerly tries to talk with them. But Ran is far less happy and actively avoids them (and drags his family away at times).

13: At the start they have no idea where their going. But when Grievous brings up about Rans damaged sword they decide to find a nether portal so they can find whats needed to repair his sword! And Watson decides on the way he can show them all the different biomes in the world, which Jackie is extremely excited for.

14: If the fishermen get separated from Ranbob for too long he actively goes and searches for them. And refuses to stop until he finds them. When upset Ran loves to pick up members of his Haunting, though he doesnt do them often as he knows his Haunting doesn't like it when he does it to often. He and Ranbob also pick up blocks though as it's a comfort action and soothes them. Cuddles piles do happen! They happen more for Ranbob to comfort him after a nightmare or just a bad day, or when he basically relapses and wants to go back to Dream. But cuddle piles are more rare in Rans group, as cuddle piles only happen when anyone is doing really badly mentally or physically and just need comfort, or when they all just need some comfort. But their much more sentimental and have more meaning than Ranbobs groups.

15: Oh definitely. I forget if I included it when I first introduced my Au. But soon after Ran escaped Mizu, he was hunted for his pearl and respawn ability. Though he killed the people hunting him. Every year he was out of Mizu and every year before he entered Subbin he was hunted by multiple groups. He's become legend just for avoiding so many groups and killing a vast majority of them. He's known as the "Green Eyed Enderman." and is a top goal amongst hunters. There are some times Ran got jumped in Subbin for being a hybrid but he quickly defeated them.

Karl has played his role in this! Though maybe I could make it so he comes in later on during a really difficult part between the brothers, and helps out. Using his own experiences in the SMP and seeing what ruined relationships like brothers does to someone and others, to make sure their relationship doesn't stay so broken and hurt so many people. Maybe at the end I'll have them go back and face Dream so Ranbob (and even Ran slightly, with how Dreams presence affected him) can finally be completely free. As of rn no one has a pet. But that question made me really want to give someone a raven and idk who. I want to have bits of the other Tales in it! Im not quite sure how yet but I want this to be a mostly Tales ONLY au (no main SMP stuff unless needed or necessary) as the Tales don't have enough love. He does write down the experience he had with the Dream Experience and writes down very important things, but other than that he leaves it behind.

Im really happy to hear that you like my au. I love world and story building a lot and can't control how much I write sometimes, again im sorry this is so long and I'll do my best to not make anything this long ever again. Sorry if this bothered you

8: Sounds pretty interesting, overall. Was Watson-as his cape suggest-perhaps an adventurer? And he designs his own bows and arrows? Very cool. What kind of things does he come up with? Ran also sounds like he’s traveled a bit. He knows how to sew? Has he ever made anything for anyone else? Where did he get his sword? Jackie’s got a carpet? Very nice, he deserves it. And a painting easel? How good is he at painting? Or is it more of something he’s just trying? Grievous sounds like he could build a very good pillow fort, and honestly, good for him. How often do they camp out in the bunk bed room?

Ran not liking being interrupted is understandable. Does he ever read to anyone, or is it more some alone time for him? Grievous and Watson must design some terrifying weapons. Where is Jackie looking at adventuring to? Anywhere specific, or just around? And what language(s) is Ran and Jackie’s secondary titles in? Latin?

9: Very smart of them, means it’ll be harder to pick up a pattern. And hearing about Ran tossing Jackie-I’m laughing. I’m not going to lie, kind of assumed it was planned pre-match, but hearing that they just decided to throw him? Watson’s reaction? Just...hilarious. Was Jackie even prepared for it, or did Ran just toss them without warning? Honestly, it kind of sounds like people might come to the Pit for the comedy just as much for the fighting. If this was the kind of thing that went down, I’d probably come to watch.

10: Oh no, Ranbob! At least he’s getting better. So Cletus and Ranbob never quite click, huh? Well, that’s alright. Sometimes people just don’t. Doesn’t mean they don’t care about each other! Ranbob thinking it’s normal, oh god. Does he ever say something along those lines, or get confused why the others are so worried about it? If so, how do the fishermen react to that question, and how does Ranbob react to the answer. As for the house, well. He can say he tried if nothing else-and hey, funny story to share with the gladiators later on. It’s good that he wasn’t caught in too many storms, less that he was caught in some at all. I’m sure that was a big help in convincing Benjamin to finally just put his foot down, which, honestly good for him. You go, Benjamin!

11: Ran, bud, chill. I like how you said his free time though-my first thought was that he immediately finished a book and went over to glare at them. Probably not true, but a hilarious mental image. Very glad Watson has reassured the fishermen-how did Ranbob react to that worry of theirs?

12: Ran’s actions are pretty understandable, but still a bit sad. How does Ranbob feel about them? Is he resigned? Determined? Upset?

13: Adventure! Into possibly dangerous places! How fun! Can’t wait to see where it goes. What do they see? What’s the first stop? How long are they heading off?

14: He won’t stop? Like, potentially will work himself into the ground won’t stop? Ran just picks up his members like blocks. And, oh boy. Ranbob wanting to go back to Dream? That’s just. Oof. Very much oof. How do the fishermen deal with that, and how do they feel about it?

15: Ran sounds like he’s had a less than enjoyable time out there. Do these hunters ever go after them once they leave Subbin? Do they target Ranbob? I mean, he’s another Endermen hybrid, and one who definitely isn’t as skilled as Ran, or as used to them. He’d be a much easier target.

So Karl’s gonna come in towards the end. Nice. Ran was also affected by Dream? How so? Obviously less than his brother, but did he ever notice? Did Ranbob? Sounds like it’d be a good final showdown, over all.

As for that pet raven, may I offer some suggestions? You could give one to Jackie and Grievous, so it can help them cause havoc, or maybe one to Benjamin, so it can help him keep an eye on his dorks. Maybe even Cletus, to help snag things, and mess with people, or Isaac, maybe to help find things. Even Watson, or one of the brothers, to help keep watch over their groups. Really, you could give any of these guys a raven. Depending on said bird’s personality, it could fit anywhere. Just depends on what you want to do with it.

I completely agree with you, we need more Tales AUs. Ranbob and Ran did come from what was basically a city of historians, perhaps you could use that to tie in the other Tales? Or even have them across the old ruins of areas on their adventure. Even chunk in more time travel, via Karl or otherwise, if you want to toss in more characters.

Ranbob pretty much starts over then. Good for him. How does Ran feel about that? Actually, who was Ran’s idol, and his general life on Mizu, before the Dream incident?

Other questions:

One thing I’d like to know is how the groups react to each other’s experiences and general life styles. Like for one, Ranbob and the fishermen generally seem more physically affectionate with each other, while Ran and the gladiators seem fairly less so, but no less close.

For another, the fishermen probably still remind Ranbob to eat or sleep, which would probably seem a bit confusing for the gladiators. How much do they know about both sides? Obviously enough for them to want to help get the brothers back together, but like.

How much do the gladiators believe Ranbob’s side. Are they wary, or skeptical, or do they believe it completely, and if so, why?

How long was Ran left running, evading hunters, and how has that affected him? How many times do both brothers say something concerning, and how do they react to what the other says?

You’ve said Ranbob occasionally relapses and wants to return to Dream. Does this happen on the trip? And if so, how do the gladiators react to such a thing-depending on how much they know about the whole thing, I can imagine mixed reactions. How does Ran react?

How do both groups react to the new endermen hybrids? They seem to have dealt with different instincts before now, so seeing Ranbob trail the fishermen and Ran just pick up the gladiators must be a bit strange.

What can Ranbob keep down? Not only was Dream in control, and not particularly careful with his body, but supplies were probably also somewhat limited when he did eat. So how has that affected him?

Are there any nicknames within in the groups? How do the gladiators react to the schedule change, considering they had set times for so much before? How do the fishermen react to the new areas? What habits are/become shared, and what habits are restricted to one group.

In general, just...how the fishermen and the gladiators differ in lifestyles, basically.

For another, in one of the earlier post, you mentioned both Isaac and Cletus wanted to return to Mizu. Isaac kind of gives me a historian vibe himself, or some sort of archaeologists. Just a kind of person who wants to learn about history-perhaps something to do with the fact that he was played by Karl, and the whole time traveler thing.

But anyway, what exactly did those two want to do down there? Explore, learn, steal?

And how would you say everyone’s personalities are like? Will you be introducing anymore characters, Tales or otherwise. It’d be interesting to see a Pit version of Tommy, or Puffy, or such.

How does Ran react when he finally accepts the truth, and what exactly pushes him to that?

Hope this isn’t too many questions. I’m pretty invested, not gonna lie.

And seriously, I don’t mind the length. Long or short, I’m really just happy to hear more about your AU, and I look forward to more.

#dream smp #Brothers AU #dream smp au #ranbob #tales from the smp #ran #jackie #watson #grievous #cletus #isaac #benjamin #karl jacobs

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falling-fineline · 3 years

Text

Rest It On Your Fingertips

(Cake Hoodings one shot)

hi! you can call me elle!

this is my first cake ever one-shot!

ive never written anything like this before so please be kind and i did write this in 2 days while i was high and horny and thinking about calum and luke.

the following one shot does have references to self-harm so tread lightly.

other than that, this is just a angsty smutty fluffy mess! hope you like it! please reblog or like this post if you do or you can read it on ao3

come talk with me! im swear i dont bite! xx

“Heeeeey, you said I could have the last puff,” Luke whines, sticking out his bottom lip.

Even from right beside him as he pulls on the rooch, eyes hooded, Calum can see how chewed up his boyfriend’s bottom lip is. His teeth working relentlessly ever since the two of them started smoking after their show. For a brief moment, Calum wonders why the other was so nervous as he turns to face luke on the bed, slowly mo0ving his left hand to grasp Luke’s chin. Leaning in, the older bloke blew the last of their shared joint into the other's lips.

Calum’s lips lingered on luke’s for just a moment before he leant back on the headboard, admiring Luke’s side profile as he exhales out slowly, the smoke curling around in the air in front of them. Casted by the low lamp light, Luke’s nose looks more fairy-like against the stark shadows.

Luke hums contently, eyes closed, a huge grin on his lips. Luke tilts his head back as he too leaned back against the headboard, relaxing into the wooden board as the high seeps through him. He’s on the good side of buzzed, feeling warmth circling through his veins, slouching further into the mattress.

Calum glances and notices that Luke has his eyes closed. Feeling unusually brave, (probably from the weed), Calum leans in and licks a bold strip up the side of Luke’s left cheek. His tongue runs along Luke’s beard, getting a loud open-mouthed laugh bursting out of the blond.

“That tickles!” Luke’s shaking shoulders from his laughter bumps into calum’s black vest cladded chest.

Luke’s black leather jacket hung in the bathroom to air dry out the smells of a 2 hour show. The blond lad’s red silk button up looked blood red under the warm hotel room lights. Calum can’t help but run his hands slowly down from Luke’s chin, trailing down the button band, first through Luke’s chest hair, fingers moving on to clink his finger nails against the bottoms, small clacking sounds is barely heard over the sound of music that’s playing from calum’s Bluetooth speaker.

Luke’s eyes flutter open as he senses the warmth radiating off calum’s hands casting over his chest as it hovers there, actions paused for a moment.

Today was Calum and Luke’s one month anniversary of when Calum asked a shy looking luke out, a blush painted on the blond’s cheeks as the younger lad had nodded fervently with a huge his playing on his lips. His lips. Which were nervously being bitten. Why was he nervous? It could be because of the conversation they had this morning.

Luke had clung longer than usual when they had their morning cuddles. When Calum asked his boyfriend what was on his mind, the blond took a breathe and answered into calum’s stomach.

“I want us to finally have sex tonight..After the show. Like all the way. I want to celebrate tonight. I want you in me, Cal.” Luke’s voice had tapered off toward the end, getting more and more anxious the longer he went on. Calum had scooped Luke into his arms and hugged him tight, lifting the other off their feet. Luke had laughed open mouthed like he does when he’s happy.

Fast forward to now, where Calum can clearly see the blond’s growing bulge that’s hidden under cotton white Calvin klein briefs. Clearly ready for their first time together. Calum noticed that Luke always got horny when they got high. Whereas Calum got mellow, calmer, more observant of his surroundings. And it wasn’t until recently that Calum caught on that yes Luke was affectionate but he was also trying to flirt with Calum when he was high. Having the edge off from the weed had helped Luke’s courage and self-esteem a lot.

Calum had also noticed that Luke’s hands unconsciously played with the bottom hems of his briefs, pulling them down further his pale thighs whenever they rode up from movement.

“What’s got my pretty boy’s head all worked up?” Calum asked the blond lad across from him. Both hands coming down to hold and steady Luke’s nervous pair. Although every other part of look is hot to the touch, his hands remain cold. Poor circulation do to his nerves probably.

“I’m nervous of how you’ll… react.” Luke said into his chest, head bowed down to hide his face from Calum’s view. Hands squeezing shut under calum’s tattooed pair.

“React to what?”

In the dim bed side light that’s casting over Luke’s face, it looks as if Luke’s eyes are filled to the brim with tears, holding it back for the sake of show. The blond's cheeks grow hot in embarrassment even though he doesn’t know why because he’s cried in front of Calum before.

“You’re my best friend, bandmate and boyfriend, babe, you can tell me anything that’s on your mind and hopefully I’ll help you alleviate your troubles.” Calum strokes his thumb across the backs of Luke’s hands to try to ease him down, try not to get him too worked up. His other hand came up to stroke across the bottom of Luke’s left eye and swiped some tears away.

“I’d like to keep my shirt on if that’s alright with you.” Luke said firmly, looking up into calum’s eyes to communicate his conviction.

“Of course, whatever you’re comfortable with, pet.”

Luke blushes a light shade of pink at the pet name. And, with new found courage, the blond closes the distance between their lips. Mouths working together, the kiss begins at a slow tempo, hands roaming bodies as lightly as the afternoon wind sweeps over red dessert peaks and valleys. The kiss turns breathless when Calum’s hands wander past Luke’s perky nipples, erected due to the immense pleasure and connection he’s feeling between them. The brunette takes his time kissing down Luke’s torso, nuzzling his face into blond curly chest hair to get a breathless laugh from Luke.

Usually, when the two of them get intimate, it’s usually Calum receiving pleasure while luke eagerly gives it. They have had their fair share of dressing room quick blowjobs. And it’s not that Calum doesn’t have love to give back. He has so much actually, but luke always pushes his hands away or if the blond does get really eager for relief, he keeps his briefs on while Calum sucked him off.

Calum never questioned Luke on why he keeps certain clothes on during sex, but he chalks it up to Luke slowly opening up to him and being more and more comfortable when the two of them get intimate.

So when Calum goes to remove Luke’s briefs, he looks up to the blond and asks “Is it alright if I take this off for you?”

Calum can feel the blond’s muscles tighten then release for a moment before he answers with a quiet “yes”.

Agonizingly slow, Calum takes off Luke’s briefs, Luke lifting up his bum to help his boyfriend with the process. When they get settled again, Luke’s briefs thrown beside the bed, Calum finally understands why Luke had been nervous about. Or really, Calum sees them.

Thin messy white lines of healed scar tissue line Luke’s inner thighs, strokes beside one another in a somewhat orderly fashion. Not one of them are any longer than 5cm in length, but the sheer amount of them made beside one another is jarring. Calum feels Luke’s eyes on him as the brunet takes it all in.

“Y-you don’t have to… pay any mind to them.” Luke’s voice trembles a bit as his left hand goes to grab a hold of calum’s hand, grasping it tightly.

Calum’s eyes are filled with unshed tears as he softly uses his free hand to stroke over the fading scars. There’s roughly 30 odd lines riddled into Luke’s fleshy skin, on each thigh.

In a quiet whisper, Calum asks “Can I know when it started?”

Luke answers a while later. “The breakup with her was hard for me to… process. And then when we came off tour, I was all alone in my house and I-… it was like I was in my own personal purgatory. It was Ashton that actually found me in my bathroom,” The blond gulps, eyes casted downwards. “after I had cut myself particularly too hard, I had panicked and called Ash. He came into my house but for a while I didn’t open the bathroom door for him. I was so ashamed. I was scared too though. So the fear brought me to opening the door for Ash and when he saw how pale I was, how unwell I was, he asked me to move in with him for a while. Until I got back on my feet.”

The blond lulled his head until it landed in the crooks of calum’s shoulder. Calum leans his head into Luke’s for a moment then speaks.

“Luke Hemmings, I love you so damn much. You are the strongest person I know and you’ve come so far. So so far. You are a bright light in my life that I look forward to seeing and loving every single day. So Luke, will you let me take care of you tonight?” Calum’s hands start to sweat as he waits for the blond to answer.

“Yeah, alright.” Luke whispers, closing his eyes as he moves to get settled on the bed with a pillow put behind his head.

Calum’s about to stick his pointer finger into his mouth to lube it up with spit when Luke’s eyes snap open and he grabs a hold of calum’s hand mid air. Luke slowly recloses his eyes as he sticks calum’s pointer finger into his mouth, pink lips surrounding his knuckle. A low moan is hummed around calum’s finger as Luke lows down at Calum, where he’s lying his head on Luke’s hip, eyes hooded but Calum can see a glassy sheen to Luke’s eyes that tell him that he’s feeling mighty good right now.

That sparkle in his eyes, coupled with the low moans emitting from the blond’s mouth has got Calum frantically giving himself a quick squeeze to relieve some pressure.

Taking his finger out of Luke’s mouth, Luke eagerly watches his boyfriend strategically lube his other fingers with the slick split luke provided. Once Covered optimally, in one swift motion, Calum inserts a lubed up pointer finger into Luke’s hole as his mouth grabs a hold of Luke’s dick and swallows him down, sliding his finger in matching the slow pace.

Luke’s eyes are glued to the brunet, mesmerized, as his boyfriend enthusiastically bobs up and down his hardened cock, slick with spit. Calum pops off Luke’s cock and starts jerking him off in a more rapid pace, his fingers gaining speed. Somewhere between Calum playing with Luke’s balls and Luke, he swears to God, moaning out calum’s name when his fingers curve and hit his prostate, calum’s got 3 fingers in luke.

“so…fucking deep” A moan breaks out at the end of his sentence and Luke’s hips jerk up unconsciously, trying to shove his cock into the back of calum’s throat.

Calum’s gagging on it, sloppy sounds emit from the bed that would make anyone blush if heard. Calum loves how Luke’s fully letting himself feel the high and the pleasure of being pleased for once. A silent moan fits on the blond’s lips as he says “I need you, right now, please” It comes out like a breatheless whine towards the end but seeing luke ask for what he wants is turning calum on more than he thought was possible. Calum let’s Luke’s dick slip out of his pink overworked mouth to speak.

“you want my cock in you, pet?” calum’s voice is hoarse and so fucked out it’s the hottest thing Luke’s every heard. Calum takes out his 3 fingers, just to shove them back up to his knuckles as his tongue licks a strip up Luke’s being cock, pre cum spewing from the tip and onto his stomach. Luke’s hazy mind didn’t register the question that was directed towards him until a moment later. Luke’s gaze wanders from his dick up to calum’s moving mouth, and sees his own pre cum is gathered by the side of calum’s left side of his lips. Luke feels himself get impossibly harder at the raunchy sight.

“what?” Luke asks, speech delayed.

“I asked if you’re ready for me now, babe.” Calum sits up, adjusting his seating position so his own erection isn't squished. Luke was so caught up in his own pleasure that he forgot about his boyfriend.

A frown forms on the blond’s lips as he reaches for calum’s bulge. “Baby, I’m sorry I-“ Calum kindly swats Luke’s sloth like hands away before he cuts him off.

“I said that I’ll take care of you tonight, didn’t I? So that’s what I’m gonna do, will you let me?” Calum brings a hand to run through the blond locks in front of him.

Luke nods, so Calum takes his hand out of Luke’s hair, sets it beside his head on the pillow. The other hand jerks himself off a few strokes. Lining up his cock, Calum leans down to kiss Luke as he pushes in slowly, to the hilt.

A low groan escapes from Luke’s mouth as a moan comes out of calum’s as he resists the urge to pull out to pump back in again so early.

“You feeling alright, love?” Calum breathes the words onto Luke’s lips as the blond nods and says “Move.”

Calum wastes no time and pumps into Luke like all the times he’s fantasized about this moment in locker room showers.

Luke’s got his eyes scrunched shut, his legs bouncing around calum’s round hips. Soft “uh uh uh’s” stream out of luke’s pink lips. Luke tightens his legs around Calum, all while he sticks his tongue down calum’s throat, wrapping both hands around calum’s neck, holding him there for a moment.

They kiss fervently, Like tasting himself on calum’s lips. They kiss as if tomorrow will never come and tonight is the last chance to show their love for each other. Calum shifts his hips, circling them in a way that’s got them both moaning a string of curse words at the pleasure.

The sounds of skin slapping on slick skin echo around the walls as the sounds of harry styles’ tune Medicine starts to play.

Here to take my medicine, take my medicine

Treat you like a gentleman

Give me that adrenaline, that adrenaline

I think I’m gonna stick with you

Here to take my medicine, take my medicine

Rest it on your fingertips

Up to your mouth, feeling it out

Feeling it out

Calum swirls his tongue around Luke’s mouth, playing tag with the blond’s active tongue.

I had a few, got drunk on you and now I’m wasted

And when I sleep I’m gonna dream of how you tasted

Calum’s steady rhythm rocks into Luke, a rhythmic thud can be heard as the headboard bangs against the wall.

If you go out tonight, I’m going out ‘cause I know you’re persuasive

You got that something, I got me an appetite, now I can taste it

We’re getting dizzy, oh, we’re getting dizzy, oh

La la la la la

You get me dizzy, oh, you get me dizzy, oh

Luke begins stroking his own cock, his mind muddle by the weed and absolute euphoria he felt running through his veins. Heat began to gather in his stomach as his orgasm began to build.

Tingle running through my bones, fingers to my toes

Tingle running through my bones

The boys and the girls are in

I mess around with him

And I’m okay with it

“Where to do want me to cum?” Calum pants into Luke’s right ear, hips never tiring their movements as they ram into the blond’s hole, skin slapping on skin.

I’m coming down, I figured out I kinda like it

And when I sleep I’m gonna dream of how you ride it

“cum inside me, please cal, I want you to cum inside, I want your load in me god I want it so bad please please please.” Luke sounds so gone, speaking mindlessly, words meshing into the next, slurring speech. Calum pulls back his head and sees that Luke’s already looking at him. His blue eyes are bleary, constantly glancing from side to side, trying to focus on calum’s warm brown ones. Pupils blown, can barely see where the baby blues have gone in the heat of ecstasy. Sweat seeps into the pillow under luke’s head, moisture on his forehead. Curls unruly and matted against his face. Mouth hanging open has he’s pounded by his boyfriend. Luke Hemmings looking like this, fucked out and on the edge of climax, was a sight for calum’s sore eyes only.

If you go out tonight, I’m going out ‘cause I know you’re persuasive

You got that something, I got me an appetite, now I can taste it

We’re getting dizzy, oh, we’re getting dizzy, oh

La la la la la

You get me dizzy, oh, you get me dizzy, oh

I had a few, got drunk on you and now I’m wasted

Luke cums with a shout of calum’s name, eyes scrunched shut as his body spasms with pleasure. He paints his stomach with his spunk, white goop sticky on his stomach and chest. Although he slumps back onto the bed a little bit, he pulls calum’s head down beside his and starts whispering into the brunet’s ear, under the sound of music playing.

If you go out tonight, I’m going out ‘cause I know you’re persuasive

You got that something, I got me an appetite, now I can taste it

We’re getting dizzy, oh, we’re getting dizzy, oh

La la la la la

You get me dizzy, oh, you get me dizzy, oh

“I want you to fill me up, Cal, release your load into me, let me milk you out cal, milk you out with my tight tight hole. I wanna feel you pulse in me cal, Calum, Mmm.” Calum pumps one final time before he buries his face into the crook of Luke’s neck, teeth grabbing onto flex as he cums inside Luke’s hole, teeth biting down momentarily. That’s going to leave a mark. Oops.

As they both come down from their highs, Calum pulls out of Luke slowly. White spunk drip out of Luke’s hole into a small puddle onto the bed sheets.

Luke cuddles into calum’s shoulder, chest rising evenly as it falls with each breath he takes. Minds coming down from their own orgasmic highs.

“Thanks for that. I felt so good. So..loved.” Luke blushes a bit at his remark, then a small grin settles on his lips. He turns around onto his stomach, still lying on Calum. Calum eyes crinkle before he speaks.

“I love you and I want you to know that your light shines brighter than the gold glitter you put on your eyelids before you go on stage. Your light is so unique and irreplaceable. I look forward to loving you more and more each day so please, stay.” Calum annunciates the last word with a soft peck of his lips against the blond’s.

Luke does continue on. Staying by calum’s side, in the band, in the world. He surrounds himself with the loved ones he had once convinced himself that they didn’t love him back. He is well loved by all, especially Calum.

Some days are harder than the others, with Luke bed ridden for days on end. Boxes upon boxes of tissues are used up to soak up at the tears he’s got to shed. Or he’d be numb out of his mind, staring out the bus window, trying to actually See what’s in front of himself and not just noticing it.

Other times, he takes petunia out for walks and works out with Calum and goes to the studio with Ash and plays Mario Kart with Michael.

Luke takes it one day at a time.

#cake hoodings #cake 5sos #cake #luke hemmings #5 seconds of summer #calum hood #self harm #established relationship #smut #drabble #one shot #breakdown #fanfic #RIOMFT

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dumbsnakefan · 4 years

Text

Thou Shalt Love

Chapter 2: In You I Take Refuge

A/N: This took longer than expected but here it is! Also, if you want me to tag you in the next chapter please let me know!

Hidden away in a small Inn in a town surrounded by only nature, Nea watched over Allen’s prone figure. A thin layer of sweat covered his nephew’s body from exertion. His mind still tried to fight the inevitable of his awakening. Well, Nea supposed that Allen was too stubborn to ever give in so easily. Not that it wouldn’t make a difference in the end. The Noah memories were like an unrestrained storm as they tore into the brain.

Letting out an aggravated sigh Nea said to himself, “Why did that bastard Cross have to die on me like that? He always manages to piss me off.” His eye twitched as he remembered the debts the man had hoisted upon his former host. Despite all his hatred for the General there were too many questions left unanswered. From what Timcanpy had shown him Allen had forgotten everything. What’s more, he had gotten younger. It was like trying to put together a puzzle without most of the pieces.

Had Cross not had answers for that at least Nea could have used his magical skills. That four eyed idiot had done something strange and outside his own abilities. As best he could figure, however, their “separation” hadn’t accounted for the Noah gene. He could laugh if not for the absolute mess of it all.

There was something strange about this memory as well. It was like none of the others as far as he could tell. Allen’s inner Noah was swaddling him in a thorny embrace, like a babe in need of protection. Compared to his own, a destructive thing that had him clawing at his skin in agony, it was soft. Nea felt an urge to pull his nephew close and never let go again. The strangeness of Allen’s memory was oddly fitting.

Lacking any new information to dissect Nea could only move on to other things. Specifically how the Noah family would react to this. Like Nea they had to have felt the surge of a new memory breaking into the world. They would want to pull him away from the dreaded 14th as soon as they could, lest he “corrupt” their new brother. A smile stretched across Nea’s lips as he swore to keep his dearest friend by his side.

What a family reunion they’d be having. If Mana had any real sanity left Nea would have liked to share one last tender moment before the end. Fate and that detestable God were not so kind as to give any Noah such a merciful gift though. They would forever seek to destroy them for being in the way. Should Nea succeed he would put an end to their farce. His brother would be freed at long last.

Keeping Allen far away from this whole affair was very important. The attachment he’d formed with Mana could turn into a crushing weight when the truth was revealed. Those bonds of father and son were already so entangled with tragedy; Nea wouldn’t let another disaster play out. Mana’s insanity could drag them all down if left unchecked.

From what Timcanpy had shown of Allen’s time as Red, his brother had been attached at the hip with him. Nea knew that he’d forgotten it all just by the way he treated his nephew. That didn’t mean that Mana wasn’t drawn to him, oh no. Even when not a wisp of Nea’s presence had been visible the Earl had targeted Allen. Drawn like a moth to a flame, they circled each other. Now under the calming lull of the Noah memory inside Allen Mana would chase him wholeheartedly.

Then there was the other Noah to consider. Road and Joyd seemed to have the strongest bond with Allen of the family. While the others weren’t as close, they all appeared interested when interacting with him. Being a true part of the family could only grow their connection. It made Nea sick just thinking about it. The need to keep Allen close and out of their grubby hands echoed from his own Noah.

Wasn’t keeping Allen by his side the best way to make sure he was safe? Those disgusting roaches that scuttled about the Order were still searching for Allen. Nea had seen how easily they had hurt their beloved comrade. All throughout the past Timcanpy had shown Nea there had been pain. His nephew’s past was a constant spiral of suffering. Taking him away from the world that was so ready to tear him apart could only be a kindness.

Tension had built to a boiling point in Nea’s body and he forced himself to release it. In an attempt to calm down he scouted closer to the bed. A new bead of blood pooled along Allen’s stigmata that Nea wiped away. Unconsciously he pushed into the contact. Warmth bloomed in Nea’s chest. Seeing his dearest friend like this, utterly peaceful, was something he’d truly missed.

His senses registered the Noah memory shift from it’s dormant state and Nea braced for another wave of pain. More blood flowed down from Allen’s forehead as he became restless. The once lax expression of sleep twisted in pain. That’s when the screaming started, scratching Allen’s throat raw. It was hard not to wince at the sheer volume of his screams.

As the screams faded out Nea felt a new presence join them. Annoyed and reluctant to leave Allen’s side Nea turns to face the intruder. Standing before him is the Demon Eye, expression a mask of indifference. Rage so obviously simmers behind the facade but Nea finds it as threatening as a wet kitten.

His smile is packed full of malice as he says, “Didn’t know they’d let you come alone to see me kid.” The twitch of annoyance from Wisely’s reincarnation is so sweet. “You’d think with how easily I killed you last time you would all be a bit more careful.” Bloodlust oozes off Nea in waves, making the air thick with it.

Only when Allen’s scream rise back up does he stop. Nea is so tempted to return to his side to comfort him. The possibility of an attack is what holds him back. Wisely would be more than happy to slit his throat and take Allen away for good; or at least attempt to. There was no way Nea would give him that kind of opening.

“Would it kill you to be nicer, dearest 14th? I’m here to give you some friendly advice after all.” The moniker has Nea gnashing his teeth. He knows that smug bastard is enjoying himself. What an asshole.

Tilting his head Wisely says, “Like you’re one to talk. You really hold the title of world's biggest asshole.” Of course the little creep was reading his mind. Even in his new life Wisely refused to learn what privacy means.

Moving closer to the other Noah, Nea glares down with cold eyes. “Cut this bullshit and tell me why you’re really here.”

“We won’t let you keep him from us.” The brat dares to step closer to Allen and Nea watches him like a hawk for a single misstep. “You can’t hide no matter how hard you try. Someday soon we’ll bring our brother home, where he belongs.”

Something in Nea snaps. Anger grips his heart like a vice. Unwilling and unable to hold back, he shoots towards Wisely. His hand wraps around the bastard's neck. Blood drips from where his fingernails bite into WIsely’s skin as Nea squeezes his windpipe. The choked panic gives him no satisfaction. Painting the walls red with his blood is what he needs now.

His grip tightens, drawing a wheeze from the pathetic Noah. “He’s mine. Allen is mine.” Nea says with unhinged glee. “You can never take him from me. I’ll kill every single one of you if you try.”

It’s only when a burst of stabbing pain sweeps over Nea’s mind that he returns to reality. He let’s go reluctantly, Wisely falling at his feet. Such a shame he couldn’t kill him, but Nea is patient. Now is not the right time to crush Wisely beneath his foot. Later he’ll make sure to make his end painful.

Between satisfying coughing fits Wisely manages to bite out, “Ru-Road said to, guh, give you a warning for old t-times sake.” The venom behind the glare he gives Nea is almost impressive. “Shouldn’t have listened to her. You deserve to watch as your world crumbles around you and you fail.” It makes him laugh, the thought that Nea would lose to the likes of him.

Wisely’s face twists up in amusement. Nea keeps himself in check as he moves towards Allen. Fighting this close to Allen could only end in disaster. Even as the rat bastard patted his nephew’s head he held back. Truly, his restraint was worthy of the highest praise.

“I can’t wait to see what our new brother is capable of. He was already such an interesting human...” The little shit was lost in his own mind as he brushed hair off Allen’s forehead. It’s a herculean effort on Nea’s behalf to stay his hand. Perhaps killing him was worth the risk after all?

However, what Wisley said next stopped him dead in his tracks. “I do wonder why the Earl is already so attached to Allen?” What? No, this can’t possibly be happening; it’s too early. “I knew that you’d have answers. There’s something slipping just outside my reach, no matter how hard I search.”

Desperately Nea snaps his mind shut to leave only unrelated drivel in its wake. He needs to throw the Demon Eye Noah off his scent. Now. “Why don’t you ask Mana yourself?” The wince he gets is a good sign. Raising his voice and stepping into Wisley’s space Nea tells him, “Now get out of my sight.”

Gold meets gold as they assess each other for weakness. Finding nothing, Wisley moves to finally leave them be. With every step Nea feels better. On the threshold of the door, however, he turns back. Body going tense Nea prepares for whatever the creep plans to throw his way next.

“Before I go, you might want to find a new hiding place. There are some Akuma out there who aren’t very good a t playing nice.” An Explosion rocks the building, punctuating his statement. The string of curses that Nea lets out would have a sailor blushing. “Hope you enjoy yourself 14th!” His smug face watches on as Nea fumbles for their things. The Ark gate behind him swallows Wisely up but Nea pays it no mind.

Screams fill the air in a terrible crescendo of horror. With Allen out of commision Nea can only run. Scooping up his struggling nephew Nea makes sure Tim grabs their luggage. Ignoring the town below he calls up his own gate and the three disappear from sight. The humans left behind in that remote town are mowed down with mercy. Chaos creeps around every corner and the scent of blood blankets the air in a red mist. No one will discover the scene of pure carnage until weeks later.

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xxxtrouvaillexxx · 4 years

Text

Paper Cranes

A/N: I swear that I’m working on the first chapter of LSaD, I plan to have it out by THIS Saturday! I promise that it’s coming! In the mean time, I’ve been working on this piece for a hot minute and it’s kind of just been sitting around in my drafts and in the back of my head. So~ while you wait, here is a little something something to keep the waters calm. And I needed a little something to deal with quarantine.

Pair: Bucky x Reader (platonic)

Synopsis: Y/N is an empath... More specifically, a healer with empathic abilities, which leads to from very severe trauma for y/n but you’d never stop helping your team for the world. Even when that trauma leads you to spend a night on to roof in tears and a very heated talk with your best friend Bucky.

Masterlist

Warning(s): angst (I’m a sucker for it...), an alarming amount of fluff, as usual.

Word Count: 3,931

The Tower has been bustling with life ever since the city closed down, or more aptly, the world as it seems. Every single one of the Avengers, other than Barton himself, was closed up in the same building for the last three weeks, and the air was becoming more restless every day. And the more anxious it became inside of these walls, the world was still doing worse for wear.

You, feeling all of that, felt all of your own worries too. Not that you let anyone in on that little fact. You’re the personal on-site doctor to the Avengers along with being one of the hero’s themselves, though you had no real special power to name in the ways of fighting. You simply were rather good at kicking bad guy butt and were a rather well-known assassin with the Black Widow herself.

And though the two of you are as close as sisters, she doesn’t even know about your ability.

“Lady Y/N!”

You whipped your head around so quickly at Thor’s booming voice, you could have sworn that you’d given yourself whiplash, but you managed to give the large man a large grin and match his excitement.

“Thor!”

Laughing, he scooped you up and off of the floor in a tight hug as if you were light as a feather. If there was anyone who, throughout the entire time of being shut up in a building with the worlds most lovably irritating heros, could keep spirits high, it was Thor. The man was like a giant teddy bear, to be frank. You could swear that the only time you ever see him get intensely serious about an issue is during a mission, and it surely wasn’t anything you were going to start complaining about now.

Letting you down again to stand on your own feet, he grinned widely and with mischief.

“I require a bit of aid, I’m afraid. Sparring with the two super soldiers seems to be only a tad bit more interesting without the use of powers.”

“Don’t let him fool you, doll. We pummeled him and he doesn’t want to admit it,” Bucky said from the doorway. Steve was coming up from behind him with a smile too.

“Well, it seems you boys have had an eventful morning then.” The humor was obvious in your voice and they all laughed, Thor of course boomed.

“Indeed!”

“Well, how can I assist you three then?”

“Just Thor today, actually. He thought it would be funny to go easy on us old geezers. Lessons learned,” Steve said grinning as he passed you with a pat on the shoulder to the kitchen.

Thor after, another, belly full of laughter, showed you the bruises that now littered his arms and torso. There were no major wounds, and it looked like it was just hand to hand sparring, though if it were anyone other than Thor the damage would have been far worse coming from the two super soldiers.

Shaking your head, you smiled and pointed him to the couch. “You might as well get comfortable while we do this. You’ve got enough bruises to keep me busy for a week,” you joked and sat down beside him. “You know the drill, eyes closed and deep breaths.”

He followed your orders without complaint and you rested your hands against his chest first and matched your breathing to his and felt the steady stream of power flow through you. It was light, airy and cool, shining a beautiful gold from your fingertips in waves. But as gorgeous as it looked, this amazing power to heal the injured was a double-edged blade.

As soon as the marks on his skin began to fade and return to its normal color, images of their match flashed in your mind. Every punch and kick that Thor received felt like a blow of your own. Needless to say, you figured it hurt a lot more for you than it had for the god in front of you. Even if you knew that you didn’t physically attain any of the damage, it didn’t dull the sharp pains that coursed through your body.

The reason you always made them close their eyes before healing them of anything, an illness, battle wounds, haunting dreams, or trauma, was because it was easier than trying to force down every wince and grimace. Sometimes it just seemed impossible, which is also the reason you tried to keep healing sessions like this to more personal settings, not that that was always possible.

After a few measured deep breaths to match with Thor’s, you moved onto his arms and repeated the process. It didn’t take long, and by the time you were finished the sharp pains had faded into something of a dull throbbing. Though you didn’t imagine that would stop anytime soon.

“I feel like a brand new man! Thank you, Lady Y/N!” He grinned and launched himself into another suffocating hug before turning to the men in the kitchen. “I will remember to not pull my punches with you two the next time around!”

“We’ll look forward to your next challenge then. But don’t go crying to Y/N next time you get your ass handed to you,” Bucky hollered back.

“Hey! Language!” You exclaimed with a laugh when you heard Steve grumble and say something about needing to forget that moment ever happened… Not that any of you ever would, of course.

You all sat around for a while before Steve went off to speak with Tony about something or another and Thor decided to find and pester his brother. ‘Which I’m sure I’ll have the pleasure to hear about later from Loki himself’, you thought with a chuckle. And soon enough it was just you and Bucky left in the kitchen sharing a peaceful silence and tea for several minutes.

The two of you had grown particularly close over the time since he’s come to the tower and in Wakanda. He was one of your closest friends next to Natasha. Because of that, you took extra care of him not that you’d ever tell him that. You took extra time with him in the evenings and during routine checkups to help him with his nightmares and the general horrors his mind puts him through. You’d be sure to brush your hand across his skin periodically throughout the day subtly to draw out any built up worries and anxieties and he usually stayed pretty close by when he was feeling extra tense.

Of course, there was a part of you that dreaded his checkups and the late nights. Not because that you didn’t want to help him, but the pain that it caused you was sometimes almost to much for you to handle. His memories that flooded through your mind when you touched, the phantom pains you’d feel... You couldn’t understand how anybody could ever do something so absolutely horrible, least of all to another human being. And it was almost incomprehensible how Bucky had managed to survive so long after all of it, but you had managed to tie that to the fact that he was the strongest man you knew.

But no matter how much you may dread those visits and the things that followed, you would never stop helping him. And you would never tell him the truth about your power. You doubted that he’d ever let you continue if he knew what it did.

“I think everyone is going out for joyride tonight, you plan on joining?” He interrupted your thoughts with a warm voice and kind smile.

“Not likely. I think I’ll just take the evening for myself. If everyone goes out, it might actually be quite around here for a change,” you chuckled. “What about you?”

“I haven’t decided yet, but Steve is trying pretty hard to get me out this time around.”

“So, probably then?”

He laughed and nodded, “Yeah, probably.”

“Where do they plan on going, anyway? Everything is shut down right now, so there isn’t much to do,” you asked. And it was true, with a global pandemic going around, everything was basically closed down until further notice everywhere.

He shrugged and looked to the ceiling, “Who knows. Stark thought it would be a good idea to get the quinjets out and running before they sit around to long and need a toon up. And he thought it would be good for moral if we weren’t all cooped up in the tower again for another night together.”

You guffawed and shook your head. “Oh? And having everyone cooped up in the jets is going to be so much better for team moral, huh? Tell me how that works out for him.”

»»-———————-««

It was roughly 11:30 now, and everyone was still out of the tower and flying around Lord knows where and you were in the tower alone. It had been nearly two months since these halls last ran silent except for the sound of your own footsteps. Nearly two months sinces you could freely express all of the pent up rage, and fear, and pain, and anxiety that has been building up inside of yourself.

On most if not all occasions, you were a very happy person. You enjoyed your work and the people you work with. You loved your family and friends, and the world even with all of its problems... And there were a lot of problems. And normally it would just be enough to spend a day to yourself with a book or a blank canvas and paint to release everything. You tried to always look toward the brighter side of things, but recently- without a way to vent out everything you’ve been taking in, things were to much.

So you found yourself up on the towers roof at almost midnight with tears running down your cheeks and finding it hard to catch your breath. Your chest ached. The instant that the door closed behind you and you were hit with the cool night air it was like everything just rushed out in waves.

You screamed, and wailed, and cried. You let yourself feel everything that you had been burying. Every last punch, kicks, knife and bullet, nightmare. It all came out in coughs and harsh please and grief. For yourself and for the people who went through it all.

“It’s not fair,” you cried. “It’s not fair!”

After what felt like an eternity and your throat was coarse from the yelling and sobs, you felt like there was nothing left to cry. You’d gotten it all out and let go of everything, finally. And you knew you would be able to face everyone tomorrow as yourself rather than the shell of a person you have been until now.

What you didn’t know, was that Bucky was there to witness it all.

»»-———————-««

When you woke up the next morning you felt a great deal better than you had the previous night. Let alone the previous week. In a rather bright mood, you woke early and decided to make breakfast, nothing special because let’s be frank- you weren’t any Gordon Ramsey. But you could make a mean stack of pancakes and eggs.

An hour later, the kitchen was flooded with tired heros and grumbled good mornings. Though you were aware that Bucky seemed to linger in the doorway a little to long and continued to stare at you throughout breakfast. You could practically feel the discomfort and tension poor off of him. He didn’t mention it though so you assumed he wasn’t ready to come to you yet.

It wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to try and handle himself first, be it a nightmare or his own thoughts he tried to take care of it first. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. But you never wanted to try and take that chance from him, so you let him be until he decided for himself.

They all happily ate their share of pancakes, gave thanks in some form or another; hugs, verbally, a slug to the shoulder, the usual. And then everyone dispersed to go about their own day.

By the time that a week went by, you started to become genuinely concerned about Bucky. He was still tense and sticking close to you, but he wouldn’t let himself get close enough for you to touch him and draw out whatever it was that was causing him to be so worried. But he never left your side either. Everytime you left a room, a few minutes later he would follow. It was becoming so apparent that even Natasha said something over dinner, but Bucky didn’t bother to respond.

You didn’t want to take away the option of helping himself if he felt like he could, but he’s never gone longer than two days before saying something to you. It started to make you wonder if you had done something wrong or if he really felt like he didn’t need your help anymore.

Either way, you had to figure it out. The worry was beginning to choke you if you thought about it for to long. So after dinner, you excused yourself from the table and waited in the hall for Bucky to follow.

Sure enough, after a minute he started down the hall too searching for which way you disappeared to.

You showed yourself to him and ignored his apparent surprise, “Are you okay, Bucky? Did something happen?”

His face changed, he looked hurt and sad. Like he couldn’t really bring himself to say anything or absorb what you asked. You waited patiently while he grapled for an answer.

“What?” Was all that he managed to get out.

“Well, you’ve been following me around a lot recently, and you only really stick to my side like this when you need to talk or help with something. But it’s already been a week and you haven’t said anything yet so I was starting to get worried that it was worse than usual or that maybe I did something wrong or that you-”

“That’s supposed to be my line!” He exclaimed, efficiently cutting off my nervous rant and giving me a turn at being confused.

It must of been written all over your face because he quickly continued, “I was there. I saw- I heard you last week on the rooftop! How can you possibly be asking me if I’m alright!?”

Your heart stuttered to a stop at his words and you could practically feel the blood draining from your face. You didn’t even know where begin to explain why or what happened last week.

“Oh...” you trailed off and stepped back. “I didn’t know you were still here. I thought you went with Steve,” you have a humorless chuckle. “I don’t know why you’re so worried about it, I’m alright. Can we just forget about it?”

You knew it was a pathetic attempt to get him to let the problem go, you knew that there was no chance he was going to now that he’s been thinking about it for a week.

“You were begging out there, Y/N. Begging! You can’t just tell me you’re alright and expect me to just let it go like this is nothing!”

You were silent for a long time, taking deep and long breaths to keep yourself calm before taking the corner of his sleeve and dragging him to your room. “We should go somewhere private so we can talk freely.”

He followed you without question.

»»-———————-««

The two of you sat silently for nearly half an hour in your room. You felt completely uncomfortable in the situation. Usually, you were the one who was patiently waiting and comforting someone else while they thought over what they wanted to share or compose themselves. You were used to that, but being on the opposite end of that was new and something you came to learn within the first five minutes that you weren’t particularly fond of.

Finally, Bucky decided to break the silence. “Why do you have so many origami cranes hangin’ in here?”

Your room decor was a bit unconventional, compared to that of everyone else in the tower that is. The room was covered in your own oil paintings, all the ones you deemed should never see the light of day but didn’t get rid of, couches and chairs, bookcases, and of course, countless bunches of paper cranes you’ve hung from the ceiling. Unconventional, maybe. But you loved it anyway.

“There is a myth,” you nearly whispered it but you were sure that he caught the words anyway when he turned toward you.

“Tell me about it?”

You took a deep breath and nodded. “It’s an old Japanese legend. It says that anybody who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by the gods. Some of the old stories even say that you are granted happiness and eternal good luck instead of a wish. But you can use the wish on anything, a recovery to illness or injury for example. Usually they’re made as gifts for special friends or family.”

Standing, you grabbed one of the many strings of cranes and gave it to Bucky. “Cranes in Japan are considered holy creatures and supposedly live for a thousand years. That’s why a thousand cranes are made, one for each year of their life. And there are some stories that even say that all have to be folded within a year and strung together on the same string by the one who is making the wish for it to actually work.” You drifted off and smiled at the strand he held and shrugged.

He stared at you for awhile before he looked around your room again. “All of them are stung on one sting.”

“So the legend goes,” you answered.

“But you have at least a hundred of these hanging around your room,” he awed and shook the his gently.

“53 to be exact. There are 53,142 cranes in this room. I’m working on another one now,” you laughed as his face grew in een more amazement.

The strands all hung next to each other. Currently you had two rows of 25 and one of three. Honestly, it was rather beautiful in your opinion. It created a sort of curtain on one of your walls filled with different colors and stories.

“Why?” He asked softly.

“Because I have a lot of wishes?”

“No. Don’t dodge. You wouldn’t have gone through all of this effort,” he waved toward the curtain, “for yourself alone. So why? How long have you been doing this for?”

“Nearly 15 years? I usually try to fold 10 every night before I go to sleep. You would be disgusted by how much I spend on paper,” you joked but he didn’t break. You groaned, “Fine! It’s because I didn’t know what else to do, okay? People were sad and hurting and scared, I felt it, and I didn’t know what I felt like there wasn’t anything I could do to help them. And so I started to make wishes for strangers mostly, people I felt needed it.”

“Felt?”

You bit your bottom lip and nodded hesitantly. “Or saw depending on the person. And it’s not like I’d ever do it on purpose, I’d just bump into someone and see everything! And I wouldn’t be able get it out of my head. I felt like there wasn’t anything I could do, Bucky. So I wished and wished and wished for them. For everyone.”

He looked at you incredulously, “Y/N... What do you mean, “See everything”?”

You blinked rapidly a few times and grabbed three more of the strands from the wall. “These,” you handed them to him, “are yours. These are the wishes I made for you. And before you say anything, just... Don’t freak out, okay? I didn’t make all of those to upset you, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’m a healer, that’s always been who I am. But for me to be able to use that gift, I have to make physical contact with my patient. And I’ve been blessed to be able to mend body and mind! There isn’t anything in the world that would make me want to give up that gift, Bucky. But when I... touch people- anyone, Wanda, Nat, Thor, a stranger... You- I can see exactly how they got hurt mentally or physically. And I can feel the hurt too, like it were my own.”

You could barely bring yourself to say that last part, and it was barely a murmur as it were, but you knew that he heard it by the way that the color drained from his face and he slouched back a bit.

“Bucky,” you reached out for him but stopped when he flinched away from you. You swallowed harshly and continued, “I don’t hate it Bucky. I prefer it this way, really! It makes it easier for me to understand who I’m helping and more than anything else it brings me closer to them. I’m okay, Bucky.”

“Stop telling me that you’re okay! How could you possibly be after-” he paled more if that were possible as he looked at the four rows of cranes he carried now, “Oh my God. Four years, you’ve seen everyth- You’ve felt everything for four years! Y/N, I-”

“Don’t you dare try to apologise or regret coming to me, James,” you interrupted in a hurry. “If I can breathe then I’m fine. And I will never regret helping you when you needed me. You’ve never done anything wrong. And what you saw last week wasn’t usually how I deal with... Well, everything that gets piled up. Usually I go out for a day to breathe and just let go. It’s just that with everything closed down right now, I hadn’t had the opportunity in months. It got to much, that’s all. It had nothing to do with you, I promise.”

Everything you said seemed to go in one ear and out the other with him. He simply grasped the cranes tighter and refused to make eye contact.

“Bucky,” you whispered again and reached for him one more time and this time, he didn’t turn away. His wave of emotions hit you hard, there were to flashes of images or memories, just feelings of regret and horror and shame and fear. “It’s okay,” you breathed and raised to give him a hug. “It’s okay Bucky.”

Slowly he calmed down, and his emotions subsided into ripples rather than waves. His regret eased along with his fears. He pulled away from you eventually and offered a weak smile, that didn’t necessarily confirm any suspicions that you may have that he was lying or otherwise.

He held up the cranes and smiled, “Thank you, so much, for these.Y/N I can’t ever thank you enough for these, let alone everything else that you’ve done for me. I understand why you would’ve kept this to yourself, if I’d known sooner I’d never had come to you. But because I did- God, I can do things without begin afraid. I can go out with Steve and not freak out, or go through the night without nightmares. I’ve you to thank you for that. You’ve done more for me than I could have ever asked you, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that but-”

You smiled and shook your head, “This, Bucky, is plenty.”

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caroline18mars · 4 years

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A Man On Fire - Chapter 70

From: BJLCubbins

To: HCDeRobiano

Subject: Re: re: Silence is not golden

Harper,

This was never a game for me, never! I'm a little too old to be playing games, when will you finally believe me? I don't know how or if I'm ever gonna win your trust back, but I'm not giving up, no way!

Charles isn't exactly the right man to be talking to, you should be right here talking to me! I don't want to torment you, I somehow needed to put some distance between us, because in spite of what you're thinking, I too am grieving and suffering. I've lost the woman I love so much by my own doing and that is killing me. One part of me is thinking: Harper deserves better, but the other part is saying: no, I'm the right man for her and she is the right woman for me. Making sense? Probably not, I don't know anything anymore, all I know is that I'm as miserable as can be.

Scratch 'maybe' out of your sentence 'maybe I should keep in touch with you', you need to stay in touch with me, life is even harder without your e-mails, no matter how unfiltered and angry they are.

Your exhibition will be amazing, the torment has got nothing to do with that, you're the future of art and that's a fact! When is it?

About the trust issues, it's ripping my heart out that you put me on the same line as your father and Sean, I can understand about them as they always used you and never loved you, but I did..I've loved and still love you Harper. I'll always remember the day I actually met you..it was instant love..

This mail is not like me, it's not eloquent, it's got no rhythm..I'm just hurting so bad, sorry!

Jared

Woww, what? So you're the victim now? Classic! Just fucking classic!

From: HCDeRobiano

To: BJLCubbins

Subject: Re: re: re: Silence is not golden

Jared,

Really? You're gonna be the victim now? The great George Michael once sang: 'guilty feet have got no rhythm', it's the same with feet as with your e-mails then, I guess!

The day you met me? Another fine example to prove my point that you can't commit to one woman! Let me refresh your memory..at the moment we first met, I was flown in as your lightdesigner and I got so much attention from you at the time, while you were constantly flirting with the other me by e-mail. That's when I should have known that you can never be true to one woman, even though I was one and the same but you didn't know that at the time.

Tell me, Jared, who did you really fall in love with, Coco or Harper?

Just..whatever, Jay!

No ‘Harper’, no ‘Coco’, just ‘HC’, just some initials like this was a goddamn business transaction, it's too late, it's too bloody late! I'm done with this arguing, close the chapter for good, lick your wounds and then move on. He swiped her mail away, he couldn't go on, a wave of infinite sadness overwhelmed him and he let himself fall back on the bed and unabashedly cried his eyes out. On the other side of the country, Harper nervously wiped a tear away, don't cry, not here anyway, besides you've done too much of that already, forget what you lost, just gather what you still have even if it's just your pride and walk away, enough fighting, enough damage done on both sides. She switched off her phone, there, the world will still keep turning without me for a few days and if Charles needs me, he knows where I live.

Days later and Jared was just about to go on stage when he got a call from Charles “Jay, have you heard from her?” his friend's worried voice had the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Heard from who?” he knew who he meant but couldn't bring himself to say her name, “Harper! I've been calling, texting, e-mailing her, I even drove to her apartment a couple of times and she seems to have vanished from the face of the earth, I needed the rest of her work yesterday” Charles sounded desperate. “No, I've got her last e-mail over a week ago and to be honest she's no longer my concern” Jared breathed into his phone while microphone wires were attached to him “I've gotta go Charles, I'm about to go on stage” he didn't wait for Charles' reply and handed the phone to Shayla who disconnected the call. Just like he said, not his concern anymore, so what if she was missing? He had banned her out of his thoughts and had gotten through the week more or less ok, surrounding himself with friends and family, and being the center of every party of every day this week and no he had not slept in his own bed for one night but he was a free man right? He didn't need to explain anything to anyone, not anymore. He walked up the small steps of the stage, a wave of heat surrounded him, blinding stroboscopic lights, the box lifted with the pulsating, hypnotic beat of 'Monolith' and the familiar roar of the crowd tugged at every fibre of his body, his eyes connecting with a couple of blue eyes in the frontstage, the eyes of last night's nameless conquest he had fucked. Guilty feet have got no rhythm? Just fuck off De Robiano, you don't know anything about me, you were just a warm and soft cushion for the pushing, nothing more, go ahead and fuck that stupid, sissyboy Nathan, lock yourself up with him and pretend he's the chosen one, the one who understands how that lunatic mind of yours works because I don't give a fuck about you anymore.

There was an urgent knock on the door that pulled her out of her concentration, huh? She jumped off her scaffolding and walked to the door, ohhh her back ached from being in the same position for far too long. “Djeezes fuckin' Christ!” in front of her stood a swearing and cursing Charles “what do you have a fuckin' phone for? I was this close to report you missing! Do you still want that exhibition or do I give your spot to the next big thing I've been putting on hold for a long time now!” he pushed past her, she looked completely clueless, her big brown eyes had big dark circles underneath, she clearly hadn't slept in god knew how long. “Charles..I..” she nervously wiped her hands on her blouse and looked for her phone to tell her the date and the time, “don't you fucking dare to 'Charles' me, I should have had your last pieces two days ago! I've been blowing up your phone and I'm so sick of that voicemail of yours, I've even been round here and you never answer the door” he yelled at her. He stomped around the apartment, the steam was really coming out of his ears when he saw the cord of the door videophone unplugged “how much do you want this, Harper? How fucking much? Because if you're not interested in your future then you tell me right now and I walk! I've got much better things to do with my time and my money than to invest it in some careless, egotistical little wannabe artist”. Harper let herself sink down on a barstool completely gobsmacked, the last couple of days had been about painting day and night to get it all finished, without any distraction and now she had missed her window?

All the yelling he was doing hit her like a brick wall and only intensified her low self esteem of the last couple of days where she had constantly thought that she was a loser and every single one of her paintings was a joke. “I'm sorry..I am..really sorry..” she stuttered and nervously wrang her hands, biting on her lip she tried to keep the frustrated and exhausted tears at bay “I didn't mean to..”. Charles' eyes were still shooting daggers at her “are you actually going to form a coherent sentence? Oh forget it, I'm outta here” he spat and then spun on his heels and stomped over to the door. That's when she completely broke down, silent tears started rolling down her cheeks as she buried her face in her hands, he stopped when he opened the door and in the corner of his eye he saw how silent sobs ripped through her body and it broke his heart. Taking a deep breath, he turned around again and put his hand on her back “don't cry, I didn't mean all that, it was just the adrenalin talking after a crazy couple of days, but I guess the days have been as crazy for you as they were for me..I was so worried..I even called Jared thinking you were with him”. The mention of his name made her lift her head but she didn't say anything, “which was a ridiculous idea..you're obviously painting him out of your system” he whistled between his teeth as he looked around the studio and saw the paintings, one of them was a heartwrenching, hyperrealistic painting of a semi-naked Jared looking right at the spectator with an expression in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat. “And he's singing you out of his system..”.

Hours later in the middle of a sleepless night, Jared took his phone from the bedside table and started scrolling, the reflection of the light made the anonymous lover for the night stir, so he got up and tried to find his way around this girl's house, where was the frikkin' kitchen in this place?. “Charles, it's me..did you find her?” he breathed into his phone as he pulled open the fridge in search of a drink, “I did..” Charles' reply was short and stern, “is she ok?” he had to know, he had felt bad all through the show having cut him off like he had done. “I'm not trying to be rude or anything, Jared, but why do you want to know? you said yourself she is no longer your concern” he breathed into the phone, “I know what I said..I was trying to protect myself..of course I still..” he hesitated before the world 'love' fell from his lips “care..about her”. Charles heard him struggling and pinched the bridge of his nose “I'm gonna be honest here..I worry about her..it's not uncommon for an artist to lock himself away from the world and she needed the time alone to finish everything, but my god Jared, you should see what she has made..it's the strongest, yet most heartbreaking, gutwrenching series of paintings..you have to see it to believe it, it's impossible to describe. It's phenomenal and it's gonna shoot her to the top of the art world but..aside from all that she's just not ok, she's desperately trying to be but that's one damaged cookie”. Shivers ran up and down Jared's spine, Harper..god, Harper..you stupid, harsh, tough, wonderful, gorgeous, amazing creature, I am trying so desperately to forget you and push you away, but you're always there in the pit of my heart and right behind my eyes no matter how much I try to fuck you out of my system. “Can you put me on the guestlist?” he blurted it out before he could change his mind, “Jared, I don't think..” Charles bit his lip, was confrontation what she needed or even wanted? Hell no! “..ok, I'll tell them to add your name to the list even though I'm probably gonna regret this for the rest of my life, just for the love of everything that's dear to me, don't you dare start a frikking World War III down here, she'll hate me more than enough already knowing you're there”. Jared exhaled like he had been holding his breath for too long “I won't, I promise, I'm not coming down to confront her, besides she won't even have to know I'm there, I'll hide somewhere so she won't have to see me, I just want to see her work”.

#jared leto #jared leto fanfiction #jared leto fanfic #fanfic #fic #fanfiction #a man on fire #chapter 70 #30 Seconds To Mars #30secondstomars #30 secondstomars fanfic #Harper Coco #Harper and Jared #caroline18mars

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

Bring It On: Fight to the Finish pt 5 (Branjie) - Ashley

A/N: so this is my longest chapter yet and has been my fave to write so far ft some heavy fanservice, cute branjie moments and a hint at potential scyvie. There are only 5 bring it on films (#worldwide cheermack DOES NOT count) so I only ever planned for there to be 5 chapters titlewise, meaning I’m just gonna have to get creative with sports idioms from here. Should be one or two more after this then maybe some one shots, who knows..hope you like, thanks for all the love so far. P.s: I have a sideblog now if anyone wants to chat bring it on/branjie in general - xoxo Ashley

“Hey, you’re actually really good at that!” Brooke found herself surprised as she watched Silky play around with the batons left over from the marching bands session in the gym as they waited for Vanessa to turn up.

“Girl, we’ve all got hidden talents,” Silky laughed in response as she continued to twirl the batons with great precision, throwing and catching them to the beat of the song that played.

Not shortly after, a crowd had formed around the girls and the squad all began to dance together in their own silly ways, throwing aside the rigidity and cheer-nature of their usual routines. Feeling herself start to let loose to the music and really connect with the squad - Brooke watched some of the other cheerleader’s personalities shine and allowed herself to see a more of a unique side to her teammates.

Although she thrived on the nature of competition and routine, a part of her relished the time they were spending simply having fun. Seeing Jaren do a double pirouette from the corner of her eye, Brooke shook her head at the boy and wagged a finger in his direction, before throwing herself into pirouettes and fouettes till they were having their own little dance-off in front of the squad - Brooke leaping across the hall in a way she just felt so accustomed to. Despite the fact that she had dove headfirst into cheer and carried on swimming strong for the past few weeks, Brooke knew her love for the classic beauty of ballet would always hold a special place in her heart - messing about like this giving her the sensation of an old friend coming to visit, the warmth of nostalgia arising like she was sipping a cup of tea.

Suddenly interrupted by a single stream of claps from across the hall, Brooke stopped and turned to see Vanessa making her way over, the usual twinkle in her eyes shining bright as she watched her squad embrace themselves. Ever since her reconciliation with Jovan and performance at the pep rally, Brooke had noticed the vulnerable and kind side of Vanessa that she usually kept closeted start to spread around the school. Whilst she still had her moments of ferocity, Brooke had noticed the dilapidation of Vanessa’s guns-a-blazing approach, the girl’s highly protective defence barriers starting to lower, exposing more of her real self to the squad. Vanessa had learned that in order to succeed, she didn’t need to rule with an iron fist, instead lending that hand to the others around her and helping to push them to new heights. Pushing Brooke to new heights.

“Okay, so when we’re ya’ll gonna show me this shit?” She exclaimed towards the group with a sense of dumbfoundedness. “You know, I was just about ready to come and scream at yous that we need to step our pussies up after seeing this hoe on the cover of American Cheerleader,” Vanessa help up a magazine that Brooke was unfamiliar with, “but I think we might be able to use some of this.”

Watching the cogs turning in her friend’s brain, Brooke couldn’t help but mentally swoon at the way Vanessa scrunched her face up when she concentrated - almost as if Brooke could visibly see all the pictures she painted inside her mind.

“Is that Vick?” Akeria snatched the magazine from Vanessa’s hand in order to get a closer look at it, Brooke joining her in tandem.

Vicky Taylor, Brooke recognised the girl on the cover from her “Cheer 101” with Vanessa when she had first joined the squad. The ruthless leader of the Vixens, Brooke knew the girl had a reputation of ferociousness and a willingness to fight. The sly fox of the Cheer world, it was a well know fact that Vicky did not shy from addressing the lingering elephant in the room at any circumstance. Not only were the squad an intense rival for the Amazons but the feud between Vanessa and the other captain seemed to be deep-rooted into the woods of the competition.

“She’s not that bad,” Jaren rolled his eyes as the members of the squad gaped at the cover, “she can be a real sweetheart.”

“Just cause you taught her how to rap like 2 nationals ago,” Monet nudged her friend in the ribs, resulting in a squeal from Jaren’s behalf.

“Irregardless, that should be me on that cover,” a wave of determination crashed over the captain, “Ever since she made me drop the spirit stick at camp, we have always come in second place to that girl. We’ve been looking at this all wrong. I spent so long trying to be like the Vixens, trying to do what they do - but we need to be different, we need to take what we got and make ourselves unique.”

Jay nodded adamantly in the background; “For the first time ever, I think you’re speaking utter sense, Vanjie.”

“Don’t get me wrong, we’re here to cheer first and foremost - but if we use the talents that we all got and learn how to apply them to the competition, I think we could hit the jackpot. Those judges sit and watch repetitive moves all day - if we throw in a couple of Brooke’s ballet moves, a few of Silk’s batons and a death drop here and there then we got the recipe for success.”

“Maybe it’ll undo that curse!” Silky boomed, garnering laughs from the entire squad.

A pang of longingness hit Brooke - although she was now more a member of the squad that she ever had been - she felt a hint of jealousy at the thought of the years they had all spent growing up together in the smaller neighbourhood. She was suddenly struck by the fear of all the memories she had missed, feeling envy at the thought that some of these girls had spent their whole lives knowing Vanessa. Even though she was usually having fun herself, Brooke was a long time sufferer of the fear of missing out, and coupled with the intense crush she had developed on the cheer captain, she knew she’d have given anything at that moment to have spent those nights at cheer camp, sneaking out of dorms and telling legends with Vanessa and the squad.

“Get warmed up then we’ll see what we can do,” Vanessa set the squad away at stretches and laps of the gym before pulling Brooke to one side.

Despite being exposed to her increasingly more, Brooke still felt that rush of blood go to her head every time Vanessa spoke to her, every time she felt her smooth skin so much as brush against her own, every time she heard her distinctive laugh or voice fill up the room.

“You okay?” Vanessa asked her, clearly noticing the slight dip in Brooke’s disposition.

“It’s fine, you know how I overthink things,” Brooke brushed off her anxieties, longing so much to open up to the girl right then and there. To give her everything and more. Every inch of her thoughts, feelings, body, mind. It was all hers.

“You’re a star, Brooke Lynn,” Vanessa looked dead into Brooke’s eyes with a confidence that could shatter glass, “Don’t ever stop thinking it. Now hurry up so you can teach me all this ballerina shit!”

Enlightened by the other girl’s simple yet meaningful words encouragement, Brooke’s smile beamed from cheek to cheek: “And then the student became the master.”

***

“Do I look okay?” Brooke asked her best friend as she examined herself in her full-length mirror, her need for perfection driving her to change her outfit 5 times before he arrived and grab her hairbrush to fix any strays every time he ushered her to leave. Finally deciding on a denim off-the-shoulder dress that exposed the majority of her back, she raked around her room looking for a bag to match.

Beep. The horn sounded outside.

So maybe it wasn’t just her own battle for perfection driving her to look her best.

“For the last time, yes!” Jovan grabbed her arm and ushered her out of the house and into the car, where his sister waited impatiently for the pair.

“You get lost in there or something?” Vanessa barked at her brother whilst shaking her eyes at Brooke.

“It’s not my fault,” he raised his eyebrows at his sister - Brooke happy to see that the siblings held a much closer relationship than they had when she first moved to Tampa. Even though they annoyed each other from time to time, the love between the two was evident and Brooke enjoyed nothing more than being able to spend time with both of them.

“We’re picking Brad up on the way,” Vanessa informed the pair - a part of Brooke sinking at the thought of having to sit in the back of the car with Vanessa’s douchebag boyfriend.

Despite knowing her crush on the girl was never something she’d indulge in and that Vanessa didn’t feel the same way, Brooke still knew Vanessa was better than Brad. Seeing and hearing the way he treated her and dabbled with other girls when Vanessa wasn’t around, Brooke found herself continually baffled at how one of the strongest and most determined women she knew - in fact, the strongest and most determined woman she knew - allowed herself to be walked all over by a high school has been waiting to happen.

“Don’t roll your eyes,” Vanessa blurted as she started to pull out of the street, her eyes focused on the road ahead of her.

“How could even you see that I’m rolling my eyes?” Brooke responded. Reason number eighty-nine why she believed Vanessa was some form of superhuman.

“Cause I know you,” Vanessa retorted - remembering the way Brooke consoled her after she confided in her about Brad’s cheating.

“She’s right,” Jovan piped in, “I don’t know why you give that boy the time of day.”

“You don’t understand,” Vanessa responded abruptly, an awkward silence lingering until they pulled up to the front of Brad’s house and he entered the car.

Sitting next to Brooke was reason number one - in fact, the only reason - why she believed Vanessa was the stupidest person on the planet.

“Hey babe,” he greeted Vanessa, before turning to Brooke and smiling.

“Brooke, you ready to get pissed?” he pulled a can of cider from his backpack and tossed it to her.

“I’m good - practice and everything,” Brooke responded through gritted teeth, taking her every ounce of self-control not to slap the bones out of him.

Okay, maybe it did have a little bit to do with her crush on Vanessa.

“I’m sure Vanj will let you have a night off, won’t you babe?” he grinned at Brooke.

Boy was she wishing she’d spent longer getting ready.

***

Not only had half of their year gathered to celebrate Akeria’s birthday but there was also a wide range of people Brooke had never met from neighbouring schools and the world of cheer combined. A bittersweet taste lingered in her mouth - here she was with all of her friends, her best friend and the girl she admired so much yet she felt as though she wasn’t fully there, never fully present. Lucky to have Jovan by her side to keep her grounded, a familiar newcomer to the life parties and high school socialising, Brooke was starting to wish she’d taken the cider from Brad nonetheless, longing to rinse away her anxieties in the short term at least.

“That boy has his eye on you,” she pointed out to her friend, taking note of the glances that kept getting thrown in their direction from across the room.

“Him?” Jovan nodded his head in the direction of the long-haired brunette, clearly panicked at the thought of interaction with him.

“Yes, but don’t stare like that you’ll freak him out!” Brooke laughed at her friend who was now taking suspicious looking glances at the boy in red.

“Oh my god,” Brooke gave him a light slap on the face, “Just go say hi!”

“Easy for you to say,” Jovan’s huffy side started to come out, Brooke finding pleasure in watching him get all nervous and flustered in the presence of a good looking boy. “Look at him. He’s like a fucking pristine Prince I don’t know why he’s looking at my shabby ass,”

“Maybe he’s into a bit of grit,” Brooke responded before realising that the boy had started to make his way over to them. “Just be cool.”

“Hi, do I know you?” he asked Jovan, his eyes scanning Brooke’s friend’s body up and down.

“I don’t think so,” Jovan looked down to the floor. Brooke swore she could see his cheeks turn a deep scarlet. She would never let him live this down, she thought to herself as she began to make an exit, ignoring her usual brazen friend’s sudden pleading eyes as they screamed at her for help. Giving him an assuring nod (you’ve got this), she set off to find Vanessa, desperate to tell her all about the cute boy her brother was talking to.

“Hey, you seen Vanessa?” she asked Monet after searching the kitchen, garden and living room for the dark-haired girl.

“I think I saw her and Brad upstairs,” she responded with a smile, pointing Brooke in the right direction.

Although she knew she may end up third wheeling the couple, Brooke fruitfully believed she was doing Vanessa a favour by dragging her away from Brad - having not seen the couple at all since they arrived at the party.

Going to walk into the first door she came across, Brooke stopped dead in her tracks as she opened it, seeing Brad - topless, kissing someone, someone who wasn’t Vanessa.

“Shit,” the girl muttered before grabbing her clothes and running past Brooke, leaving a purple balconette bra on the floor.

Frozen in place, Brooke didn’t know how to react.

Yes, she already knew that Brad had been unfaithful to Vanesa, but something about seeing him with the girl when Vanessa was in the same house, when she’d driven him here, something about seeing it with her own eyes, something about the bottle of lube on the table, the tacky violet bra on the floor made her want to give him a piece of her mind. And that she did.

“You want a piece, Brooke?” he laughed as she strode over to him, a kilogram of fury in every step.

“She deserves so much better than you,” Brooke jabbed at his chest, a sudden urge to protect Vanessa coming over her, the way the girl repeatedly brushed off his cheating, the way she told Brooke not to phone him when she was upset, playing on her mind.

“Oh, you want to get handsy?” he grinned at Brooke, placing his own hand on her arm.

A ball of slime fell straight from his mouth and Brooke was revolted.

And then Brooke’s world came crashing down.

“Hey, Monet said you we’re-” she started. But didn’t finish.

Turning around, Brooke saw the pain in her eyes, instantly realising the mistake - the image that lay before Vanessa. The shirtless boyfriend. The blonde best friend. The removed bra. The lube. The fucking lube. She watched the heartbreak play across the theatre screen. She wanted to pause. To rewind. But she couldn’t. Before she could even think the credits were rolling and Vanessa was fleeing the screen, desperate not to get stuck in the aisles giving way to slow paced families and chattering gaggles of teens. She had upped and left.

“No, Vanessa,” she chased her out of the room and down the stairs, repeating it till she turned. Praying she would turn. Not a care in the world who heard or whether she was making a scene because all she needed was for Vanessa to turn.

She didn’t.

“I didn’t do it!” She shouted after the girl. They were outside now, Vanessa running to her car and jumping into the front seat.

“Please.” Before she knew it she was stood in front of the bonnet. Headlights bright in her eyes but she could still see Vanessa’s face. The haunting look of someone who had been crushed into a million pieces and tried to stick themselves back together with fluff-covered sellotape.

Vanessa revved her engine.

Brooke stayed still.

“Move!” she shouted.

Brooke stayed still.

“Fuck sake,” she could make out the movement of Vanessa’s lips as she got out of the car, a sense of hope filling in Brooke’s mind, only for Vanessa to stride straight ahead of her.

“Guess I’m walking home,” she laughed to herself as she built pace on Brooke.

God, she was fast. Reason number 90 why Vanessa is superhuman.

“Vanessa!” Brooke shouted after her friend, “Can you just stop so I can explain what happened you’ve got it all wrong.”

She kept walking.

“Vanessa,” she called again, the girl gaining pace, Brooke wanted to try and tell her about the other girl but knew she was too far away to hear.

She stopped.

“Fuck you,” Vanessa responded.

The words stung. Although Brooke had understood what it looked like from Vanessa’s point of view, she found herself getting frustrated at the girl, did she really not trust her? She knew he cheated, she already knew.

“Was that your way of showing me I’m too good for him? Cause it fucking worked Brooke, ” she said to the girl, her voice rising mid-sentence.

About the ask the girl how she could assume the worst of her so quickly, Vanessa started to let loose at Brooke.

“It wasn’t me Vanessa,” she shouted - her usual polite manners and calm reasoning were thrown out the window. She knew from an objective standpoint that she should just sit down and tell Vanessa what happened but in the heat of the moment when Vanessa was shouting and Brooke started to feel hurt at the accusations, everything was jumbled and a logical approach wasn’t even in the distant horizon.

“You knew anyway!” she found herself getting mad at the girl, mad at the girl she cared for so much letting her boyfriend stomp all over her tiny frame, “You fucking knew!”

“But it’s you,” Vanessa responded, clearly coming from that same place of hurt Brooke had witnessed the night she fought with Jovan, “You don’t understand shit Brooke, so stop acting like you know everything.”

“I understand plenty. You let your boyfriend cheat on you again and again with no consequences but then take it out on me with not an ounce of blame on precious Brad. I get that you feel betrayed but it wasn’t even fucking me, Vanessa.”

“God,” Vanessa was delirious, her eyes looking up to the sky, a laugh escaping her hoarse throat. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Her stomach full of butterflies, Brooke wanted everything to go back to the way it was. She wanted that magic remote to alter time. She wanted to pause and stay with Vanessa, calm her down, make sure she was okay. She wanted to kiss her, to kiss her till she couldn’t yell anymore, till she believed Brooke, till she understood that all Brooke ever wanted to do was look out for her.

She imagined it, her lips on Vanessa’s the way they had been in the night club - but for real.

The butterflies escaped; punching holes in her skin.

She imagined holding her, hands in her hair. Not the way Brad had been with the redhead - she’d hold her tenderly like a China doll, so brittle that it could break in her hands. She’d run her hands through her dark hair and kiss her with passion, with promise, with whatever it took.

Brooke knew there was nothing more she wanted at that moment than to kiss Vanessa Mateo.

And then Vanessa kissed her.

For real.

She wanted to pinch herself but her hands were glued to Vanessa, magnets unable to resist the gravitational pull.

It was everything she’d imagined and nothing like it at the same time.

Because it was real.

She tasted like artificial cherries. Sweet. She was so sweet.

If Vanessa really was a China doll then Brooke would have broken her by now. The pressure they exerted on each other getting larger and larger, they both gripped tightly as if their lives depended on it. As if they’d been waiting for it, starving for it.

Brooke had, she thought to herself. Had Vanessa?

She didn’t want to question it. All she knew is that it was happening and she wouldn’t stop our of fear that it wouldn’t happen again.

Vanessa’s hands spitting flames everywhere.

She was submerged in the heat, plunged deep into the fiery pit.

Vanessa’s hands on her. All over her.

She was in heaven. Or was it hell. It didn’t matter, because Vanessa was there riding that same train. Until it stopped and left them deserted in a neutral limbo. They heard shouting, their names. Footsteps. They broke apart.

Brooke was confused at where they had arrived and lost in this new world, a familiar voice snapping her back to reality.

Jovan.

Everything flooded back to her. Jovan. Brad. The Redhead. The Amazons.

Vanessa.

“Are yous okay?” he ran over to them, putting an instinctive arm around his sister.

“Brad cheated on me again,” she whispered, barely making eye contact with her brother as he shepherded her away to the car, Brooke in tow.

“Brooke saw him, with another girl.”

Dramatic irony loomed over Brooke, casting a shadow behind her. Vanessa didn’t care about Brad. She cared about Brooke.

The silence was abundant as they sat in the car, Jovan about to turn the engine on before he stopped and turned to the girls: “I’ll be two seconds.”

And he was gone. And they were alone.

“It wasn’t me,” Brooke whispered even though no one was there.

“I know. I just thought it was and it made me-” she stopped mid-sentence. Brooke could almost sense that painful look from the backseat.

“You need to break up with Brad,”

“I can’t,” Vanessa whispered - her fears a can of worms starting to spill out of her. “Brooke, if you tell anyone, if anyone knew,-” she stopped herself again. Brooke could hear her trying to fight the tears, the build up in her throat, she could make out her hands on her eyelashes, willing herself not to cry.

“You need to break up with Brad,” she repeated.

“I think that’s fucked now anyway,” Vanessa responded, “What am I gonna do? Brooke, you can’t tell anyone about that, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

But Brooke’s mind was out of answers, out of solutions, out of reasoning. The only fact her brain could discern was that kissing Vanessa was a lot better than not kissing Vanessa. Now that she’d had a taste of the forbidden cherry she needed another bite. And she’d take one even if it killed her cause god did it taste sweet.

And then Jovan returned. Brooke couldn’t focus on the grin on his face, the happiness he was radiating because her mind couldn’t focus on anything but Vanessa and before she knew it she was outside of her own house, time playing its part as the cruel mistress.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Often she dreamed of the head cheerleader and couldn’t wait to fall asleep so she could nourish in all of her feelings without the guilt. Tonight, the dream was real life and she couldn’t stop replaying it in her head - right until the “what was I thinking”. The painstaking cruel “what was I thinking” that kept it from being a dream after all. But Brooke knew that no matter how much that part hurt, it was worth what came before. She didn’t care about getting burned when she got to dance in the embers - for her, that was enough.

***

Brooke waited and waited the following Monday. She wouldn’t show, she figured. Because she hadn’t texted, she hadn’t called. She’d left Brooke a glass slipper then disappeared once the clock struck midnight.

“Look, we’ll just do some more practice of our routine, it doesn’t look like she’s gonna show and there’s no point in learning something new,” Akeria announced to the group as time started ticking even more and there was no sign of their captain.

“Maybe she’s just late?” Brooke asked with a sense of hopefulness - her mind was at a loss over the weekend, circles of confusion running around her.

She didn’t want to see Vanessa because she had such strong feelings for her, she needed to see her because Vanessa, too, understood what was going on and there was no one else Brooke could talk to about how fucked up her head was since Friday. Everything that had built up since she moved to Tampa had all released at once and she was left feeling empty. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” Brooke wanted to know more than anything - did she feel the same, had she felt the same all along. Unanswered questions made list after list in her head till she found herself starting to walk to Vanessa’s house, always too scared to enter, always too scared to knock, always turning back and taking the smoothest course home instead of the dark, winding, forbidden path to the girl who had kissed her, always too scared of tripping on the branch of an uprooted tree and falling to her demise.

And then all of a sudden she was in front of her. But the spirit that once filled her till she might burst, the pep she carried on her back to practice wasn’t. The things that made Vanessa herself were nowhere to be found - just the shadow of a girl who wanted to be different, who wanted to stand out and be a team, who wanted to kiss Brooke.

“Get in position for a 360 helicopter,” she shouted towards the group - no welcome, no team talk, no look in Brooke’s direction.

“Girl, you know that’s illegal,” Monet looked shocked at the captain.

“Yeah,” Silky chimed in, “I know you’ve been through a breakup but you’re not really thinking straight Vanjie,”

She had broken up with Brad, Brooke realised - her heart began to warm. But then she remembered that she hadn’t texted, hadn’t called. She remembered the “I don’t know what I was thinking.” It didn’t matter that Vanessa had broken up with Brad because she didn’t seem to want Brooke either way.

“This is nothing to do with my breakup. Sure, it’s all fun and games being team spirit and doing grand-jetes but is that really gonna make us beat the Vixens? I’ve been rethinking and we need extreme,”

The squad looked at her with a gulp of astonishment and surprise. There was that sneer of cold command - gone the kind diplomat who the group had began to know.

“We’ve spent weeks learning that stuff, Vanjie,” Jaren gave her a pointed look, clearly fed up with her hot and cold antics. “You can’t change it again, this close to nationals.”

“Why aren’t you in formation for a 360 helicopter?” she responded, ignoring the squads clear discern with her sudden change of pace and heart.

“Brooke, are you gonna get into base position or just stand there letting your ass form it’s own Instagram?”

If she thought Vanessa’s last words to her stung. Then these ones ripped through her skin like she was being stabbed. Quickly and sharply, Vanessa left her to bleed out.

Vanessa was a ball of sporadic blaze and Brooke didn’t know how much longer she could take the changes in her mood. One minute she was beaming with all the heat of a thousand suns. The next she was an icy queen readying to crack anyone that got in her way.

So Brooke did one of the most difficult things she had done in her life - she walked away from Vanessa, straight out of practice, straight out of school, as far away as she could get from the girl who could make her so elated one minute and so beneath her the next. She felt like walking all the way to Toronto and back to her old life, where she had never felt the sinking of heartbreak like this, her naive mind a place of utopia.

***

Her time giving up on Vanessa didn’t last long. 3 days to be precise. After trying and failing miserably to avoid practice, avoid her in the corridors and even avoid Jovan - Brooke had tipped over her boiling point. She knew it wasn’t the right thing to do, she knew she was supposed to be resisting her temptation, but before long she was back walking on that gloomy path, her ability to control her desires out of the window. She had walked away from Vanessa that Monday afternoon but knew she wouldn’t be able to do it again - the need for answers and the lack of knowledge about her own life driving her insane, she needed to know why Vanessa had kissed her, why she acted that way at practice.

Without out even processing where she was going, she made her way to Vanessa’s house, almost like muscle memory had taken her there. Except, this time she didn’t turn around and take the steady course - she dove into the unknown.

She made her way to the girl’s window and tapped, and only then did she realise what she was doing, but it was too late to go back. She’d already taken the gamble and all that was left to do was to wait in nervousness for the result.

Before her was the face of the girl she’d tried every precaution to avoid. As she opened the window, leaving only the density of air between them, Brooke couldn’t tell if she’d won or lost her bet either way.

Bags under her eyes and hairs falling stray from her ponytail, Vanessa looked like she hadn’t slept in a week but Brooke still found herself mesmerised nonetheless.

“I have a front door, yanno,” she broke the silence first.

“Didn’t think my ass would fit through,” Brooke raised her eyebrows at the girl. She may have spent the past few days living and breathing Vanessa but her feelings of passion and desire to kiss the girl again did not fully overshadow the harsh words Vanessa had uttered to her. She wouldn’t let her off the hook that easily.

“Touche,” Vanessa opened the window wider before looking down at Brooke’s asset in question, “Think it might just fit through here.”

“Why would I wanna come in your room, Vanessa?”

“The same reason why you’re outside my window at 2AM,” she responded bluntly.

“Touche,” Brooke rolled her eyes, unable to help herself from falling back into that natural lull of playfulness with Vanessa as she climbed through the frame and into the room, holding onto the other girl’s hand for balance.

That spark never did go away.

“I have a lot of questions for you,” Brooke stated, unsure how to approach the situation, unsure of how to be so close to the other girl without pinning her arms against the wall and kissing her until her jaw ached.

“Shoot,” Vanessa responded, sitting cross-legged on the bed, her hands playing with the cuffs of her oversized jumper. What Brooke had realised to be her own jumper from the night Vanessa had slept at her house. It probably smelt of cherries now, she started to get herself chased away by her thoughts before remembering why she was there.

“Why did you kiss me?” Brooke asked, joining Vanessa on the bed and pressing on the bottom of her chin with her finger so that they’d be making eye contact. She needed Vanessa to look into her eyes and tell her she meant it, tell her she really didn’t know what she was thinking in order to stay that least bit sane. In order to get out of the horrible limbo that she had been floating around in.

“Why do you think?” Vanessa gave Brooke a pointed look.

“I want you to tell me,” Brooke responded, placing a reassuring hand over Vanessa’s, the way she had when she’d watched the girl open up previously.

“I thought you’d got with Brad and I think it just made me see how real it all was,” her voice started to break.

“All what?”

“All this. You, Brooke. From that first time I saw you in the cafeteria, you stood out to me from everyone who watched us, something about you just caught my eye and then you were here in my kitchen and I just about died. I had it all under control, I had a boyfriend who no one questioned, I was captain of the Amazons, I could focus on that. And then I saw you and I just thought ‘god, this girl’s gonna fuck it all up’”

“You didn’t like me,” Brooke said, her mind not fully adjusting to what was happening. She thought she was coming for closure but was now opening Pandora’s Box for all the baggage to spill out. “You didn’t want me on the squad,”

“You really are a dumb, blonde cheerleader, aren’t you?” Vanessa shook her head and laughed to herself like she had when Brooke had asked her about Brad, about why this was any different to what she already knew. “Fucking hell, do I have to spell this out for you?”

“I’d like that,” Brooke laughed, “In a cheer.”

“You just did something to me Brooke, and it scared me. It really fucking scared me and it still is. I tried to push you away but felt guilty so I tried to be your friend, tried to fight it. I let go at the club, but the thought of you with Brad just sent me insane and I couldn’t anymore,”

“It doesn’t matter Vanessa,” Brooke gave Vanessa a reassuring squeeze on the hand. “I’m just glad I wasn’t making all of this up. No one cares. Everyone knows you’re a boss ass bitch and you’d stomp on anyone who got in your way, I don’t think they’d say anything to you. And your parents wouldn’t mind, look at Jovan. You don’t need to keep putting up these defences and trying to push me away every time you show your feelings, there’s nothing wrong with it,“

“I don’t care what people would say about me Brooke, I care about what they’d think. I wanna be known for my talent not who I like. I know it’s 2019 and all this bullshit but I just don’t want that Brooke, I’m ashamed of it. And my parents are different, they love Jovan.”

“They love you,” Brooke pleaded with the girl.

“I don’t want to talk about them,” Vanessa responded and Brooke knew that she had reached her breaking point, with nothing more to do than to pull the other girl into a hug.

And then they were kissing.

If she thought that she’d felt the most passion she was ever capable of feeling on Saturday, then she was wrong. Vanessa was extremely dehydrated and all she had left was the tall glass of Brooke, right there on her bed - and Brooke just couldn’t help but just give herself away.

She kissed with intensity and passion. If an earthquake came and the walls around them started to fall then Brooke wouldn’t have noticed - she was fully engrossed In Vanessa. Vanessa’s mouth pressing against hers. Vanessa’s tongue sliding its way into her mouth with careful precision and warmth. Vanessa’s teeth pressing softly onto Brooke’s bottom lip.

“God, I’ve wanted you to do that for a while,” Brooke whispered to the girl, holding her face between her palms, looking deep into her dark eyes, just stopping to make sure it was all real.

“What about this?” Vanessa asked, a sultry look melting over her face as she ripped the bobble out of her hair and pushed Brooke onto her back, legs either side of her. Slowly she made her way on top of the girl, taking the time to note every detail about her - the look on her face, the way her blonde tendrils spread across the pillow so haphazardly and neatly at the same time.

Although fully aware that she was staring at the other girl, Brooke couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes as Vanessa pressed her body against hers and kissed her again. She watched as Vanessa’s dainty hands made to the edge of her shirt. The fireworks were bigger, better, hotter and all over Brooke’s body. She was fully submerged in the inferno, riding the train down to hell, knowing yet not caring about the consequences.

Nodding her head in consent, the unspoken bond between the two was clear as Vanessa moved her hands up Brooke’s pale chest, caressing her the way no boy had ever done before. So careful and graceful yet so hot and lustful in synchronisation.

The reasons why Vanessa was a super-human built and built till the number reached infinity and the mental list combusted into a million fragments of the beautiful Latina.

Brooke’s back arched with the need to be with Vanessa, to give her everything and more, to release all of the emotions she’d had since that first day and show her how she really felt in a way that transcended the English language.

Her hands made her way through the girl’s dark hair, down to her lower back, exploring Vanessa’s body in a frantic exciting way - unable to stop and stay anywhere at the thought of what lay beyond.

They were two athletes, two perfectionists, pushing themselves to further and further limits till the race was over and they didn’t even know who had came in first place, who had crossed that barrier before the other, but it didn’t matter, because as they lay there holding one another in the beautiful catastrophe of Vanessa’s bed, the only thing that mattered was that they had done it together.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #yvie oddly #branjie #bring it on #high school au #lesbian au #cheerleader au #mild smut #ashley #concrit welcome #submission #s11

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alitheamateur · 5 years

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The Grind- Chapter 31

A/N: Here we are, my precious jewels. The end of my own little era, but the beginning of a renewed passion. This story brought back a love for story-telling that I had long neglected, and although most don't understand the sentiment, I owe a lot of happiness to these characters. The Grind sprouted during a very dark, confusing, heartbreaking time in my life, and it became such a welcomed distraction from my emotional spiral. This piece of fiction will be held near and dear to my soul for all of eternity, and my heart beats with love for each & every one of you who has shared a kind word.

One last time, The Grind.

I was grateful that even over all the unsteady commotion, the gravel of his familiar voice busted through to my eardrums. The thud of my pulse hammered, already bringing along the gift of a taxing migraine that would only worsen once a pair of fists lashed into my skull. I was dreading the aching road of recovery before Kat and I had even thrown a punch.

Hers came first though. Quick, and robust it met the girlish roundness of my chin, shaking quivers over every hair on my skin. My footing staggered, and I swear to you my very eyeballs rattled. The early stages of pain I felt didn’t talk long to drag back the memo to my brain to protect my face as much as possible as she obsessively stalked to land an even more brutal hit the next time. I swished the blood laced spit around my jaws to wet my tongue, and settled in for war.

She could tell the blow had combusted an inkling of uncertainty in my spirit, and it only fed her desire for violence. With a random bout of bravery, I pointed an attempted swing for her ribs, connecting successfully to the tight ripples of her abdomen. Seeing as she hadn’t foreseen the body shot, it crippled her standing straight stance, and I was able to rock two more fists to the opposite cage of her ribs. Something felt off for a second when I heard her gasp for a breath when I released the wind from her belly. I felt… bad.

Violent nature was foreign to me, and I let myself feel briefly apologetic on the inside watching her suffer for air. Then, the fighting side of me rose to rule. I lobbed a club-foot kick to her chiseled thigh, victoriously capturing her balance. However, I couldn’t completely escape my often clumsy tactics, and I let my own legs tangle with hers as she dropped buoyantly to the mat.

I scurried with fluster to try and reach my standing position before Bex, but unfortunately her quickness outweighed my own. I brought my forearms to my face, doubling them as a shield of armor for my breakable nose. With her every delivery of a fist, my head bounced like a ball on the soft mat below. I prayed for her to tire, or somehow make a careless mistake and allow my escape. I could already feel the tenderness of plum-shaded bruises forming up and down my arms, and I just wanted to cower in Colton’s arms.

Where was his voice? Why couldn’t I hear the assuring yells of he and Tia?

Just as my arms began to weaken in defeat, the squealing of the timekeeper’s bell halted her strike.

Katrina stood to her feet with ease, running for the cool swig of water waiting in her corner, leaving a shaken and hallucinating swirl of stars swimming like a halo around my skull. I tried to assess myself on the mat, still surveying what damage may have been done. Aside from my fractured pride.

“Baby! Get up, c’mon! Get over here, Liv!”

I frenzied to my feet shakily, remembering the very limited seconds I had to steal a second with my coaches in between rounds. Tia tried to masquerade her reaction of pity, but the squinting sickness of her eyes told all the tale I needed. I didn’t feel much pain, other than a tight pressure settling inside my nostrils, so the unknown markings couldn’t have been of much severity, right?

Suddenly, settling on the 3-legged stool for a ticking minute of a break, I caught glimpse of the very sopped, very stained towel that Colt applied to my stuffy nose. He squeezed gently, and his touch seemed to re-apply sensation to my busted snout. I yelped as his massaged as gingerly as his rocky hands would, and plugged the holes with some sort of swabs to drink up the blood-spill.

“You good, Liv? Hey… Look at me, right now. Look in my eyes. Do you wanna keep going?” Colton shook my shoulders, demanding a surefire answer. Bless his soul, there was nothing but devoted protection and the will to be my strong tower in his silver eyes.

“Have a little faith, remember?”

He rehearsed his best fake smile, and slung the ruined rag over his shoulder to scoop up my cushioned seat when the ref tapped a finger to his imaginary watch hurrying us to pick up the pace.

Besides the whelped imprint of my ankle bone on the upper of her thigh, Bex would enter the second round only rested and ready for more. She would go viciously after my obviously very broken nose, so it was my responsibility to protect it like a mother bird to her helpless young.

Two nippy little jabs, but thankfully she had missed. The dodging alone of her efforted hits made my entire face spasm with pain, and I was already daydreaming about the blue-green blossoms of bruise I would wake up to in the morning. If I even made it that far…

“Go after that leg, Liv! She’s tryin’ to baby it, so get after her!”

With Tia’s help, I did begin to notice the awkward teeter to Katrina’s steps. She was hobbling in the slightest, and her leg carried a barely detectable limp of uneasiness. If I could numb that leg enough, and swipe her footing to crash, I knew I could get her. I needed just a cracked window of opportunity, and I wouldn’t let my submission training go to waste.

I fell into rhythm with bizarre fist fakes, confusing her reflexes when taking shot after shot at her leg. With unyielding focus, I beat the tender skin of her thigh with kicks like a well-oiled meat tenderizer, the stretch of my own groin muscle also suffering.

Dribbles from my nose spilled blood down my chest onto the mat, painting a slickness beneath our feet. The metallic flavored goo gurgled in the back of my throat, and I wanted to spit free my mouthguard and guzzle the strongest proof of some sort of dark alcohol to curb its stain on my tongue. I made a mental note that Colt make a liquor run once I settled into the featherbed in our hotel room.

As Katrina and I tiptoed on light feet ‘round the cage, I’d give side glances to Colt. Once finding his foot standing in the seat of my stool with his elbow resting on a knee, his mouth taut behind the hand his rested over his lips. Assessing. Strategizing. Criticizing?

Another moment his forearms interlocked over his beating chest, toes tapping in a wide stance, and even a barely traceable half-smile sitting across his face. Just knowing he was there, close to me, only a few arms-lengths away should danger really arrive, slowed the pace of my overbeating heart. I’d win this for him. For me, of course. But, it was decided nevertheless that Katrina’s very first loss tonight, would ultimately rally a victory for me, my camp, and my Colton.

As the round ended, Bex felt the buff weight of pressure stalking around her. As I turned, this time much more aware, towards my corner for a rushed break between blows, she smashed both palms to the blades of my shoulder, childishly showing me to the ground. Our ref consumed her with a tight embrace, quite firmly chastising into her ear. Thankfully for the much ,much needed backup, I bounced out of the way for Willow to swallow Tia inside a resisting bearhug, as I attempted to handle Colton’s own bursting of incoherent fury.

“Handle your fuckin’ girl, Tyler! You and I both knew we ain’t here for any shit like that!” My rumbling bear growled across the mat to Kat’s fumbling coach. “I see anything like that again, and me ‘n you may have to borrow this damn cage for a short minute.”

“Hey, hey, hey! Colton, hey. Stop, baby. C’mon! Look at me, I’m good, ok?” I purred and hummed into his hot ear. Hoping some sort of soothing spell would lull some calmness back into his raging eyes.

“COLT, STOP. Shit! Take a deep breath, Colton. Don’t ruin this for me, damn it! I’m fine, babe. I promise.” I was rambling to an empty shell. His spirit was climbing the rafters like a demonic spirt lurking above the darkest shadows. “Please…”

With that simplest plea, the pink of his cheeks reappeared, and his lips relaxed. I think his teeth cracked from the tense of his unbreakable jaws.

He shuddered, as if feeling his spirit mold back into his body, and turned away from Bex and her coach. Placing two firm paws atop my shoulders, he hurried me to a seat, kneeling himself to eye level.

“Beat. Her.” A growl buzzed from the back of his raw throat.

He knew her sideshow had embarrassed me, and if I wouldn’t let him intervene in my honor, I best do it myself.

Colton kissed me. Hard. Teetering the stool on its back legs. And if I couldn’t win this fight with that kind of motivation, I never had a chance to begin with.

The referee had taken some extra moments to scold Katrina for the uncalled for, untimely reaction, and began ushering Tia and Colt towards the cage door.

I hissed an engrossed inhale, focusing best I could to even out the pace of my tottering, rambunctious heart.

But my heart would be the only thing I would slow.

Barely registering the ‘ting’ of our timekeepers bell, I lunged forward sighting in on the nose protruding from the middle of her smug face. The girl hadn’t given a single clear peep at her face the entire match, but it seemed in that moment that fate had tied her hands for the upper hand of my fist.

Her eyes wept instantly at the burn of her nasal bone cracking in half. But that didn’t stop me. My humanity switched long flipped with the scent of a wound, and I was only out for blood no matter the cost. With battered knuckles, and uncontrolled swings, the light of defense dulled behind my opponents’ eyes.

A happen-stance shot deep into the mushy socket of her eye obliterated her focus, and the cage rumbled and rattled when her body fell limber at my feet. Until I was torn from her, and the match was called, I wouldn’t stop the invasive assault and risk any odds of a comeback.

Her head bobbled like a bottle cap rolling over the waves of a high tide ocean, and it seemed the way her eyelashes batted in slow motion that they themselves were even too heavy for her to bear. Our official closely observed her behavior, watching for signs of drooping unconsciousness, and any other medical qualifications for calling the match.

With one roll of my knuckles over her chin, her knee buckled at the bend and sent her tumbling. Trying to resist the inevitable admirably, in true fighters’ fashion, Katrina’s feeble, worn down body emptied of any overcoming abilities. Tears began to twine with red leaking down her face when the ring ref signaled to the timekeeper, calling the bout.

TKO.

Colton’s obsessing pride, uncontainable joy, and earnest tears of content dissipated whatever inkling of patience he was born with, and he kicked his lead foot into the cage door, bending loose the hinges to get to me. As my left hand was raised in baffling triumph, he pulled it right back into his own, sliding back into to place the sparkling gemstone on my ring finger.

Colton’s sentimental tears turned loose into an unbroken stream, his chest choking free chuckling sobs as he folded at the knee, and buried his reddening face into the pumping breaths of my belly. I could feel his mumblings vibrate into me, and his mouth movements tickling the bare skin above my waistband. Pulling him free and seeking his face, I combed through his shagged hair with giggling of my own.

“Baby. Hey! What is it, Colt?!”

I adored the way his smile danced with his tears, the odd coupling a beautiful one.

“You are fucking amazing, Liv Elliott! And fuck me for ever thinking you didn’t belong here.”

With an eager, rising fever to kiss his forever gorgeous lips, I cupped his face and willed him into me. His hands wormed under the crook of my arms and suddenly the ground disappeared from beneath my tired feet. No protest present, I hooked the clutches of my legs about his abdomen, and captured him. If I had any breath in me after the battle, he would’ve sucked it clear from my lungs with his smothering display of a kiss. I heard cameras snapping, analysts and fellow writers begging my name for a statement, but all the world might as well have been a foreign, unpopulated wonderland where only my soul and his could survive.

The fusing of his plush-skinned mouth with my own lit my spirit on fire, and I considered dragging him to the courthouse first thing the following day to marry him on the spot, just to be able to pair his own name with the word ‘husband’.

“Do your thing, champ. They wanna hear from you,” Colton plopped me down to meet to ground. “I’ll be right here. Always”

He eased himself backwards, dismissing himself from the sight of cameras and attention, pushing me to bathe in the limelight of the results of my hard work. He may not have been holding my hand in the literal sense, but the glow of his cheery cheeks as he watched me share the rundown from my point-of-view with the newspapers comforted me. I spied Tia even chatting at his side, with some strange sentiment resembling a genuine smile, as my parents weaved through the aisles.

Standing in my own portrayal of center stage, feeling the gratifying weight of his diamond promise on my finger, his last name soon-to-be mine on the wrist of my blood-stained gloves, and the unpredicted win of an MMA bout under my belt, there weren’t enough words in a Webster to define my state. Whether things would never be the same again, I knew all change would be for the better with the treasure of my Colton tucked in my back pocket for cherished keeping. With a determined heart, a driving passion, and maybe a few more callouses on my hands than before, I would strap down and relish in the ride to come. Lots of work, even more play, and back to The Grind.

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935 @mollybegger-blog @littleluna98

#Tom Hardy #tomhardy #tomhardyfanfiction #tomhardyfanfic #tommy conlon #Elizabeth Olsen #thegrind

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margridarnauds · 5 years

Note

Can you please talk about Imhotep x Anck Sun Amun. Anything. I’ve come back to one of my age old opts and I need your help

Oh my God, I’ll try! (Warning: Contains some salt for the second film, though it comes from a place of love and affection, and much rambling, which isn’t helped by the fact that it’s been a little while since I’ve seen both films but still have many feelings, also tw: for references to rape)

Like you, they were probably one of my oldest OTPs, and I’ve always been more or less consistent on them. (I remember being SO disappointed as a kid with the finale of the Animated Series when Imhotep just...walks away from her.) I absolutely loved how EPIC and tragic it was, and I was always rooting for them to get a happy ending. (And I was always disappointed, until I discovered the wonderful world of fanfic.) The Mummy is actually what got me started with my interest in history, and so I really do owe it a big one for that. It’s probably one of the single most influential pieces of media I’ve consumed in my life. I definitely think they were at their strongest in The Mummy; that’s the film that really DEFINES the ship for me, despite Anck getting relatively little time. Like, in the course of the introduction, we find out several things in quick succession: That Imhotep was Pharaoh’s high priest, that Anck was his mistress, and that they loved each other enough that "For their love, they were willing to risk life itself.” And then, after THAT, we learn that they were willing to kill PHARAOH, AKA the MEDIATOR BETWEEN THE DIVINE AND THE MORTAL REALM for the sake of each other. One of the things I actually realized while I was rewatching The Scene is that there’s actually a moment immediately after Pharaoh’s asked her who touched her where she looks at her arm and has a brief moment of surprise, starting just a LITTLE before she turns to look at Seti and then, behind him...

She is TERRIFIED at this point. I think that killing Pharaoh was probably been something they’d considered, possibly talked about, but I have some strong doubts that this particular part was planned out. (Though I could also be very, very easily persuaded otherwise as well; it’s the kind of thing I’ve gone back and forth on over the years.) And then the two of them work TOGETHER to kill Pharaoh. Anck isn’t passively sitting by while her lover kills Seti, she’s actively participating in it, taking the first stab even before Imhotep gets to it, when he’s just drawn his sword. And, when the Medjai come, Imhotep was willing to DIE for her, only being dragged away by his priests, even though Anck had begged him to leave so that he could resurrect her. And then we learn a little bit about why she might not have hesitated to kill Pharaoh before Imhotep did...

This is what she chooses as her LAST WORDS. A defiant statement saying, once and for all, that she’s never going to be violated again, her last action seizing agency for herself, killing herself before letting her fate being dictated by someone else again (and to prevent her from the painful, painful death that would have awaited her otherwise). All while letting the man she chose to be with, to love, escape while she took the full blame (it’s mentioned in the original script by Narrator!Imhotep that “For murdering Pharaoh, Anck-su-namun's body was to be cursed. And it was I, the High Priest, whose duty it was to curse it.” Which...holy ANGST Batman. Given how IMPORTANT the body was to Ancient Egyptian beliefs relating to the afterlife and how important the afterlife really WAS, this must have killed him, even if he might have justified to himself that he was going to get her back.

I’ll never entirely forgive the second film for changing her from “mistress” to “fiancee” (which seems to give her more...security, than her just being a concubine, though realistically Seti has MULTIPLE wives, but The Mummy doesn’t MENTION them or Nefertiti’s mother, so...) and deciding that she was going to be an Obvious Dark Sexy Lady from the get-go, when this is pretty damn self-explanatory. But they’d decided that Nefertiti was going to be Evie, and Seti was now the BELOVED FATHER of our heroine, and so of course Seti has to be a loving, kind father whose death was a great tragedy. (Though...personally, I choose to go with Nefertiti as an unreliable narrator. Of course she’s not going to have sympathy for a common concubine who murdered her rightful king, she had to have been a scheming, manipulative woman from the beginning. Seti can be a loving father...who still treated Anck as if she was an object for his pleasure.)

It’s just...so, so important for me to emphasize that she CHOSE to love Imhotep, that he might very well have BEEN the only man she CHOSE to be with in her life

And I’ve focused a lot on this opening and how IMPORTANT it is because it’s literally the first thing we see, and it’s what sets up the entire series. “For their love, they were willing to risk life itself” and, as it turns out, their afterlives as well. Even while Imhotep’s been turned into a cursed figure, doomed to bring the Ten Plagues of Egypt, he has two essential goals (1) Get himself rejuvenated so he won’t run up a tree whenever a cat comes along and (2) Get Anck back. Like...holy SHIT. He was willing to tear down this world and the next just to have the life with her that they SHOULD have had, in another world.

One of the things that really stood out while I was looking for sources to work with was something that Pete Hammond, a film critic said, which is that "people want to believe in a life after death situation," which is TRUE, and explains a lot of the appeal of figures like ghosts and zombies and mummies (who are kind of specifically Egyptian zombies, as far as their ties to imperialism are concerned, but I digress), but also with Imhotep and Anck-su-Namun in particular, it’s the idea of a star-crossed love so incredibly powerful that it lasts for MILLENNIA, in defiance of death and life. It’s destructive, to the society they live in, to the world at large, but it’s epic love at its finest and it was something they both fought like Hell for.

And then we get the second film. And in the second film, there’s obviously the ambiguity between Anck and Meela, and which one is which. Still, I think that for the MOST part the person we see in the film is more or less meant to be the person that Anck was in the past, given that there are traces of that in the pre-canon flashbacks, such as the opposition of Nefertiti VS Ankh su Namun, Pharaoh’s daughter VS the mistress, light feminine VS dark feminine, which then is repeated throughout film with Evie VS Anck/Meela, though to be fair, I’m not sure that the WRITERS were 100% sure where one began and the other ended. Which is probably a consequence of defining Anck in the first film mainly as “a goddess” and “gorgeous” the latter of which the film notes EVEN AFTER SHE’S DEAD, but I digress. The novelization plays with it a little bit, having Meela be the one to desert Imhotep, not Anck, running as her identities collapsed in on themselves. The one script I was able to get my hands on that seemed like it might be halfway legitimate rather than just a transcript said that he “realizes that she never loved him,” which seems to swing the opposite direction, being more in line with the Animated Series which would follow it where Anck is a villain whose “Love” for Imhotep is entirely opportunistic.

Personally, even though I waffle back and forth on this one, I think that Meela is slightly more outwardly vampy than Anck, slightly more pragmatic (Anck was always pragmatic, don’t get me wrong, THAT’S shown by her asking Imhotep to leave so he could resurrect her, but it’s...DIFFERENT, in that I can’t see Meela stabbing herself in the stomach either.) But, we did get some solid OTP content in this film:

THE LONGING. HOLY SHIT. Like, we know so little about their relationship pre-canon, but obviously, with the whole “Body paint” issue, I honestly don’t see how they would have had TOO much time available for sexytimes, and so you have this situation where they have to try to repress so much around each other when they love each other so much, and sometimes they fail and there are those LOOKS (which cues Nefertiti in on it, so bad move guys, but...#YouTried). I don’t think that they were chaste, per se, given that they were going to do SOMETHING in Anck’s bedchamber before Pharaoh arrived, but I think that their time together was limited and always fraught with the danger of being discovered.

Which also ties into one of the major THINGS in both movies, which is that almost-but-not-quite-touch. There’s such an INTIMACY there, so much mutual pining. Even when they kiss and everything is ruined for them, look at how they do it.

It’s so SLOW and longing, the way that Imhotep’s hands just kind of hover for a little while before going to her shoulders as he angles for the kiss. I mean, this is some REGENCY level pining here. Albeit. In Anck’s bedchamber. But still.

Honestly, I think one of the biggest dick moves the second film did was use them as a foil for the O’Connell’s One True Love. Like, at the end of the first film, there are two love arcs, and for Imhotep to fulfill his and get Anck back, Evie has to be sacrificed, while for Rick to succeed (and save the world!), Imhotep’s gotta go. There’s no real way around this.

With the second film, though, it comes down more to the two ladies, with BOTH of them having the chance to save their respective love interests. Evie, obviously, goes to save Rick, but Anck...wavers? Suddenly? And you could make an argument that Imhotep wavers himself, given that he chose fighting the Scorpion King for power rather than staying behind with her, but...still. After all these years? The novel explains it as Meela coming back and reasserting herself, but in the film proper it really doesn’t make as much sense, unless you go with the idea that she was never in love with Imhotep, as mentioned in the script above, or at the very least, that it was somehow LESSER to the love that Evie has for Rick, which switches the narrative of the first film from World-Destroying, Epic Love of the Undead VS World-Saving Love of the Living to Fake Love VS Real True Love (With the appropriate child to show it, while Imhotep and Anck can...obviously not produce children. Which I wouldn’t want to bring up normally but given how MUCH of Evie’s identity in the film is tied to her being Alex’s mom, Rick’s wife, and Seti’s daughter...). Which...I fundamentally can’t believe. I can’t believe that after everything the two of them did for each other, how IMPORTANT they both were, that it was just an infatuation. It adds a pointless element to Imhotep’s arc that doesn’t really make sense with what we’d seen before. The tragedy, for me, with their relationship was never that one loved the other more or less; it was that they lived in a world where it simply couldn’t happen, whereas Rick and Evie DID.

The quote that I’ve gone back to time and time again is, “For their love, they were willing to risk life itself,” THEIR. Always THEIR. No matter what, they felt strongly enough for one another that they were willing to do anything so long as it kept the other by their side, and they did it TOGETHER.

Tl;dr: Iconic ship, iconic characters, 100/10 will stan for eternity

#the mummy #anck su namun #long post #xenowlsome

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let-it-raines · 5 years

Text

Rising From The Ashes (Ch. 2)

Summary: When her husband died, Emma wasn’t sure that she could ever move on. He left her with a broken heart and a baby who was only three-months old. It’s enough to take most people down, to make them not want to keep going, but Emma Swan isn’t most people. She’s stronger than she has any right to be. And after years of heartache, she’s found ways to move on…one of those being in Neal’s best friend, Killian Jones. As she’s always known, however, things are more complicated than they ever seem to be.

Rating: Mature (who was I kidding thinking it would be teen?)

A/N: WOW, you guys! I was not expecting such a reaction from you all. Like, at all. It’s been blowing my mind, and I hope you guys like where this story is going. All I can really say is to be patient. There are a lot of moving factors, and it might take awhile to understand them all :D

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

Found on Tumblr: 1 | 2

Tag list: @resident-of-storybrooke @resident-of-storybrooke @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @teamhook @ekr032-blog-blog @mayquita @bmbbcs4evr @wellhellotragic @kmomof4@jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld

Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! It’s not a problem at all!

*Double “-/-” break means a flashback

Sergeant Neal Cassidy, presumed dead since 2011 and officially declared as deceased as of May 2018, has been found alive. The details around his presumed death are still unclear. It’s assumed that he was held as a captive in Iraq near the end of the Iraqi War and never listed on the known registrar of war criminals, so he was not released in the agreement the United States had with Iraq to trade war criminals. After Delta Force raided an al-Qaeda compound last month and found Sergeant Cassidy, he has been in an undisclosed German hospital recovering. In recent days, he has been moved to a hospital in Maine where his wife Emma Swan and son Henry Cassidy reside. He is also welcomed home by former Naval Captain and close friend Killian Jones. We cannot speak for the world, but this is a feel-good story that we’re sure brings joy to even the darkest of hearts. It’s a family reunited from death. What could be more heartwarming than that?

-/-

“Ms. Swan, Captain Jones,” Dr. Vibuthi greets them, reaching over and shaking their hands before settling down in her chair while he and Emma sit in their seats across from her. The office is oddly bright, colorful paintings adorning the walls with the odd educational diploma mixed in. Every doctor’s office he’s ever been in is sterile, dull, but this is likely because he’s only ever been in an exam room. It’s not like it matters what the office looks like, not in the grand scheme of things, but he needs something to focus on besides the vomit that continuously threatens to leave his body.

“Killian?”

“Huh?” he asks, turning to Emma who is looking at him with eyes full of concern.

“Did you hear the doctor? She asked if you were okay.”

Oh. He didn’t hear her at all. He didn’t know anyone had said anything since she greeted them. How much did he zone out? It’s only been a few seconds, hasn’t it?

He might not be okay.

“I’m fine, love,” he assures Emma before looking at Dr. Vibuthi. “I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed is all.”

“That’s completely understandable with what you all have been through. Miracles like this are wonderful, but they do come with a certain amount of shock.”

Miracles. Shock. Surprise. He’s already tired of hearing those words. It’s been two weeks.

“They do,” he grits, his fingers fidgeting across his thigh until Emma reaches over and places her palm over his knuckles, the smallest of touches already making him feel infinitely better. “So, can you tell us how he is? How Neal is?”

She looks down at her files while he interlaces Emma’s fingers with his, needing the connection and support, knowing that she needs it too. “So Mr. Cassidy is a rare case. He hasn’t given us a lot to go on, is always insisting that he’s fine, but we’re running as many psych tests as we can just to make sure.”

“Yeah, that’s what they told us when we talked to General Neller on Tuesday,” Emma explains, her hand tensing in his. “But he said you could tell us how Neal actually is? Is he hurt? Is he malnourished? Does he have PTSD? What tests have you run on him? I just feel like for two weeks we’ve known he was alive after thinking he was dead for almost a decade, and yet no one will fucking tell us anything other than they’re running tests.”

With every single bone in his body aching, wishing to know more, wishing that he could understand what the hell has been happening, he also knows that in all the ways he wants to be weak, Emma needs him to be strong. She’s strong enough herself, likely the strongest person he’s ever met, but she’s gone through hell more times in her life than anyone ever should. Right now is simply another round of walking through the flames and hoping not to be burned to ashes.

The first few days after the news was released that Neal had been found alive had been an adrenaline rush of trying to understand what the hell was going on, how it could be going on. He and Emma were convinced that it was a false report, that it wasn’t him, especially since no one had bothered to notify Emma. The first fucking thing they should have done was notify Emma that Neal was alive. It should have never made it to the news, not without her knowledge.

Their house had been a mess. When Emma collapsed, the plate she dropped shattered and glass cut into her skin. So with a numb girlfriend, a terrified son, and a wailing daughter shocked by all of the commotion, he’d had to get the glass shards out of her legs and clean her up. Henry had made the decision to call David, which is what they taught him to do in situations like this (not that there had ever been a situation like that before), and David had quickly come over and helped them take care of the kids while Killian called every military contact he could think of to try to find out what was going on.

And they’ve basically been in a loop of looking for information ever since.

With crying. A hell of a lot of crying, sobbing really. He doesn’t think he even knew that the human body was capable of producing that many tears.

This is the closest they’ve gotten to any information, though. They’re in the same building as Neal, even if they have no idea what happened to him, how he’s alive, where he’s been. They know nothing other than that he was found in some undisclosed compound.

So the compound. They know about the compound. That’s it.

Well, they know that he’s alive.

How the fuck is Neal alive? And why is he not outrageously happy about it?

His best friend is alive, back from the dead, and it’s been the worst two weeks of his life. How damn selfish is that? He should be elated, feel like his life is back and all of the tragedy of the past eight years is gone, but it’s complicated. Life always is, but your best friend coming back from the dead only to find out that you’ve slept with his wife isn’t exactly ideal.

He shudders at the thought because while he and Emma have slept together, it wasn’t just to scratch an itch. They love each other, have for over four years now, and he’s never felt guiltier about it than he does right now. One shouldn’t feel guilty for being in love, and yet all he wants to do is drown himself in a bottle of rum…and in Emma.

They never meant to fall for each other. He doesn’t think anyone ever does, but it just happened. They were both grieving, and as the two people closest to Neal, they’d leaned on each other. For years it had been the purest of friendships, two people mourning over something they never could have imagined happening to them, and he’d spent more of his time helping her raise Henry than anything else. But somewhere along the way – between diapers and potty training, breast pumps and cooked meals, late nights and early mornings – he’d developed feelings for her.

He’d never despised himself more than the moment he realized his heart fluttered at the smell of her hair or the way her lips felt when she kissed his cheek in greeting. It was wrong. He couldn’t have feelings for Emma. He wouldn’t just be hurting Neal’s memory, but he’d be hurting Emma, too. She was, still is, the strongest woman he’d ever known, but she’d also been through hell. Who was he to complicate her life?

-/-

“Alright, Jones,” Emma sighs, handing him a glass of wine before she plops down on the sofa next to him, crossing her legs up on the couch, “I am kid free. I have wine. I have HBO. We are about to have the night of our lives.”

He chuckles underneath his breath before taking a sip of his wine and placing it on the side table so that he can grab the giant fleece blanket Emma has and pull it up over them. “When the hell did we become so boring that wine and HBO means having one of the nights of our lives?”

“I also have Chinese takeout.”

“Touché, love. That makes all the difference.”

“Exactly. And I have a three and a half year old. I only get to watch something with cursing when it’s past eight, and usually I’m so tired that I fall asleep on the couch.”

“I know. I’m usually the one that has to make sure you don’t hurt your neck by sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh yes, my hero.” Emma dramatically rolls her eyes even as the corners of her lips tick up on the side. God, that smile. He loves that smile, and he hates himself for loving it. He’s pretty much decided that he’s going to suffer for the rest of his life loving that smile, and honestly, he’d be okay suffering that way. If Emma’s smiling, it means she’s happy, and she deserves nothing more than to be happy. That’s all he wants for her. “But I’m not doing that tonight, okay? We’re going to catch up on Game of Thrones and stay up far past midnight.”

“You’ve never even seen an episode.”

“And thus, the catching up.”

“Whatever you want, love.”

They get caught up in the show, even if he’s seen it as well as reading the books, but watching Emma’s reactions to learning everything is priceless. She gasps and groans in all of the right places, laughing in several inappropriate ones, and she spends far too long coming up with theories that are so far off base that he has a difficult time not saying anything to correct her. He’s not sure if it really is the fact that she has the weight of the world off of her shoulders for one night, Henry spending the night with Mary Margaret so he can spend time with Leo, or if it’s the two glasses of wine she’s had.

It’s probably both.

The wine is likely heightening things. She’s not much of a drinker, hasn’t been in recent years at least, wasn’t old enough for too long before Henry was born to develop a real tolerance. He’s not saying Emma is a lightweight, but he’s also saying that Emma is a lightweight. And it’s not like he can say much, his drinking having toned down ever since he started helping Emma out with Henry. Time and time again he wanted to drink when Henry wouldn’t stop crying or even when Emma wouldn’t, but he wanted to be there for them.

Besides, until a few months ago, he was still in the Navy, and he’d get calls at all hours of the day. No one really wants a drunk Captain, whether he’s at sea or not. He wasn’t spending much time out at sea in the past few years anyways.

“He’s cute,” Emma sighs, Rob Stark on screen.

“Dark hair and blue eyes your type, Swan?” he teases, nudging his shoulder into his. “Not to mention British.”

“Most definitely. That’s an attractive combination. If I were to – oh,” she laughs, her lips gaping open before they close. She slaps his shoulder, the force far too strong to be playful. “You’re an asshole. You know I wasn’t talking about you.”

“You most definitely were. I am literally the definition of your type.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma says, moving her hair over her cheeks to hide the blush he saw a minute ago, “you wish, Jones.”

I do, he thinks, something inside of his stomach twisting before he makes it stop, makes it twist in an unpleasant way. He can’t. He can’t do this. He can’t flirt with her. But the words keep falling off of his lips. It’s like he can’t stop himself, especially when he falls back on flirting whenever he’s trying to hide something. People always discount flirting, teasing. They don’t take it seriously, so he can say the things he wants. He can hide how he feels without really hiding it.

It’s what he has to do.

“What is your type?” Emma asks, shocking him out of his thoughts. She’s not watching the screen anymore. She’s watching him, her beautiful green eyes looking directly into his. His skin his buzzing, his entire body really, and he begins to wonder how much he’s actually had to drink tonight.

“Swan, you don’t care about that.”

“I do,” she promises, twisting her body and placing her hand on his forearm. His skin practically ignites with her touch, and he wonders if he can burn from both her touch and his guilt. “I’ve known you for, like, seven years, and I think I know everything about you except for your ideal woman.”

“I don’t have an ideal woman.” “Oh come on, don’t lie to me like that. I know how men work. You like someone with big boobs and a good ass. It’s not that complicated. It’s disappointing for humankind as a whole, but it’s not that complicated.”

He groans, reaching up to rub his hand over his face before grabbing his glass and taking a large gulp. How the hell is he supposed to answer this question?

“Aye, love, I can say that you lot all have various assets that make you appealing, but, you know, once you’re out of the phase where all you can do is fall into bed with each other, you do have to have things in common, things to talk about. I like to be able to laugh, to have a good time, but values are important, you know?”

“You mean, good form and all that?”

He laughs, shaking his head back and forth. She’s never going to let it go that he believes in good form. He’s been a military man for too long, been taught too much chivalry from his mother, and even though Emma accepts when he opens doors for her or when he pulls out her chair before they eat, she always murmurs something teasing about good form.

Like flirting and innuendos for him, he thinks that’s how she protects herself too. She didn’t have anyone to help her out, to do nice things for her, until she was fifteen and adopted by Ruth Nolan, and even though she’s now twenty-six, he thinks some of those things linger. He knows they do. Scars made when we’re young tend to linger.

“Aye, good form, darling. But I’m serious. Yes, obviously I enjoy how a woman looks, but I do like someone who understands me, you know?”

“Yeah,” Emma sighs, scooting closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder, “I get it. I want that too, someone who understands me. It’s been…awhile.”

He wraps his arm around her shoulder, tugging her closer before kissing her temple. “I understand you, love.”

“Yeah, yeah you do.”

The rest of the night seems to fly by, and before he knows it, it’s two in the morning and he and Emma have gone through another bottle of wine. At least, he thinks it was one bottle of wine. It might have been two. Honestly, he doesn’t know anything except for the fact that Emma is currently straddling his lap with her hands in his hair and her lips on his.

Everything about it is glorious, the sensations overwhelming him. She’s soft, so damn soft, and every inch of her skin is warm. Her lips are warm too. And her tongue. Actually, everything about Emma from her lips and her skin to her compassion is warm. God, he loves her, and he’s not entirely convinced that this isn’t a dream. It has to be a dream because she is kissing him like her entire life depends on it.

She is kissing him, and he is giving as good as he’s getting, sucking on her upper lip and making her whimper, the sound shooting straight to his groin. She’s pressed hotly over his length, rolling her hips into his, and every coherent thought he has is gone the more she grinds against him, the more that her tongue tangles with his in a slick, pleasurable dance.

But the moment her hands begin to tug on his shirt, begin to try to undress him, he has to stop them. He can’t do this. They can’t do this. And they really cannot do this while drunk. It’s wrong. It’s one of the best moments of his life, but it’s wrong.

“Emma,” he breathes, panting really, “we can’t.” “Why not?” she whines, resting her forehead against his, her breath ghosting over his swollen lips.

“You know why, love.”

Her eyes flutter closed before she’s moving off of him, her steps wobbling a bit. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning when we take Henry to Kaleb’s birthday party, okay?”

“Goodnight, Swan.” God, what has he done?

-/-

But then there was that night, that glorious night where they’d let the alcohol get to them, where they’d let their inhibitions down, but it was wrong. There was the alcohol. There was Neal. There were far too many reasons why they shouldn’t have done it, but they still did, even if the both of them ignored it for weeks afterward. It wasn’t talked about. It wasn’t referenced. For awhile, he wondered if Emma even remembered.

God, he had both hoped that she didn’t remember and also that she did. It felt like he was living in one of the most complex, torturous little loops of time imaginable.

He obviously had no idea how wrong he was.

Because over four years, three houses, two states, and one new baby later, they were as happy as can be.

And now everything has become complicated.

As if it wasn’t before.

He thinks he’d go back to the complex, tortuous time loop any day over this.

Because he’s a bloody wanker.

“Ms. Swan,” Dr. Vibuthi calmly begins, obviously used to dealing with upset people if how she’s reacting to Emma’s myriad of questions is any indication, “I cannot begin to understand the ordeal you have been through, but I ask you to be patient with me.”

Emma nods her head, her throat bobbing up and down while she bites her quivering bottom lip. God, what he would give to take away all of her pain. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just…I need some kind of information. Something more solid.”

“That I can give you. Mr. Cassidy is healthy. He’s not malnourished, he doesn’t have any diseases. From what we can tell, he had several broken bones over the last few years and has several healed scars that you’ll likely see and that may shock you. But there’s nothing currently physically wrong with him.”

Killian sighs, releasing the breath he was holding. In the moments where his mind has been clear lately, he’s thought about Neal being tortured. He had to be. There’s likely no way around it, but he’s never wanted to be the one to bring it up. So while from what Dr. Vibuthi has said, he’s sure Neal was tortured at one point, he doesn’t seem to have been lately.

At least physically.

None of it makes any sense.

He cannot come up with any possible explanation for what’s happened. If he could be a fly on the wall in the debriefing that he knows Neal is going to have to do with the CIA, he would. There’s so much he wants to know, even more than just what Neal has been through, but he has a feeling that he won’t be allowed to know any of it. And as close as he and Neal were before, he would bet that they will never be that close again, not with everything that’s happened.

“But what about mentally?” Killian begins, squeezing Emma’s hand. “Can you tell us how he is mentally? What his mindset is?”

“Unfortunately not quite yet. He won’t talk about what happened in much detail, but we are running all of the evaluations that we can as I said. We have our own and the military also has several that they’ve asked us to run since Neal has expressed interest in remaining in the service. All he truly talks about, however, is getting back to Emma and Henry.”

“Oh God,” Emma gasps, letting go of his hand so she can cover her mouth with both of her hands, her entire body shaking.

Why the hell would he want to return to the service? Killian has been retired for five years, and he didn’t even leave in bad circumstances. He simply wanted to be around for Emma and Henry more, wanted to live life. He can’t imagine being held hostage for eight years and wanting to return to the very thing that basically took his life away.

“So can we see him?” Killian soldiers on, reaching over and rubbing his hand up and down Emma’s back, stuffing all of his thoughts down and focusing on what’s important right now. “That’s why we’re here, right?”

“Yes, you can see him, but for a limited time. We don’t want to overwhelm him. And afterward I’d like to set up an appointment with both of you about his treatment here and when he leaves. Unfortunately, you all have a long road ahead of you.”

-/-

“Are you ready, love?”

“No, but we need to go in. I’ll just freak myself out more if we don’t do it.”

“Aye. It’s just…it’s going to be okay, Emma,” he promises, dipping his head down to quickly brush his lips over hers. He hasn’t done that nearly as much as he should lately, a distance between the two of them building, one that he’s likely been putting there himself. What else is he supposed to do when his girlfriend’s husband is back? But still, he loves her, supports her, and he won’t let her think otherwise, not now. “I love you.”

She smiles, but it’s weak, sad even. It’s not Emma. “I love you too.”

With that, Emma pushes down on the handle and pulls open the door, walking inside on a visibly shaky step as he follows behind her. Neal is sitting in the hospital bed in gray sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking healthier than he did the last time Killian saw him. He’s obviously older, the difference between thirty and thirty-eight hard to miss, but he looks stronger somehow.

It’s…jarring.

It’s also jarring to see him in person. He’s real. He’s actually alive. Killian knew it to be true, but this is real, physical proof. It makes everything almost surreal.

“Ems,” Neal laughs, a bright smile forming on his lips that causes the lines around his face to wrinkle. He doesn’t say anything else, hopping up from the bed and rushing toward Emma, immediately cupping her cheeks and crushing his lips into hers.

That may be the most jarring thing of all.

He’s seen Emma kiss Neal, something he saw plenty of times before, but it was never when Emma was the woman he loves, never in a situation like this.

He’s never seen Emma kiss Neal when he knows exactly how Emma’s lips feel.

Was he allowed to feel jealous? Is that okay? He knows that he can’t just make his emotions disappear, that he can’t stop loving her, that he won’t stop loving her, but there’s no guidelines for this. As far as he knows, nothing like this has ever happened. There’s no one to follow or help tell him what to do.

What is he supposed to do when the love of his life’s husband shows up from the dead? What is he supposed to do when his best friend is experiencing some kind of miracle second chance in life and Killian has all of the power to break Neal’s world apart when it’s all finally coming back together?

What is he supposed to do if he has to not love the woman who he intended on marrying? The woman who has an engagement ring in the pocket of his old Naval uniform only because he knows she won’t look there. To the mother of his child…to the mother of his children.

He wants to say that he’ll step back, that he’ll let them mend their fences, but he can’t do that. He and Emma have a life together. They have Henry. They have Ada, who Neal doesn’t know about yet, which is a bag of bag of worms he doesn’t know how to handle.

They can’t hide a child, and bile rises in his throat at the fact that his little girl is going to be a reason for friction. Ada is one of the lights of his life, and she’s done not a thing wrong, so similar to Henry who’s been unusually quiet since he found out his father is alive.

It’s all fucked up, and he just doesn’t know what to do. He wants to hold his family and never let go, but he’s likely going to have to let go. He can’t do it, but he may have to.

It’s going to break him.

His best friend is alive, and he can barely be happy about it.

Neal finally pulls back from Emma, leaning his head against Emma’s forehead in a move that nearly breaks Killian. That’s what he and Emma do. That’s…theirs. His legs practically collapse underneath him, but he refuses to let that happen. He absolutely refuses.

Then Neal turns to him, his eyes staring directly into Killian’s. “Jones,” he sighs, “nice to see you, man. Can you believe this?”

He can’t.

#rising from the ashes #cs ff #cs fic #captain swan fic

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linelpisffxiv · 4 years

Text

From the Six Month Gap

A little story about Lin through the eyes of the Captain of the Guard.

Despite night returning around all of Norvrandt, Sin Eaters still exist. Lyna can command her forces and ask for help from others to find the bastions, but at the least, nighttime drives them away, so rest is possible.

Further, the Cardinal Virtues are all dead, thanks to the Warrior of Darkness, and those another tier down no longer contain the power to seed their aether into a human. The few deaths she witnessed were nothing more than that. Deaths. Not Conversions.

As she walks into the Crystarium, she sees the Warrior of Darkness standing there. The odd Mystel woman from her Grandfather’s homeland.

“I was expecting you, Lyna,” the woman says. She holds up a bottle of some mead. “Drink with me?”

Lyna knows there’s nothing meant by it, but their communications have been quite rare. “What reason do you have for it, Warrior?”

She chuckles and swishes the bottle again, a smile on her face. “Your lovely company, of course.” After a second, the smile drops, and she sees beyond her usual facade. “And I know you and I are birds of a feather, and wanted to listen, to see if my advice would work. We can head to my room, if you wish.”

The Warrior of Darkness rarely drops her easy smile. And while they have not spoken much, what she’s seen of the woman shows she has faced several battles in her homeland, and as much loss as any Crystarium soldier, if not more.

“I assume you would not prefer the Stair?”

“There are things I want to disclose to you, believe you will understand better than most not from my homeland. Tis a secret I would not like to have let out.” As easily as the mask came off hardly a minute before, she puts it back on. “So, what do you say, Lyna? Shall we celebrate?”

“If you insist, my lady.”

A’lin makes a face at the address. “Please don’t call me that. I am not a lady.”

Lyna hides a small chuckle. The Warrior of Darkness is interesting. “Of course, forgive me, but what shall I call you, then?”

“Lin, please.” She gives a flourish of a bow. “Now please, Commander, follow me.”

The walk to the Pendants isn’t far. A’lin chats with Emanuel for a few moments, her smile almost genuine, but doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

She has the best room in the Pendants, no argument. A few in the past had it, but about a decade ago, the Exarch insisted it stay empty. Back then, the reasoning was confusing, but as she watches A’lin get a couple glasses for the wine, she knows.

The man knew she was coming. More, that she would love it.

A’lin occasionally looks through her window, enjoying the dusk she faces.

After everything is prepared, she frowns. “Commander, why have you not taken a seat?”

“I was taught it rude to sit before a host. And should you insist I call you Lin, I will say call me Lyna.”

“Well, then, Lyna, back where I’m from, if a guest is uncomfortable, they’re free to sit, though I might roll my eyes if one eats before I’m seated.” She sets the glasses on the table. “And do not feel pressured to take one of these. Choose whichever seat you like.”

Lyna takes one of the stools and holds the glass. It’s one of her favorite meads, but it was not quite as common any longer. How the woman got any is beyond her. “So, what is it you wanted to ask me that was so private?”

A’lin sits across from her and takes a sip. After she swallows, she speaks up. “How did you become Commander? Was it some great deed or did you—”

“Work my way up from the bottom? Latter. I look young, but that is a trait of most Viis. I am thirty-seven. Why, how old are you?”

Lin chuckles. “There are at least three answers to that question, probably four or five.” She shakes her head. “Make that six, actually. The easiest is I’m twenty-nine. If my math’s right, it was a few days ago.”

Six ways to count her age? Is A’lin serious about that? How can there be so many?

“Though by your reckoning, I’m over a hundred. My homeland is in a place where time flows differently. I do not know my exact age. A hundred years ago for you, I was still twenty-seven. That number would vary depending on how long ago the Flood of Light was halted.”

“A hundred and seven years ago, I believe is the generally agreed upon count, but there are contrasting studies.”

“Then for you I’m a hundred and thirty four.”

“What other counts do you have?”

“The count purely by my homeland. I’m still twenty eight. I’ll turn twenty nine for them in four months. The three others… are very personal, and I don’t know what they are, either.”

Lyna pauses. For all the talk, there was something forgotten. “You asked how I became commander. You are young for the same role. Did you want to ask because you were forced into the position?”

Lin nods her head. Her eyes close. “Back home, despite having always known night, not having sin eaters, there were threats. One that by some reason, I was given the power to destroy certain kinds.”

“I’m assuming that was the power you came here to use.”

“Yeh,” she says. “However, not every fight I’ve done was against threats where my powers came to be. There is strife between several factions back home. I fought spoken as well. Some brainwashed, some blackmailed, but several others who believed in their cause, were willing to die for it. I’ve ended so many lives. Not mercy-kills, nor monsters. Spoken. Large groups of them.”

“Do you know how many, precisely?”

“Dozens, hundreds, easily. No names for most, and faces for even fewer.”

Lyna takes a long sip of the drink. Her mind seethes. She knows why Lin thinks whatever the truth is, if it’s more than her homeland’s odd time, she chose Lyna to speak with. Why she would learn this truth. She saw the odd powers of the woman with her own eyes. It was a secret that ate at her.

And these people where she calls home think because she has this power she should be a commander. Lin is a good one, but she also does everything but fight in her free time. Sing, dance, explore. She didn’t choose the path. She was forced.

“Did you want this?”

Lin shrugs. “It’s my life. I’m good at it. Some days I want it, others I don’t. What I can say is before I learned of Norvrandt’s predicament, I was on the verge of becoming what my leaders needed. A commander with a power that gives several skills to her. Mild precognition, the ability to learn new weapons quick, and, as you saw, the power to fell aetheric beasts. Had I not gotten the call, I would have likely been dead by now.”

She smiles. Unlike several, this one has her eyes sparkle with the same joy one should bring. “What I can say is after I tie up the last few loose ends back home, I want to find a way to stay here. I’m not the only one who can fight those monsters. But here, the titles feel far more earned than the one everyone calls me back home. I am also given the ability to rest. I have friends and family back home, and they know, but I know the leaders would call for me were I easily available for anything less than a single threat. I admit that is where I shine. What I am needed.”

“I have a question, if you are comfortable with answering it,” Lyna says. “This home you refer to. Where is it?”

“And that is why I wanted to talk to you in private. I spoke with the others. With everything that happened. You deserve to know, just… don’t get upset.”

What she explains is confusing, but her words paint enough of a picture. It explains why the Exarch and all their friends are more powerful than average, why the skills they pick up all are quick (to the point that Lin’s speed of learning must be amazing to be considered part of her gift). Their aether is denser because they’re from a place where such is normal.

And they could have chosen to let it happen. Destroy their world to take that strength.

“I’m one of only two or three of us who technically have thicker souls. I had a piece of mine here. We joined together. Ryne might be the reverse, having taken in the soul of her equivalent back home.”

“And the third?”

“The Exarch, but he’s different. However, I feel it is his story to tell when it comes to his own soul. All I will say is that when I said I would probably be dead by now if not for his interference, it is not hyperbole.”

“I must ask. This is much to take in. Why did you want to tell me all this? Bear another secret from the world.”

“I trust you. Not with secrets, but with my back. You are— that is — I want you as a friend Lyna. Sparring partner. You are one of the strongest I’ve known in Norvrandt, in both mind and body.”

“And you’re my grandfather’s lover.”

Lin chuckles. “That too. But even if I wasn’t. He trusted you with the Tower should anything happen to him and it stayed. You would have learned in that case. And it may still be the case. I’d rather you learn with some mead in you than otherwise.”

“With a hero?”

“With a friend. If you’ll have me as one.”

Lyna holds up her glass. “You think you know me, Lin? Well, if you want, I can tell you whatever you desire about growing up here.”

Lin offers hers and taps it against the one in Lyna’s hands. “I do have many questions about that. But I don’t believe in asking without offering something in return.”

“With what you offered, I think I owe you everything you wish. Including some stories about me as an adolescent in the Crystal Tower.”

“Do tell.”

She has several feelings. Anger at the leaders of this other world Lin is from, Shock at seeing what a small role all this is in some cosmic fight, but also peace, knowing that she won’t be alone with either of those facts.

#FFXIV #Final Fantasy 14 #Final Fantasy XIV #Flash fic #Lyna #My WoL #My WoL & Lyna

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lossofmylife · 5 years

Text

Open letter to non-believers.

Mental illness.

-an open letter: to those toxic people in this world, who insist on the downfall of others, who are already down.

The stigma still exists. It has not been eradicated and I’m not sure it ever will be.

As humans, we possess a tendency not only to reject what we cannot see and therefore what we cannot understand, but ridicule it. We exist within a society where to be seen is to be believed, which is increasingly damaging for those of US who suffer in ways that cannot meet the eye, working only to prolong pain and suffering.

This very mentality is so extremely dangerous and damaging for US sufferers out there. To have the existence of our very real turmoil debated, diminished and belittled. To have what WE know to be real, what WE feel in every inch of our bodies to be true- refused. To be insulted so spitefully, harshly and inhumanely by others, when we already have the biggest and baddest enemy to contest with in life: our mind. This mentality is more dangerous than anyone could ever realise. It is confirmation of our darkest thoughts in our darkest hours: that it is because of who we are that this is happening to us, that we deserve for this to be happening to us, a deserved, long drawn out, dehumanising punishment. The nail in the coffin, the hand that holds you by the throat squeezing to tightly that you’re unable to breathe, till you’re gasping for air.

The fact that there is even a debate about mental health is disgusting. It should not be open for debate. There should not be opportunity to refuse it. It’s existence is cold, hard facts- scientifically proven. Mental illness is a part of who I am. It is not who I am, simply a part- must like skin colour, or ethnicity. It is a characteristic WE possess, but it in no way defines us. So why is it acceptable to snatch away the existence of something that WE possess, something that belongs to US, is ours. It’s theft. And it is always taken by the wrong hands. Used as ammunition against us, to shoot us all down and keep us there. It is execution.

So, tell me, why is it those who know the least that feel so entitled to take. To take our pain, our misery, our anxieties, part of our character and burn it. To diminish it entirely and turn it into something completely unrecognisable. To reconstruct and push a narrative for the purpose of fitting their own personal agenda. These people, they have NO RIGHT. These people, they know so little whilst refusing blatantly to even try to understand so much. These people should not be allowed to push their narrative, no more than a white person should push their narrative on black rights or than a male should push their narrative on female rights. Unless YOU are supporting us, you should not be able to make decisions regarding US. Those that do not, do not try and do not want to understand should not be given this power. It should never happen, under any circumstances. Yet, the power and influence is placed into the very hands that WE are beaten down by.

Mental health is real. What isn’t real and what it most definitely is not is: laziness, or stubbornness or selfishness or any number of negative connotations that have been pushed to be associated with the disease. Instead it is an iceberg. There is the surface of which people see and deem fit to ridicule- however they are doing so without the entire picture, without seeing the extent that lies beneath the surface of the ocean, the rest of the iceberg, the understanding, the truth. The bits people do not see, and do not wish to see are the bits that WE hold so close to our hearts, that it begins to feel at times as though your heart has frozen over. The shameful secret of the extent of our disease, the exhaustion of being a sufferer. The bits we are not allowed to show the light of day to because they make YOU uncomfortable.

And that’s the funny thing isn’t it? That everybody is all for mental health and supporting sufferers whilst they are at the finishing line of recovery. The same people who run a mile at the sight of relapse of those who are not yet ready for recovery, the same people who are horrified by the extremely sad truth of the very ugly diseases we carry with us. It is a vicious cycle in which WE are ridiculed for doing nothing to ‘help ourselves’, but are silenced and prevented by the guilt YOU push onto us. And so I ask you, is it that WE wont help ourselves or that WE cannot, because YOU don’t want us to?. WE are made to feel as though we have no right or reason for feeling the way that we do, when in fact, it is YOU who has no right or reason to feel the way YOU do about something that does not affect nor concern you in anyway, no right or reason to make us feel the way that YOU do, and it is YOU who has no right or reason to make us feel a burden and problem to society, when in fact it is you who is more of a danger to society than we are and ever will be.

WE deserve love. WE deserve acceptance. We deserve appreciation. Full stop. NOT despite our ‘faults’, as the narrative YOU so often push would have you believe. Mental health is NOT to be attributed as a fault in a way that no other single illness is: Not cancer, not dementia, not amnesia nor a broken arm or amputated leg. Every other illness is accepted as separate to the sufferer, yet when it comes to mental health we let it define those who are sufferers. It is seen as a flaw to our character, a less than lovable trait that we choose to possess.. and it disgusts me. Why am I due to the structure of my brain, the only brain that I was given for my life, due to a chemical imbalance of neurotransmitters in that very same brain, something I did not ask for and had no control over, any less loveable or any less deserving of love than anyone else?

For all our so called ‘faults’ as YOU are so insistent on labelling them- WE are the embodiments of strength. WE are not weak as YOU are so desperate to believe and have everybody else believe. And YOU cannot tell us that it is so.

YOU show me the weakness in living when every inch of your body and your mind screams otherwise. Show me the weakness in existing out of pure love for those around you. Where you see weakness I see strength that comes from a place so contrasting to your own wants and needs. It is completely selfless. There is unlimited strength and power in the ability to give love and love others so deeply when you are unable to do the very same for yourself. A strength YOU so clearly do not and are unable to possess. WE are strong, where YOU are weak. And YOU don’t like that.

The mentally ill are the strongest people. WE possess a strength and courage so powerful that is scares YOU. It scares you so much that you feel the need to suppress it constantly and at every given opportunity, to strip US of what makes us so brilliant. To instead make us feel that the very things that make us so uniquely and unapologetically human are destructive, ticking time bombs that we need to get rid of. YOU dehumanise US. It is mass murder of our mind and strength and it is certainly discrimination against US for attempting to be so unapologetically ourselves, to accept and love ourselves.

This stigma that is created and pushed by those who do not and do not want to understand is what confines us, it stunts our growth- never enabling us to flourish and to reach our full beautiful potential. All for the sake of fitting the negative narrative that YOU are so desperate for US to believe. This negative narrative YOU concocted and all of the negative connotations that come with it- it is not designed for others, it is hand crafted for US and pushed forward to US. YOU are so desperate to make US believe the things that YOU are saying, to make yourself feel better about who YOU are. YOU make a conscious effort in choosing not to empower and encourage us, to let us flourish. YOU do not want change. And what it all comes down to is that: it is YOU that is insecure in who you are, not US, it is YOU who is a fragile person in danger of breaking, not US. Which is why you have created a storyline to tell that paints US as the problem, YOU want us to believe that WE are the problem- for if WE are the problem, it cannot possibly be YOU. Eyes and attention are diverted once again in OUR direction and therefore YOUR ego is stroked and you once again feel relief in the fact that YOU are secure- at the cost of US. A very selfish and therefore negative display of character, don’t you think?

But WE are not a problem. WE are not a burden. WE are not bad people. What WE are, is different from YOU, different in the best possible way and that scares YOU. Once again, different scares YOU, so YOU try to stamp it out. WE are good people, who feel things so very deeply, to our detriment sometimes but also to our advantage for it enables us to walk into the world with our eyes wide open without the facade of smoke and mirrors clouding our judgement. WE see the world, really and truly perceive the people and things around us. For what people forget, is that just because our brains are different from YOURS does not mean they are any lesser as people so often assume, in fact they have the potential for so much MORE. And through the labels of unstable and more, we know exactly who we are, no illusions,... do YOU? Are YOU any less unstable than you are accusing US of being?

And so I dare YOU to carry on, carry on calling me manipulative, controlling, selfish, lazy. Carry on telling YOURSELF that I am the greatest evil, that I am someone to be escaped. That I deserve to be all alone in this world. Because it may pain YOU to discover that no matter who YOU paint me to be, no matter who YOU keep telling YOURSELF that I am, that YOU want me to be, YOUR perception doesn’t change who I am. And that YOU putting that out into the world does not make it who I am, it never will. And perhaps the saddest fact of all for YOU, is that it reflects far more on the person YOU are than the person that I am. As through all the abuse and emotional torment YOU throw MY way, I will remain a deeply empathetic, perceptive, inquisitive, compassionate, generous, giving, fiercely loyal person, and YOU will remain bitter, hateful and close minded and in the end it will kill YOU, poisoned from the inside out and that will be through every fault of YOUR own. So let’s start being honest, the person YOU are painting ME to be, is the person YOU are.

I am tired of being told to simply accept that I am the way I, the very idea is an insult- I am no lesser, there is nothing wrong with me that I need to accept. Different is not wrong. I am who I am and my mental illness doesn’t not subtract from that- but rather adds to that. The implication of this is that the way WE act is irrational, that we are in the wrong, that our actions are less than desirable. When can we throw out this outdated, toxic concept that somebody who suffers from mental illness cannot operate separately from this, why does every single action that WE fulfil get reduced down to motivation from our mental illness. AGAIN. WE are NOT our mental illness. I could scream it again and again. But you will silence the screams and continue your narrative.. would you prefer I carried a sign that detailed the illnesses I suffer from.. perhaps a tattoo across my forehead, or perhaps when I introduce myself I should lead with my diagnosis. But again, why should WE do anything to make you more comfortable with US, WE do NOT exist to make you more comfortable, to dull ourselves and reduce ourselves to a label, that would simply make it easier for YOU to identify and continue to discriminate us.. Like the Jews being made the wear the stars. An easy, identifiable target. If YOU had it your way, we would be eradicated, however without US bunch of ‘misfits’ and ‘psychos’, you would be living in a grey world, no colour, no embellishments- for some of the greatest people, hell most of the greatest people to have graced this earth, people YOU idolise, love and compliment for all of their great contributions were one of US. Not YOU. For we have great potential to fulfil, minds that are vivid and sometimes scary and beautiful that expand beyond your wildest dreams and WE are going to do great things, whether YOU like it or not.

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myaekingheart · 5 years

Text

55. Dorimuchimu

read the scarecrow and the bell on ao3

index | from the beginning | < previous | next >

I've said it once, I've said it twice, I've said it a thousand fucking times That I'm OK, that I'm fine, that it's all just in my mind But this has got the best of me, and I can't seem to sleep It's not 'cause you're not with me, it's 'cause you never leave -It Never Ends, Bring Me The Horizon

Four days had passed before Rei had the courage to face Naru again. She awoke far too early with a fire in her belly, an anxiety, that she needed to quench. Without a second of hesitation, she slipped on her shoes and raced toward the cemetery.

It was ANBU custom that a shinobi destroy their body before death so as to prevent the enemy from getting ahold of valuable information. After all, you can glean just as much from a dead body as you can a living one. Therefore, Naru was never even buried but rather memorialized in some sort of bogus mock grave. Quite frankly, it made Rei sick but she presumed she would rather have a fake grave than nothing at all. It took her some time to actually find it but when she did, she immediately realized how terrible of a decision she had made.

Despite there not even being a body, she felt as if she had to tread carefully so as to not stand directly over where Naru’s corpse would’ve been. She swore she had heard something somewhere about that being bad, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe it was bad luck. Whatever. It wasn’t important. She knelt down before the gravestone, her fingers tracing over her etched name, and then slapped her hand hard in hopes of waking up from this terrible nightmare. It was too surreal, none of this could possibly be happening. Maybe if she just squeezed her eyes shut tight enough and said a bunch of words backwards, she would reverse time and Naru would come bounding up behind her with that new hairstyle she was contemplating. They would stop for food and laugh and gossip and everything would be as it was once more. But that was stupid. No amount of wishing was ever going to change things back. Death was finite, irrevocable. There was nothing she could do.

She couldn’t tell whether it had been hours or mere minutes when a voice suddenly spoke to her from behind. “Fancy seeing you here, Carrots” it called, and Rei recognized it immediately. She turned slowly, catching Sekkachi staring down at her. Backlit by a blinding sun, she looked almost demonic.

“Can I not pay my respects?” Rei said sourly as she turned back around. She caught Sekkachi approach in her periphery and set a small bouquet of flowers down before the grave. They knelt there in silence for a long while, an uneasiness hanging in the air. Without Naru to bind them, Rei and Sekkachi felt out of place and awkward. “It still doesn’t feel real” Rei murmured, breaking the silence. “None of this feels real.”

“Yeah, well, get used to it” Sekkachi spat. Despite the hostility of her words, there was a fragile undercurrent to her tone. Defeatist, cynical, heartbroken.

Rei shook her head, an airy laugh breaking past her lips. “To think, we were the strongest kunoichi team of our generation…”

“The Dream Girls” Sekkachi replied, slightly bitter.

“Dorimuchimu” Rei said. That word held so much weight to it, so much meaning both positive and negative. She wondered how Chikara-sensei felt about all of this. Losing one of your students, even if they had long ago graduated from your tutelage, no doubt stung. If they could only go back to those old days when they were young and naïve, so full of life and high spirits. The weight of other’s harsh criticism didn’t feel quite so heavy. They were destined to fail, and yet exceeded every expectation.

An all-girls team can’t possibly get any work done, they would say. They’re so weak. That’s too much estrogen for one team. It was a wonder none of them ever quit, but they all had their reasons to pursue a career like this. And they had Chikara: a powerhouse of a woman, tall and thick and tan. She accepted them as if they were her own children. Whatever their faults in the personal sphere didn’t matter. The only thing that was important now was teamwork, and damn were they a perfect combination. The very things that people argued would destine them for failure only contributed to their success. Tiny Rei was the sly spy, chatty Naru the intelligent deceiver, and aggressive Sekkachi the brute force. Soon their names were known across the five great nations: Chikara’s Dream Girls. Short-lived ecstasy.

“Feels so anticlimactic” Rei murmured, reminiscing about it all. “Falling apart like this.”

“No” Sekkachi countered, “No, we fell apart way before any of this.” As much as she respected the good things, Sekkachi was not blind to the reality of their formation. They were little girls with power, but also imperfections. That was the trouble with growing up—it also entailed growing apart and growing against. The very things that strengthened them as comrades only weakened them as friends. They were destined to fail from the very start.

It was true that their progress, as well, was a point of contention. Where Rei and Naru excelled into the ANBU, Sekkachi was never given the privilege. Lord Third only ever promoted her as far as “specialized jonin,” which for all intents and purposes didn’t mean shit. Just a coat of gold paint on a cheap plastic knock off as if to make it feel shiny and worthwhile. In the end, it didn’t mean anything.

Rei shook her head. “Don’t say that” she whispered. “Something like that would make Naru mad.”

“Well, Naru isn’t here anymore, Rei!” Sekkachi suddenly exploded, leaping to her feet. “It’s not like she can hear us!” Taken aback, Rei turned to her slowly, her heart pounding. Sekkachi’s face was growing redder by the second. She was teetering on the verge of madness after having held herself back for far too long.

“Sekkachi, please….” Rei whispered, slowly standing herself. She really didn’t want to do this. Not right now. “This isn’t the right place to argue—”

“As if it’s your place to say!” Sekkachi shouted. “If it wasn’t for you, Naru would still be here!”

Her words were like a kunai to the chest. Rei staggered backwards, suddenly breathless. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. Her entire body went numb. After a few moments of gasping and glitchy recalculating, she finally choked out, “I-I didn’t mean to…”

Sekkachi balled up her fist and for a moment Rei was certain she was going to strike her. However, a softness slowly filled her eyes and she began to lower her hand. “That doesn’t mean anything” Sekkachi growled. Her voice quaked, and for the first time in a long time she was holding back tears. “You don’t get a free pass by saying sorry. I want you to live with the guilt of what you’ve done every single day for the rest of your miserable life.”

Now Rei was fighting back tears. She clenched her fists at her sides so hard, her nails dug deep into her palms. A lump rose in her throat and the earth began to swing back and forth beneath her feet. “I know…I know…I wish it had been me instead. It should’ve been me…oh god, it should’ve been me…”

“Your tears aren’t going to help you win my sympathy, Rei” Sekkachi snapped. “I refuse to sit by and watch you get everything you ever wanted while having stolen this from me.” She gestured to Naru’s grave, and a sickening fear began to well up inside of Rei.

“W-what do you mean…?” the redhead asked, though she was terrified of the answer. She wasn’t stupid. She could make the inferences. All the pieces of this tragic puzzle began coming together in her head and it only added to the crushing weight.

Sekkachi sniffled and tried to act tough, unaffected, but was failing. “I had plans, you know” she said. “I had things I wanted, too. A happy life. Good future. Loving relationship. But the one person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I was too much of a fucking coward to confess to. And now…now it’s too fucking late!”—here, she kicked the small bouquet of flowers she had placed by Naru’s grave. “She’s gone and there’s nothing I can fucking do about it!”

The sky was spinning. This was so much worse than she expected. Rei gasped for breath, trying to make sense of everything. Her entire world felt like one bizarre dream where nothing made sense and everything was fake. “Y-you mean…the bookshop…and—”

“Yes, you fucking idiot!” Sekkachi screamed. “It was Naru! It was all for fucking Naru! And now she’s motherfucking gone, and I’ll never be able to tell her how much my stupid ass fucking loved her, and there’s nothing I can do about it!” At this point, there was no holding back now. The dam had broken and tears were spilling down Sekkachi’s face. It was the most raw and gruesome display of emotion Rei had ever seen her express in public, if not in the entire course of their friendship. She gripped her stomach, tugging at the chub on her sides, and shrieked in agony. “This is all your fucking fault!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry…I’m so fucking sorry…” Rei wailed, falling to her knees. She curled up on the ground, pressing a hand to Naru’s gravestone in hopes that perhaps wherever her spirit was, it would flutter down to bring them peace or reassurance or some other poetic bullshit she knew wasn’t actually attainable.

Sekkachi knelt down and grabbed Rei by her shirt collar, a tearful anger overflowing from inside of her. Through clenched teeth, she growled, “Sorry isn’t going to bring her back to me.” Then she tossed Rei back into the ground and walked off feeling dirty and disgusting and depressed.

Rei gripped the grass as she watched her leave, feeling the natural little bugs of the terrain crawl through her tangled hair and across her fingers. Something inside of her was dying, rancid and raw, threatening to overtake her entire body. Her forearms itched for something sharp, some way to drain herself of this darkness, but she was too worn down to move. She would just have to suffer through the hunger. She turned to the sky and stared directly at the sun until black spots clouded her vision, then pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets and whispered, “It never ends…it never ends…”

#kakashi hatake #rei natsuki #the scarecrow and the bell #naruto #naruto oc #fanfiction

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purkinje-effect · 5 years

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Running Interference

While all the Harbormen crowded the dock boilers outside for the feast, the old man who had brought back all that shellfish meat from the hunt sat almost alone in a briny fisherman’s inn with a now-empty bottle of whiskey. Mitch, a younger man with dark hair and a leather jacket, owned The Last Plank, and it was just him and Longfellow. With a hunk of fresh-boiled Fog Crawler the size of his forearm in one hand and a bottle in the other, Mitch strolled up to the old man and slammed down the spirits in front of him.

“How’s about one more round for the huntsman of the year?” Mitch grinned at him with a viscous, adenoidal admiration. “You’ve never really been much one for a crowd, but that had to have been a Captain’s Dance, Longfellow! You haven’t gone and done anything that crazy in years! You should be soaking up the praise for a job well done. Hahaw, you’ve still got it.”

The hunter with fine white hair sat in silence in his slate grey peacoat and well-worn charcoal scarf, and he stared at the bottle a moment to weigh his thoughts. He grabbed the whiskey with fingerless knit gloves, and uncorked it to pour a fresh shot and down it. He wiped the sorry off his short-bearded silver chin, then poured a second shot and slid it toward the barkeep. With brittle exhaustion, he gave the young man a rough, hoarse caveat:

“You’ll need this if you’re serious about hearing what’s on my mind.”

Mitch let out a strident laugh and sat across from Longfellow at the corner table. Accepting the shot to humor him, he crinkled his nose. He slid the glass back to the septuagenarian with a sly glance.

“Now for this story, do you need to be more sober, or do I need to be less?”

“I don’t think it’s possible for me to be drunk enough for this. Ha! Swear to me you won’t tell a soul.”

“I’m no gossip. I swear it.”

Longfellow stared into the glass as he fidgeted with it and nodded, stifling a purposeless frown as best he could.

“You know how long I’ve hunted Shipbreaker... It’s a complicated emotion, to truly miss something you’ve dedicated so much of your life killing.”

Longfellow trailed off and knocked back another shot, and offered another to Mitch. His plaintive, haunted eyes drifted off to the salt-frosted windows to watch people dancing, eating, and drinking all along the dock. Mitch didn’t understand what the hunter had described until the liquor already burned his mouth, and he choked, eyes thrown wide in amazement.

“You took down Shipbreaker!? We’re supping on the Shipbreaker tonight!?”

The hunter’s despondent gaze met the barkeep’s, and he closed his weary eyes and shook his head.

“That’s her all right. And a clutch of her kin. There’s worse things out in the Fog than her, it seems--”

“Good god!” Mitch got a wild-eyed, crazy grin and shot up in his seat. “You did the Captain’s Dance to lure her out, didn’t you? I should go get the others! We should all gather ‘round to hear how you felled the terrible Shipbreaker!!”

The old man flipped on him and slammed his hunting knife into the wood table. Mitch flinched and sat back down as Longfellow bared a cornered snarl at him.

“Did you not just hear me! I met something more dangerous than Shipbreaker.” The cherry-nosed old man bestilled himself a mite, more injured than angry. “I have no pride in how she went down.”

Wide-eyed and apologetic, Mitch sat himself back down and continued to gnaw on the hunk of shellfish flesh.

“Dinner and a tale, I suppose...”

The hunter withdrew the knife and put it back in its leather holster, and took a swig straight from the bottle.

“There’s no simple way of saying what I’m about to say, so I guess starting at the beginning is just as good a place as any. I got a wild hair about a month ago, to head out again hunting Shipbreaker. My bones weren’t getting any more limber, and I was growing stir-crazy at my homestead. I started out at the Dalton Farm to the North end of the island. I’d met her there more than anywhere. The telltale radio interference she causes when she’s nearby got stronger as I went Southwest. The Fog was so thick there, and I lost just enough of my bearings right when the signal was getting strongest, that a pack of Fog Ghouls overran me near Echo Lake. There were so many of them, and it happened so fast. A whirlwind of growling nails and snarling teeth. I went unconscious for a time, and I blamed the Rad exposure from the Ghouls for the horrid, lucid nightmares I experienced. I couldn’t tell waking from unconscious for the longest.

“I woke up in a tent pitched about tree roots. It was night, and all I could see was a campfire, and a man in a tricorner cap sitting at it. This man... even then I didn’t rightfully want to call him a man, but then I didn’t understand why... Still woozy, I nearly called out to Erickson on account of his stature. But he wasn’t a super mutant, pacifist or otherwise. His proportions were too close to a man’s, and he wore clothing that covered his whole body. I stared at him too long, and he noticed I was awake. He had already bandaged up my bites and scrapes, and he offered me a remedy for Rads, watery and sweet. It wasn’t spirits, but it eased my aches all the same.

“I kept staring at him, far longer than I should have, trying to make sense of who he was. Thanked him, for not leaving me to the Ghouls. His unspoken you’re welcome came with a bowl of food he’d just cooked. Told me to break bread with him. I remember the food so... clearly. Everything he cooked, really.” Longfellow squinted at an empty space lost in thought, and took another drink. “Wolf ribs, seasoned with Fog herbs. Lureweed that time.

“I didn’t recognize him for a Harborman. If he’d been a Trapper, he’d have killed and eaten me by then. And if he’d been a Child of Atom, he’d have killed me for being so near to their... holy ground. While we ate, I asked him why he was so deep in the Fog alone.

“He told me, in that low, deep, calm he always spoke in, that it had been serendipity that he’d found me. That he knew me, knew I still hunted the Shipbreaker. He offered me a wineskin, said he’d made it fresh from Hinter herbs. I partook of the dry, heady stuff. He said: ‘We have different motives, but the same goal.’

“I told him he handled himself well for a Mainlander. He wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, but he said to call him August.” Longfellow paused when Mitch squinted through a bite of firm fleshy Fog Crawler, but neither mentioned it. “Wore black head to toe. Had his scarf wrapped tight around his head, and wore his hat atop it. Everything was covered save the front of his face. I noticed he wore a single unit of Marine armor, covering his left leg, and though the yellow painted symbols had faded, it had once belonged to Children. He knew I recognized it, and we made eye contact. He had... pale eyes that almost glowed like the moon under that cap.

“He felt fondness for the Fog, always described it with kindness. He turned his question on me. Wondered if the Fog were as awful as I say, why I would be out this deep in it myself. I told him I’d been close to locating the Shipbreaker again when he found me. He could tell how much the circumstances had affected me.

“Everything he said twisted my sensibilities, but nothing more than that one remark. Different motives, same goal. He always made it so hard to tell him no, and not in the sense anything more than hesitation crossed my mind. It was like he knew exactly, truly, who I am, and what I live for. I could have... I should have... just come straight home, cut my losses, and nursed my wounds in my own home. But he enticed me with a proposal fit for Ulysses. I know how horrible it must sound, but the thought that my last taste of action might be my getting overwhelmed by those Echo Lake Ghouls just sat wrong with me, when all my life I was a hunter, and he knew it. I needed the hunt, and he knew it.

“Turns out, he wanted to hunt the Shipbreaker with me.

“What he said next should have lit a fire under me to leave once he was asleep. But, like a fool, I stayed. He told me he had wanted for years to return to Far Harbor, and approach me to ask for my help hunting her. Told me that the Condensers at the fringes of the shore made him feel uninvited. He became so childlike and small when he praised that when he couldn’t go to me, I’d come to him. Uninvited. That’s not a word one uses for just any situation. I could blame the liquor for my loose caution, but he had his hooks deep in me, and he knew precisely what I wanted. So I agreed.

“During the day, August almost passed for a man. My distrust of him melted over time. We traveled up and down the western half of the island for weeks, on the hunt of another strong signal. He’s a skilled marksman and butcher, and there wasn’t a day we went hungry--or thirsty, for that matter.” Longfellow guffawed warmly at this part of his story. “Whatever was in that wine, it sharpened all my senses. It’s got to be why I remember everything so evidently. And it had to have everything to do with his keen aim. He never laid traps--even with the rabbits and fowl. If I hadn’t been a part of catching and cleaning, I would have had harder doubts as to what we had been eating. But even my memory leaves me suspect... It worries me, how delicious the food had been... It couldn’t have been natural.

“I noticed at times that he drained the animals into wineskins, rather than let it wash away in the dirt, but I said nothing. Everyone has their superstitions and rituals, and if it worked for him, then it was right for him. It should have upset me, how hard he took a messy kill, as though collecting the blood was just as vital as the meat and hide. It was like he had to have the whole thing. ...Whole thing, he knew how to use every bit of an animal, vegetable, or mineral, let me tell you. We ate better than I have in years. Fresh rabbit, wolf, radstag. You name it. And he had a sauce to match each and every one.” The old man’s somber eyes grew distant again with a bitter smile. “I could have sworn it’s been since you had a cook here at the Last Plank, Mitch, that I tasted anything quite like it...”

Up until then, the barkeep had listened patiently, but at the insinuation, Mitch grunted his indignity.

“--Oh, forget this. You did not run into my old cook in the Fog, old man. He left with the Children ten years ago, when Far Harbor ran ‘em off the dock for good.”

“If it’s the same man, he’s not much August anymore. Something far worse. I can stop cutting the fat here, if it’s too much for you. It’s your proximity to the story that I even feel it’s right of me to tell it to you. Maybe I should be telling Avery. Or the Mariner.”

Mitch settled back, and poured himself another shot with an even face.

“No, no. Go on. Even if I can’t believe you, this is already a better tall tale than anything the Mariner’s told in a good while.”

“You’re lucky even I barely believe what happened, or I’d take offense. And you’re lucky she’s not in here to hear you say so.”

As the whiskey bit the back of Mitch’s throat, the barkeep could only close his eyes, exhale through his nose, and nod.

“The weeks felt like years. Pleasant years. I found my loneliness eased. A bond formed between us. Hunting together as we had, it was impossible for one not to form. He already looked up to me, and I came to admire him as well. We learned a lot from each other, even in that short time, with how different our survival skills were. I hoped to know him for a long time, even after we succeeded. But for what I know now, I don’t know that he could leave the Fog, even if he wanted to...”

Longfellow’s face harrowed with more lines than it usually carried, and he knocked back a solid bolt of the whiskey in displeasure.

“I thought often, Supposing August should try his hand at the Captain’s Dance. No better way to overcome whatever hostility the Harbormen could hold against him, than to earn their respect. I couldn’t fathom what could be keeping him out of Far Harbor. I described the Captain’s Dance to him. He glossed over his own personal gain and seized an intense and unwavering belief that the Dance was just what the two of us needed to lure out Shipbreaker. At the time, I felt a good deal ridiculous for never having thought of it myself. I knew one man might not be able to take her down after dealing with waves of shellfish flooding into the mire. But, how he talked--two, working together, that could get us much further. He could handle a Dance. And he insisted that, for all my years of devotion to hunting her, I should get the killing shot when Shipbreaker arrived.

“So, we hunted shellfish near Briney’s Bait n’ Tackle. Littered the swamp with ‘em. A single cut of Radstag Steak in the water lured up the Mirelurks, and their flesh brought up others. The chum kept them coming, wave after wave. We kicked up a ravenous, churning tide. Funny thing, I kept to my Henrietta, and up until that day he’d relied on a lever action rifle. He knew as well as any seasoned Harborman that bullets don’t do much against the oversized beasts’ carapaces. He dove in the melee with a machete notched just for husking them. The knife ripped right into the soft underbelly of those Mirelurks, and it did a swift job knocking off legs and pincers when the next mark on the food chain showed up. I’ve never seen a body take a Fog Crawler with a blade, Mitch. They’re too big, and too fast. But there August was, focused on slowing them down so I could get a steady shot. He’d cut off as many legs as he could get at, and move on to the next one, leaving the kill for me. As hungry for fresh meat as the beasts were, he was hungrier still to fell them. He truly did dance for her.

“In the moment, any worry I’d had that he could be a Child of Atom washed away. They can’t stand the thought of killing Fog creatures unless it’s for food. They don’t care if the things kill innocent folks--”

Longfellow quietened himself by finishing off the whiskey. Once his head swam, he continued.

“Well, his plan worked. After I’d fired the killing blow on the third Fog Crawler to beset us, the radio on my belt fritzed out like it was the End Times all over again. We’d been killing the Shipbreaker’s babies, and she was furious. The moment had come. I could feel it. I’d been hefting around a Harpoon Gun in the hopes I could finish her with it, and I got my chance. August went to lob off her legs just like he had with her offspring, but he chopped off just one of the eight before she leaped up and knocked him flat in the water. With her off-rhythm, I hooked her in the side with a harpoon, and did my best to rope her around a nearby tree. She still overpowered me uncontested, and I had to let go or risk her drowning me in the mire. But I’d bought August time enough to recover. He grabbed the rope still hanging off her neck, and scaled her, and mounted her shoulders, to rein her by her antennae... He yelled for me to fire again while he had her disoriented. The second harpoon-- it got her right... through the skull...”

Trembling, the old man fell silent when his voice began to break. His unease was catching, though Mitch still couldn’t quite glean what had Longfellow so tormented.

“Longfellow, you should be over the moon she’s dead. This is something to celebrate! You know my Uncle Ken is out at the National Park on his own, and he does just fine, though I miss him something sorry. Surely, there’s no harm in letting August live wherever he pleases on the island. Right? All the better, if he’s left the Children like you say he has.”

“That harpoon also bolted August through the chest. He didn’t seem more than shocked for the longest, and I was positive in the moment that I’d lost the closest to a son I’d ever had. The first thing he did was sever her head, skewered to his body. And he climbed down... and right away insisted upon butchering her. Like all the landbound wasteland marks, he began by draining Shipbreaker also. Drained something foul as sin from her. Only after he collected that oily, shimmering stuff did he sit down in a dry patch, to remove the creature’s head and harpoon from his chest, and tend to what should have been a fatal wound.

“I recognized the Stimpak. He used two, one to stop the bleeding, and the other to close the wound. But then... Then, all those wineskins of blood he’d kept from his kills, he... He uncorked a smaller one, and downed it like a lush to cheap wine. I objected, told him he was disoriented from the fight and blood loss, insisted that he hadn’t drunk his wine-- but had drunk one of his drained kills.” Longfellow’s hand had crept up trembling over his mouth for what he said next. “He looked to me with a weak guilt, put the cork back in the wineskin, and grabbed for a second. God, I hope the wine he and I shared hadn’t been the same as that. He cradled her head in his lap for some time with... a romantic finality.

“Given time to recollect himself, August pulled the scarf down off his head to rest around his shoulders, and retrieved his hat. Until then I’d never seen his long, dark hair pulled back beneath that scarf, let alone his pointed ears, or wiry, bushed-out sidewhiskers. I half expected him to have wicked teeth to go with all of that. Though still weakened from the battle, he took care of butchering Shipbreaker as well as her kin. I helped as I was able, too stunned to really object. The Mirelurk, too, where we could salvage. He didn’t want a thing to go to waste.

“He wouldn’t have any of my praise--not that I had much of anything to say at the sight of his full face. He fried up the smallest tail for us to split. Seasoned it and made it good and spicy. He told me I could take all the meat back for the Harbormen. That he couldn’t reasonably take that much food with him. That he’d gotten what he came for, besides. He asked me if I wanted to keep her head, to mount. I should have let him. I don’t think I can look her in the eyes.

“With him insisting we part ways, I got the nerve to address all the things that had chewed at me from the start. Those nightmares I had from the Rad Poisoning, one of them was my first memory of him approaching my fight with the Ghouls. All he did was... he laid his hands on them, and spoke calmly, and they all stopped and... stared at me at once.” He sneered to keep himself from crying. “He described what he’d done as ‘reminding the Ghouls what they are.’ He took them back to Echo Lake once he’d made sure I was safe.

“To hear part of what I remembered of that day had been correct, he had me reeling. I didn’t want to know the truth about anything else. Let alone him implying that he hadn’t killed a single one of those ferals, just... left them there. I didn’t understand that if Fog creatures listened to him, what use I could have served him hunting Shipbreaker. He said, ‘The Shipbreaker wasn’t some simple Fog Ghoul. She was an avatar of the Fog itself.’ Said the Children of the Nucleus are just as myopic as anyone else. That they worship a god far smaller than they realize. Said Atom is in all of us.’

“I asked him, just how long he’d been in the Fog. Told him his head was on all wrong. He insisted that he’s no Trapper. That he’s eaten Trappers, but human flesh doesn’t... satisfy...” He wore his nausea on his face, and rubbed at his bearded chin with a glassy-eyed snivel. “He’d always respected me fondly in his youth. I reminded him of his grandfather in West Virginia. He didn’t want to rob me of killing Shipbreaker. Knew how much my vengeance meant to me. But that he... had to have her...

“He’s more Fog than Man now. When I wouldn’t press him to explain himself with his features revealed after all our time together, he still felt I deserved to know what he was. He’s... made Stimpaks from Wasteland blood since he was a boy. He started mostly with insects, something he called a Bloodbug, but he keeps moving on to bigger and bigger beasts. Said the chemicals in Bloodbug glands made him able to hold more and more radiation... more of his god’s holy light... and that devoting himself to the habit was making his soul as big and plentiful an offering as he could possibly give Atom. And he’s convinced that the only way to achieve what his god requires of him is to hunt and... add the life force of these things to himself. He hunted Shipbreaker, to make Stimpaks from her. To subsume her.”

The old man had finally had enough, and relented to letting himself cry. Mitch had never seen Longfellow like this, and reacted the only way he knew how. He got up and brought him a bottle of the good vodka. As he sat back down, Longfellow eyed the bottle, and slowly smiled and chuckled. He gave Mitch a firm pat on the hand and cracked open the spirits.

“He left the Children because what he was doing was too much even for their demented faith. They’d warped him since his childhood to be led down a path to feel the need to do such a thing to himself... and he couldn’t see that what he’s doing exceeds even what’s acceptable by their morals. But the worst of it isn’t knowing what he is, Mitch. It’s not knowing exactly what he is.”

“I’m supposing you didn’t kill him.”

“I didn’t think I could! I froze up. Especially when he told me that he'd come to care too deeply about me to let any harm come to me. I figured, if I survived to get back to Far Harbor, maybe the superstition that the Fog Condensers could keep him away would afford me the ability to regroup, think things through. Sure enough, when he accompanied me, he halted twenty yards back from the furthest Condenser pillars, and from there watched me return safe inside the hull. He was gone, the next I looked back.”

Longfellow’s glassy eyes grew wild as he gesticulated with the fifth of vodka. Mitch was unquestionably shaken, shimmering with sweat.

“If I hunt him, do I hunt a man or beast? If I trap him, is he imprisoned or captured? As far as I can tell, his only crimes are against nature, and he’s done no ill toward the Harbormen. I’m... I’m just a tired old man. I don’t know how to rid this place of something I’m not even sure can die.” His head snapped up with alarmed conviction. “I have to speak with DiMA. Ask for more Fog Condensers. He’d understand.”

“You’d... better talk to Captain Avery before you even consider going up the mountain to talk to the Metal Man. Besides... aren’t you worried you’d encounter August in the Fog on your way up there?”

“If I ever step foot outside the hull again in my life, he’ll be in my shadow every step I take. I just pray that the next time I encounter radio interference, I’m not alone.”

#old longfellow #far harbor #fallout 4 #fo4 #fallout 4 fanfic #fo4 fanfic #fallout fanfic #longfellow #father wachusett #i don't think i've written a one-shot in six years. enjoy

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stereksecretsanta · 5 years

Text

Merry Christmas, @Princessabitchessa!

To my giftee, @Princessabitchessa, this is a round-about way of delivering on some of your favorite troupes, and I hope you enjoy the ride. Happy Holidays!!

Read on AO3

*****

Count your Blessings (instead of sheep)

John

Judge John Stilinski doesn’t intend to eavesdrop, but his robes are hanging from a hook on the back of his office door, and the hushed, heated whispers in the corridor draw his ear like a moth to a flame.

“I can’t let you do this, Derek,” says a soft voice edged with ivory and steel. “I won’t let you do this. You could go to jail.”

“Then I go to jail. We’ve talked about this, Laura, and you know it’s the only way. Peter promised to check himself into a treatment facility, and we’re going to hold him to it. After today, no matter what the verdict, it will all be over.”

John flips open the file folder of documents in his hand, thumbing through the records until he sees the case titled Hale, Derek (DES alpha) vs Argent, Katherine (DES alpha). He’d only breezed over the case before lunch. Something about an assault at a bar; two alpha’s fighting over an omega. John had reviewed the arresting officer’s statements, but hadn’t read the omega’s deposition. He flips to it now, sees the name Lahey, Isaac.

John should open the door, make his presence known, but the girl, Laura, laments, “This is all my fault.” Tears threaten her voice. “If I hadn’t asked you to keep an eye on Peter, you’d never have been at the club in the first place. And it will never be over, Derek. You’ll be forever labeled as a violent alpha. Your chances of finding a mate will be—“

“Stop.” He doesn’t raise his volume, but the alpha command is evident. “My mate is dead, Laura. I don’t want or need another. If my going to jail ends this insanity, it’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“Even though you’re innocent?”

The blood freezes in John’s veins, the papers between his fingers crunching like ice when he squeezes his fist.

“I may not have committed this crime,” the man called Derek says, “but I’m far from innocent.”

__________

Hale v. Argent is the sixth hearing on his docket, after two drunk driving cases, an arson, a petty theft and, finally, a flasher. John bangs his gavel, nicking the varnished wood and causing half the courtroom to startle in their uncomfortable chairs.

At the defendants table sits Derek Hale, one of the two whispered voices from the corridor. The young alpha can’t be a day over thirty, with piercing eyes and jet black hair. He wears a look of hopeless determination that, for some reason, makes John think of his deceased wife, Claudia. Behind him sits his sister, Laura, the second voice from the hallway. David Whittemore lords over the prosecution table, slick and smarmy as usual.

“Counsel and parties in the case of Hale versus Argent, approach the bench.” John takes great satisfaction in the furrow of confusion carving across David’s brow. Laura, hands white-knuckling the railing separating the gallery from the court, looks like she will be sick all over the floor.

“I’ll cut straight to the point,” he says, once David and Derek stand before the podium. “Derek Hale did not commit this crime.”

Whittemore and Hale start speaking at once, trying to talk over each other.

“Be quiet,” Judge Stilinski demands, and he’s no alpha, but every mouth in the room snaps shut. “For whatever reason, Mr. Hale seems determined to take the fall for the assault of the alpha, Katherine Argent. But witness testimony is telling a much different story.” He turns to Derek. “Care to shed some light on what happened last month?”

“I’m an alpha. Ms. Argent is an alpha. We were out at a bar, both perused the same omega, and got into a fight over him. The witnesses were drunk. They don’t know what they saw.”

“Your Honor, this man is—“

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet, Mr. Whittemore?” John’s voice cracks like a whip. “Don’t make me hold you in contempt.”

John Stilinski scrutinizes Derek’s face. The alpha stares back, green eyes desolate and challenging. “Nope. I don’t buy it. I’m a father, Mr. Hale. When he was young, my son and his best friend found themselves involved in all manners of mischief, and whenever something bad happened, my son Stiles would always take the fall for his friend Scott. Even when he was blameless. That’s exactly what is happening in this situation.”

Derek’s face is a stoic mask, but there’s panic seeping out from underneath. “I’m pleading guilty. How much jail time do I need to serve?”

Judge Stilinski shakes his head. He opens the case folder and flips over a document so it faces Derek. It’s an intake form for the regional food pantry. “No jail time. But after you’ve served some time here, you might wish I’d locked you up.”

Whittemore squeaks in protest. “Community service?! My client was in the hospital! The Hale’s are vicious animals and—“

“Your client was in the hospital for eight hours. Most of that time was spent sitting in a chair in the emergency waiting room. And, Mr. Hale,” the judge continues as if the Argent lawyer never spoke, “you will attend mandatory counseling sessions and, in addition to that, one year’s probation. If you fail to serve at the food pantry three evenings a week for six months, you’ll be back in front of this bench before you can blink. And trust me, I’ll find out if you step even one toe out of line.” Judge Stilinski leans forward, mock whispers to Derek. “I’ve got a very dependable man on the inside.”

He smashes a stamp dripping red ink onto several pages of paper. He hands over the first paper to a slack-jawed David Whittemore. “Give this to Pamela at the front desk.” The second paper he hands to Derek. “Have the therapist sign this form and return it to the courthouse at the end of your sessions.” And the third. “Here is your work order at the food pantry. Give this to the director. I’ll let him know you’ll be coming. Everyone settled?” Stilinski clutches the gavel, eyeing the mumbling Argent lawyer like his fantasy is clobbering him over the head.

“My client will be extremely dissatisfied with this verdict, your Honor. My office—“

“Your client is a liar,” Judge Stilinski proclaims. “You’re all liars. Get out of my courthouse.”

The courtroom is a blur of bewildered faces and astonished rumbles, none more confounded than Derek Hale himself. But that’s not who John’s looking at. Even the ugly scowl slashing across David Whittemore’s face is ignored.

John focuses instead on the tears of relief in Laura Hale’s eyes.

__________

Later, after he’s eaten a salad he wishes was a steak, and the dishes have been washed and left to drip in the drying rack, John sits in his ancient recliner, and thinks about the mischievous son he’d mentioned to Derek in court.

When the prenatal blood tests had come back showing the rare omega designation, there’d been no one more shocked than John Stilinski. Not a single omega graced the branches of his family tree. Hell, he’d never spoken to one until he’d sat next to Claudia his first day of college. “It’s a blessing,” his wife whispers, skin and smile radiant despite the nurse lecturing them on the fragile health of some omegas, their predisposition to diseases.

“A blessing is not what I’d call him,” John jokes, when his wild boy comes home day after day covered in dirt, when he bounces off the walls, radiating energy. “I thought omegas were naturally demure?”

Claudia smacks him on the arm. “That’s a bunch of sexist hogwash. It’s not about being reserved or shy or meek. Omegas are fierce, curious, intelligent and loyal. They’re strong.” Then she smiles, the same smile that enraptured him in sociology 101 on his first day of college. “Besides, I’m an omega. Have I ever been demure a day in my life?”

“It’s a blessing,” John chokes out, day after day as his son grows angry and distant, unable to process his grief over the loss of his mother.

“It’s a curse,” Stiles spits back. “It makes me weak. My body isn’t my own. It’ll betray me, like it did mom.”

“No, son” John moans. “I was married to an omega for twelve years, and she was the strongest person I’ve ever known. One day… one day you’ll see.”

Tonight, John picks up the phone, dials Stiles’ number.

“What’s up, daddy-o?” he answers. John closes his eyes, sees Laura Hale’s tears of relief painted on the inside of his eyelids, hears the desperate self-sacrifice in Derek Hale’s voice. His son’s not a typical omega, but he is a ley line, attracting lost souls, and Derek Hale has ghosts. John sees the same haunted look in his son’s face whenever he visits. He prays he’s making the right choice.

“Stiles,” he greets, all business. “I’m sending someone your way.”

Erica

Erica’s walking to the break room when she sees the new guy—Dustin? Darren? David? It’s on the tip of her tongue…Oh yeah, Derek!—holding a mop and bucket, standing stock still in the doorway of the community gymnasium. She swivels, her gut telling her to change direction, march over and confront the rumored-to-be-violent alpha and ask why he’s just standing there staring at a bunch of kids. Is he a predator, too?

The halogen bulb above Derek is flickering on and off as she stomps over in righteous fury. She’s been nagging Stiles to fix it for weeks. Erica is ten feet away from him when the bulb flashes back on, light glinting off the wetness at the corners of Derek’s eyes. Erica stops short.

His face as he looks at the kids running around the basketball court begrudgingly reminds her of her fiancé, Vernon Boyd. It had taken her six months to work up the courage to talk to Boyd, the quiet, standoffish chef Stiles had hired for the pantry cafeteria. Boyd is huge and gruff, and it took three dates before he cracked a genuine smile for her. At first she’d had some doubts whether they were compatible, but on the fourth date he brought Erica home to meet his grandmother, the woman who’d raised him and his little sister. The moment Boyd leaned over to scoop his grandmother out of her wheelchair to place her tenderly into bed, Erica looked at his face and knew. He was the man she wanted to marry. The brusqueness had been hiding someone gentle, thoughtful, and intelligent. Derek is looking at the children the same way Boyd looked at his grandmother; with a little bit of longing for better days, and a lot of love.

She shows up in Stiles’ office doorway. “You need to come see this,” she hisses, motioning him to hurry out from behind his precarious stack of paperwork.

“What, exactly, am I looking at?” Stiles asks, as she bodily pulls him into the hallway. The light is flickering again. “Damn it Erica, I’ll fix the stupid lamp, I promise.”

“Not the light bulb, dumb-ass,” she murmurs. “Him.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, when he sees Derek watching the children. “Oh.”

“I guess you can never know someone, or what they’ve gone through to get here,” she muses. “I would have pegged him as allergic to children as you.” Stiles is suspiciously silent. She glances over, and he’s watching Derek with the same open yearning.

Oh, she thinks. Oh.

Derek

“Anger is a perfectly normal, healthy human emotion. We’ve all felt it. But when it becomes too powerful, and we allow it to get out of control, it can be destructive. We can’t always remove the things that anger us, but we can learn to control our reactions to it,” Dr. Morrell informs Derek.

“I don’t have anger issues,” Derek tells her again, rubbing his eyes. He’s been saying it since their therapy session started almost an hour ago. “I saw a situation that needed to be handled, and I handled it. It was a one time thing. I’ll never do it again.”

“You handled it with violence,” Morrell stresses, as if he needs reminding of his Uncle’s face contorted in rage, more animal than human. “A level of extreme violence, to say the least. Aggressive external reactions are a result of internal events. I strongly believe your anger with Kate Argent was fueled by something.”

Yeah, it was fueled by her setting fire to my family, Derek thinks, and Peter being too drunk to bottle up his hatred. He can feel the ire creeping up his neck, but is desperately trying to maintain control in front of Dr. Morrell. She sees right through him.

“During your mandated therapy sessions with me, we’ll get to the root cause of your anger, Derek. Sometimes patients have no idea what is causing their heightened emotional responses but, more often, patients already have some idea of what lies at the heart of the matter. It could be emotional trauma or grief.” Dr. Morrell levels a searching look at him. “What about you, Derek? Do you already know what it could be?”

A wisp of slick black hair and thin, translucent skin flitter across his vision. Red flames lick the night sky. Derek blinks and the images disappear.

“No,” he lies. “I have no idea.”

_________

Derek is certain he was never meant to be an alpha. He really sucks at it. “You’re so lucky,” his big sister Laura, a beta, used to grumble. “Alpha’s have it so easy.” And at first, Derek thought that was true. His mother was an alpha, and instilled in him pride at being part of only fifteen percent of the population with that designation. Being an alpha meant strength, stamina, good health and good looks. Alpha’s were charismatic, got high paying jobs—they were sought after. It meant he was capable of soul-bonding, while the majority of the population was not. Only omegas could soul-bond as well, but they were even more rare than alpha’s, making up only four percent of the population.

But being an alpha had its downside, which Derek learned at the age of fifteen when a jealous alpha set fire to his family home, killing his parents. Being an alpha meant he was constantly challenged, assumed to be a violent meathead, only capable of thinking with his cock.

When Laura calls him to say Uncle Peter headed to the local bar, Derek knows there will be trouble. For a beta, Peter has somehow made replicating every awful alpha stereotype an art: he’s brash, violent, and angry. Derek has had to pull him out of bar brawls too many times to count in the last year, and tonight Derek’s had enough. Peter needs help, more help than Laura and Derek can provide.

When he walks into the bar, Peter is trying to steal a young omega from Kate Argent, whose red eyes flash as she grabs the omega’s arm. Derek doubts Peter has any interest in the curly-haired young man at all, but Peter would like nothing more than to start shit with the Argents, who they know—but can’t prove—set their house fire.

“Let go,” Derek commands, stepping up to the threesome. The omega’s eyes go round as dinner plates. Kate Argent snarls. Peter looks at Derek like he’s a piece of shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

“You’re a pathetic excuse for an alpha,” Peter sneers, then launches himself at Kate, the omega trapped in the middle be damned.

__________

He shows up at the community center at four in the afternoon on Monday, flashes his work order and is directed down the hall to the food pantry and kitchen. A guy named Scott, also an alpha, greets him. He’s weary, but friendly enough, and directs him to the rooftop garden, where their director is pulling vegetables for the upcoming dinner rush.

He steps onto the sun-baked roof through a steel door, and is immediately assaulted with the scent of an unbonded omega. There’s a young man bent over a raised garden bed, plucking lettuce leaves and herbs with his ass in the air like he’s presenting. Derek’s salivating, going hard inside his briefs in seconds. What the hell is happening? It’s the kind of ludicrous, knee-jerk reaction seen in sappy romantic comedies (or more aptly, pornography), and he’s never had this strong of a response to an omega before, not even to Paige.

This man is the director of the food pantry? Why on earth would Judge Stilinski send him here, to work under an omega, when he’d been accused of a violent crime? He tries to back away, crashes into the rooftop door, and the omega glances over his shoulder with big brown doe eyes.

The omega stands, wiping his dirty hands on the back of his jeans. The action does not go unnoticed by Derek. As he moves closer, the man’s scent gets stronger; sweat, gingerbread, pine and sugar. He smells like Christmas morning, like everything good Derek can remember about his childhood, before it was all burned to ash.

Derek nods in greeting, but doesn’t stick out his hand because an unbonded alpha touching an unbonded omega is taboo. “I’m Derek. Derek Hale.” He pulls the work order from the pocket of his leather jacket, the corners crinkled and worn from being shoved angrily inside the confined space, and thrusts the pages toward the omega. When the man reaches for the note, their fingers brush, and they both pull back fast, almost ripping the dog-eared document.

After a cursory glance, the omega’s pretty lips pull into a sarcastic smile. “My name’s Stiles Stilinski. I’ve got one question for you, alpha. Will you have trouble working for an omega?”

Derek bristles. “My name’s Derek not al— wait. Did you say Stilinski? Like the judge?”

Stiles’ spine is now an iron rod, shoulders squaring for a fight, and Derek’s never met an omega with such a chip on his shoulder, or one so quick to physically challenge an alpha. “He’s my father,” Stiles snaps. “And for some reason, he hand picked you to come work here. But I’m the one who built this program; I may be the only omega here but I’m the person in charge. So tell me, Derek, is taking orders from me going to offend your red-blooded alpha sensibilities?”

It’s Derek’s turn to straighten. “I’ve no interest in causing problems. I’ll serve my time, do what you need me to do, and then you’ll never have to see me again.”

Stiles smiles and, though it’s sardonic, it still stalls the breath in Derek’s lungs. This is the first day of the longest six months of Derek’s life. “That’s what I like to hear, dude. Now come on.” He thrusts a bag of lettuce into Derek’s hands. “We have work to do.”

__________

A month and a half in, Stiles’ sarcastic smiles and comments turn genuine. It’s like an icecap melting; Derek barely notices the trickle until he’s drowning in the flood. Despite his gruff exterior, everyone at the community center decides he’s an ‘okay dude’, and pull him into the fold. Scott is still a bit standoffish, but it’s natural since they are both alphas, and Derek knows Scott has Stiles’ best interest at heart.

He’s helping Stiles in the garden again—his favorite project, if he’s honest— hands submerged in the cool, fragrant dirt, furtively sucking in deep lungfuls of Stiles’ baked gingerbread scent. “Your uncle sounds awful,” Stiles comments on their conversation, placing a carrot in their basket.

Derek shrugs. “He’s in pain, but doesn’t know how to handle it. I’m glad he went to a facility that will help him with his anger. He’s getting therapy, finally working through losing our family.”

Stiles clears his throat and wipes sweat off his brow, smearing it with dirt. “And you’re in therapy too, right? As part of your sentence? Uh… how’s that going?”

“It’s going okay,” Derek says sheepishly. “I’m not very good at therapy.”

Stiles laughs, all crinkled eyes and wide, generous mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize therapy was something you could be bad at.”

“It’s difficult to talk, to share, especially when the memories are depressing.” He places a potato in the basket, and Stiles places two fingers on his wrist, right over his scent gland. Right over his pulse.

“You do just fine when you��re talking to me.”

__________

He’d tried therapy once before, about a year after the fire, but found he couldn’t talk. Looking at the psychologist, every word flew out of his head. Not long after his failed attempt, Paige had come into his life, and her love temporarily patched over the gaping hole in his soul.

“Do you think that’s why you felt like you couldn’t deny her?” Dr. Morrell asks, pen poised over her notepad. “When you wanted to stop trying to have a child? You couldn’t say no because you didn’t want to lose her love?”

The fourth time it happened, it was so early the doctors informed them it was called a ‘missed miscarriage,’ and it was ended surgically before Paige’s body even detected the loss. The time prior, she had required a blood transfusion, and the relief, guilt and shame Derek felt knowing it was all over practically before it began, was palpable. The same emotions wrap themselves agonizingly tight around his ribs as he sits in the therapist’s office years later, until he feels like his heart might collapse under the pressure.

“Why don’t we reconsider having a child?” Derek had broached before Paige’s next heat. She gaped at him with wounded eyes.

“Don’t you want a baby, anymore?” She’d sobbed.

“Yes, yes, of course.” The words stuck in his gullet. “But how many times do we try before we stop? It’s like a roulette wheel; we keep spinning but our number never comes up.”

Her eyes flashed like lightning, a wild summer storm full of heat. “How dare you, Derek? This isn’t a game!”

“Isn’t it, though? We are gambling with your health, and we’re losing everything. You heard the doctor say this might be a genetic issue. When do we say enough is enough?”

She’d grabbed his hands in hers and pleaded. “Once more? Just one more time. I promise, if it doesn’t happen, then we will stop.”

A better man, a better alpha, would have implored Paige to be grateful for the blessings life had bestowed on them. A better alpha would’ve refused. But in the face of her anguish, Derek learned he was not a better man.

It’s been four months of therapy, and Derek knows he needs to start being honest if he wants to heal, if he wants a real chance at finding happiness again. “I couldn’t tell her no because I wanted a baby. I was desperate for a family, because of all I’d lost.” He looks at Dr. Morrell, grimaces. “But instead, I turned my marriage bed into a graveyard, and I filled it with bodies.”

__________

Everyone is avoiding eye contact when Derek walks in Friday afternoon. Erica is practically bouncing on her heels. “What the hell is going on? Did we accidently get an extra shipment of cookie dough ice cream?” Chocolate chip cookie dough is Stiles and Erica’s favorite flavor. Derek prefers cookies and cream.

Scott sticks his head around the corner. “Stiles wants to see you in his office right away.” Derek’s heart picks up speed.

He pauses outside the office door, hearing hushed voices and smelling something odd. Stiles’ scent is still there, warm and inviting, but there is another smell, vaguely familiar; fresh grass and lavender, hints of apple. Another omega is in the office.

“Come in,” Stiles calls when Derek knocks, and he pushes open the door. He’s correct; two omegas turn to look at him. One is Stiles, and the other is Isaac Lahey, the omega who’d been caught between his uncle Peter and Kate Argent that fateful night in the bar.

There’s new emotions darting across Stiles’ features, and Derek wants to chase them, but he can’t right now because Isaac smiles at him, shy and grateful, and says, “Hello, Derek. I came by to thank you.”

__________

The calendar is calling out to Derek each morning, warning him he only has a few weeks left of community service. Only a few more weeks with with Erica and Boyd, with Scott and everyone he’s come to care about at the community center. Even worse, his days with Stiles have an expiration date.

He wants desperately to be brave, to punch out on his last day and turn to Stiles and say Let’s get coffee or Have dinner with me? But it’s been so long since Derek has connected with anyone; he’s terrified. Six months ago this whole endeavor felt worse than a jail sentence, but now he thinks maybe Judge John Stilinski knew exactly what he was doing when he sent Derek here.

He crosses off another day, heads out the door, and prays for a miracle.

Scott

Kira, the world’s cutest barista, waves at him from the counter before the bell above the glass door finishes chiming. “The usual?” she shouts, and the six people on line in front of him turn to scowl menacingly at Scott. The coffee shop is bustling during the lunch rush today and Scott, stepping over to the pick-up counter, is shamefaced. But his guilt disappears when Kira skips over, huge, sunny smile on her lips, and hands over the recycled cardboard tray with four warm drinks nestled in the cup holders. There’s a wet cappuccino for Stiles, a mocha with extra whip cream that has Erica’s name doodled on the side, a large black coffee for Scott and Boyd’s caramel macchiato.

“You tell Stiles he shouldn’t be drinking this much caffeine. Too much can trigger an early heat,” Kira scolds for the hundredth time. She’s a gender studies major in her senior year, writing her thesis on environmental health risks to omegas, and Stiles had gotten so exasperated listing to her well-meaning lectures he started sending Scott on the daily coffee runs.

“I want to enjoy my illicit addictions in peace,” Stiles told him, handing over a slip of notebook paper scribbled with everyone’s order. “Besides,” he’d said with a grin, “she’s your type.”

Scott smiles at her, and it’s so sappy two people in line roll their eyes, and another mimes barfing all over the tile floor. “Early heat, right, I’ll tell him.”

There’s way too many people trying to order, the baristas scurrying around behind the counter like chickens with their heads cut off, but Kira still leans over the counter, silky black hair falling out of her messy work bun. “And how’s the new guy making out? Derek, the alpha?”

He’s been there three months, so he isn’t new anymore. When Derek first started, Scott had bemoaned his presence loudly and repeatedly to Kira, who listened with a sympathetic ear but never failed to remind him everyone deserves a second chance. Now he thinks of Boyd, slapping Derek on the back, and of Erica’s giggle when Derek grumbles about the broken dishwasher. He thinks of Lydia’s knowing smirk as they all notice Stiles stand taller when Derek walks into a room, smooth down his hair and tug at the wrinkles of his plaid shirts. “Ah… he’s fitting in, I guess.”

Kira smiles, megawatt, and smacks Scott in the bicep. “See? I told you it would all be okay.”

“Hey! Buddy? Want to get your shit and go sometime this century? Some of us don’t have all day to watch your piss-poor attempt at flirting,” a disgruntled customer growls. Kira blushes, but the smile never slips from her lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you,” Scott mumbles, backing out of the café door.

He stops in front of the community center, stares at the cardboard cup bearing Stiles’ name. He doesn’t see the black ink; instead, he sees the pink blush of Stiles’ cheeks when Derek is due to come in. Omega’s only go into heat twice a year, and Stiles had barely been back to work a week when Derek started. He jerks the cup from the holder, and tosses in the trash can. Too much caffeine can trigger an early heat. He hears the words in Kira’s sweet, melodic voice.

“You can never be too careful,” Scott grumbles.

Stiles

Thirty seconds after Claudia takes her last shuddering breath, the heart monitor flattens, and the nurse walks into the hospital room.

“She’s gone,” the nurse says, and Stiles will never admit it, but mixed in with the grief is a weary sense of relief.

The doctor patiently explains to Stiles and his father that frontotemporal dementia is genetic, and omega’s can be especially susceptible. There’s no need to panic, but Stiles will need to be monitored closely his whole life. Without his mother there to run her fingers through his hair and remind him omega’s are exceptional, his designation becomes a death sentence. “Any resulting children would also require monitoring.” The doctor’s words take root in Stiles’ eight-year-old heart, and grow thorns.

__________

The new guy is due this afternoon, the alpha his father asked him to take in. “This isn’t a halfway house for all the criminals you want to rehabilitate,” Stiles had bemoaned, but of course he couldn’t deny his dad.

He loses track of time up on the roof, the mindless, repetitive task of weeding and harvesting in the garden soothing him into complacency. At first he doesn’t notice when the alpha steps out onto the roof, since he’s so focused and also upwind. But when he does notice…

Derek is nothing like any alpha Stiles has ever seen. For one, there’s desire in his green eyes, but instead of the typical flaunting and posturing, it’s followed by a flash of fear. He’s strong but gentle, thoughtful but quiet, and he pulls every long buried instinct in Stiles up from the roots.

And he’s attractive, gorgeous, the most beautiful man Stiles has ever seen.

Stiles is going to fucking kill his dad.

__________

Stiles falls into the staff room, dying of hunger, and throws open the refrigerator with a bang before promptly remembering he forgot to bring lunch today. Shit.

“Ugghhhh why?” He laments, stomach rumbling.

“What’s your problem?” Lydia asks. Stiles turns and sees she’s sitting next to Derek at the lunch table. She’s picking at a leafy green salad topped with chicken, cranberries and walnuts. Derek has a ham sandwich halfway to his mouth. Stiles salivates.

“I forgot my damn lunch.”

Without a word, Derek hands him half his sandwich. Stiles should politely decline. He doesn’t need an alpha to take care of him, like he’s some damsel in distress. Besides, he doesn’t even like ham. But before he can help himself, he snatches it from Derek’s grip, takes a huge bite and moans around the mouthful. “Er ma ga, tha’s so goo!”

Derek’s ears turn a charming shade of red, and Stiles wants to bite theminstead. Shit shit shit.

__________

Derek is scouring a piece of food caked on the stove top in the pantry kitchen, and Stiles is not admiring the play of back muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt as he scrubs. He’s certainly not ogling the cut of Derek’s bicep. Nope. This is not what he’s doing. He’s helping out Erica and Boyd, staying late to give them the night off together.

It’s so hot in the kitchen.

“So,” Derek say, and the word startles Stiles from his muscle watching stupor. The conversation flows easily between them, but Derek is hardly ever the instigator. “What led to you becoming the director of the food pantry? Was this something you always wanted to do?”

Stiles turns back to the dishes soaking in the sink. “I wanted to do anything a typical omega wouldn’t, and running this center, being people’s boss, is anything but typical.”

“You’re certainly bossy.” Stiles can hear the smile in his voice.

Maybe it’s the fact they’re facing away from each other, but it’s easy to throw the words over his shoulder, the pseudo-anonymity making him brave. “After my mother died, I was angry. I spent years perfecting all the ways I could spit in the face of my designation. I can’t believe I didn’t give my father a heart attack. Landing this gig killed two birds with one stone; my credentials beat two alpha candidates for the position, and to my father’s relief I’m doing something steady instead of rebelling.”

“Do you still hate being an omega?” Derek asks. His voice is louder, and Stiles swivels, see’s Derek is facing him now, soiled cloth flung over his shoulder.

Stiles pivots back to the soapy silverware. “Some days, yes. Others, no.” He plops a sparkling fork onto the drying rack. “Fighting your instincts all the time is exhausting. I guess I’ve started to… reconsider some things.”

“Like what?”

He dries his hand on a dish towel, and faces Derek. “I’ve kept people at arms length, especially alphas. I’ve never even… but maybe I’d like a relationship. A family. I never wanted to have kids because I didn’t want to risk them being omegas too.” He looks away, focusing on the digital display of the microwave, arms crossed and shoulders hunched around his ears. “You must hate people like me, renouncing a family when you and your wife wanted a child so badly.”

Derek moves into his line of sight, forcing Stiles to look him in the eye. It’s an alpha power play. Stiles should loathe it. “I could never never hate you,” Derek whispers. He reaches a tentative hand toward Stiles’ neck, broadcasting every move, allowing Stiles room to rebuff him. When Stiles doesn’t flinch away, Derek slides his fingers over the gland behind Stiles’ ear, co-mingling their scents. As soon as the alpha pheromones permeate Stiles’ senses, his whole body relaxes, a feeling of calm washing over him. It feels so good, so right, Stiles could cry.

He closes his eyes. “Yeah, I could never hate you either.”

__________

Wednesday morning of Derek’s final week, Stiles wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a bus. His joints ache, he’s running a low grade fever and his head is pounding. But he doesn’t want to miss the last few precious hours with Derek, so he drags his ass out of bed and into work.

“You look terrible,” Scott helpfully supplies when he stumbles in.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” Stiles snarks. “It’s the golden rule.”

“Last week you said the golden rule was anyone eating chicken nuggets had to give you half. You haven’t been drinking extra coffee have you?”

Stiles slams the office door in Scott’s face. Screw him.

But by lunchtime Stiles knows this isn’t the flu. His stomach is cramping, he’s sweating profusely, and his hole is feeling suspiciously wet. He’s going into heat almost a month early. He bangs his head down onto his desk. He needs to go home, now. He’s going to miss Derek. He isn’t going to get to say good-bye.

When he stands up, slick trickles down his leg. Fuck. He gathers his belongings, knowing he’ll be out of work until Monday, and throws open the office door, only to find Scott and Derek standing on the other side. One look at Derek, one lungful of his scent has Stiles weak-kneed, and only years of stubborn pride and practice keep Stiles from falling forward into Derek’s arms.

“I called him, Stiles,” Scott says, sheepish but determined. “I could tell you were going into heat when you walked in.”

“I wanted…” Stiles’ mouth is so dry the words croak. “I didn’t want to miss seeing you. I wanted you to know—“

“Derek, can you drive Stiles home?” Scott asks. “I don’t think he can drive himself, and I need to stay here, keep the pantry open and get ready for the dinner rush.” It’s a bold-faced lie. Erica and Boyd could easily run the show. Scott winks at him. “Go home, Stiles. You stink.”

“Will you be okay in such a confined space?” Stiles asks Derek on their way to the parking lot.

“I’ll be fine,” Derek says, sliding into the driver’s seat, “knowing you’re home safe. Trust me. I’ll take care of you.” Six months ago, Stiles would have shanked an alpha who said those words to him, but he knows Derek means them. He knows Derek will drop him at home, respect Stiles’ body and his wishes, and accept taking care might mean leaving him alone.

The ride is quiet except for Stiles’ directions and Derek’s shallow breathing. When they pull into Stiles’ driveway, Derek shuts off the car, placing both hands tightly around the steering wheel. “I’ll help you inside, get you set up, and I’ll go. Unless you don’t want me to come in? I can stay outside, if it makes you more comfortable.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. Here it is, the moment of truth. He doesn’t want Derek to think he’s a pathetic omega begging for a knot, but it’s a price Stiles is willing to pay. “I’d be comfortable with you coming in. I’d be comfortable with you staying, too.”

Derek looks at him, and Stiles doesn’t see pity in his eyes. He doesn’t see conquest. He doesn’t feel weak or out of control. He feels powerful and special. He feels strong. Derek makes him feel that way. What he sees is mirrored sadness, hurt and fear, and more importantly, the dawning realization neither of them are in this alone.

Derek gets out of the car without a word, jumps across the hood and pulls open Stiles’ door. “I’m warning you, I may never leave.”

“I may never let you go.”

“Bossy.” Derek scoops Stiles up into his arms, and Stiles doesn’t even mind.

_________

Derek’s plastered to his back, a long line of heat, knot buried snuggly inside Stiles’ body. His inhalations are wet and stuttering, and Stiles reaches back, awkwardly trying to pet him.

“What’s wrong?” He slurs, still cum-drunk and more sated than he’s ever been.

“Nothing. I just… I haven’t… it’s the first time since…”. Derek doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“I’ve never,” Stiles admits into the cool, empty air of his bedroom.

“Stiles, I’m so grateful it was you.” Derek pulls him closer, nuzzles the juncture of his neck and shoulder blade, the spot where a bond bite belongs.

“Right back at you, big guy.” He snuggles in and closes his eyes, protected and content, all the things an omega should be, all the things he’s fought for so long, trying to keep his heart safe.

He can’t help but feel blessed.

Laura

She’s running late, and blows past the Welcome to Beacon Hills sign at a crisp sixty-eight miles an hour. There’s a niggle of guilt at the back of her neck; she should know better and she’s taking advantage of the skeleton crew of cops out on patrol because it’s a holiday, but it’s Christmas Eve and Laura wants to get home to the family she hasn’t seen in five months.

This time two years ago, with the stress of her Uncle’s growing violence and Derek’s approaching trial date, she couldn’t imagine such a rich, hopeful future. After the fire, it seemed to be one calamity after another, the ground beneath her feet always unsteady. But now, her last paper is handed in, her first grueling semester of law school is officially complete, and Laura’s heart is flying as fast as her Camaro. She’s found her calling, she’s meant for this, and owes her revelation to John Stilinski. She’ll never forget the feeling swelling in her chest that day in court as she sat behind Derek, watching deep lines of determination furrow John’s brow. I want that, she’d thought. I want to help people, too. With a bang of his gavel, Judge Stilinski had changed all their lives. It brings her joy to know someday Laura will do the same for someone else.

She parks the car on the street in front of the small cape, and pops the trunk to grab overflowing bags of presents. As she cuts through the front yard, she sees a slim figure sitting on the wrought-iron bench Derek restored from their family garden. When the fire had been extinguished, they’d found it covered in a layer of ash, paint blistered and peeling from the heat. Derek had come back the day he bought his new home, washed and sanded away the grime and painted it a vibrant white. In the warm, soft glimmer of Christmas lights and the moon, it practically glows, illuminating Stiles, sitting peacefully in the flower bed.

“Merry Christmas, Stiles,” she says, plopping herself and the gift bags next to her brother’s mate. Despite his over-sized winter jacket, she can see the blossom of pink on his cheeks from the cold, smell the spicy, gingerbread scent of his skin.

“Merry Christmas, Laura,” he says, grinning. Stiles reaches over, grabs her hand. “Welcome home. Derek’s missed you.”

“I’ve missed you both.” He squeezes her fingers. Inside, she can hear the music change over to another jovial Christmas jingle. “What are you doing out here by yourself, anyway? Usually it’s my brother brooding in the dark.”

Stiles laughs. “I’m counting my blessings.” There’s something funny about the way he says the word; there’s history there, but Laura doesn’t know it yet. It’s okay. There’s plenty of time to learn. “Plus, it was hot and crowded inside. I came out to take a breather, but my ass is starting to go numb. Can I help you carry in your packages?”

They stand, and Stiles picks one of the shiny wrapped boxes from the bag and shakes it a little. Something tinkles merrily inside. “These better all be for me.”

Laura laughs, poking him the the shin with the toe of her black boot and gathering up one of the bags. “Don’t make fun, Stiles. It’s been too long since I’ve had a family to shower with gifts. I couldn’t help but go overboard. I got your dad a low-fat cookbook.”

“Oh man, he’ll totally hate it.” They grin at each other, conspiratorially. “I, uh…I hope you’re still feeling so generous next year.” Stiles picks up a bag with one hand, and parts his jacket with the other, smile shy but joyous in the blinking green and red lights. Where five months prior Stiles’ stomach was flat as a washboard, his abdomen is now a small, distended bump.

Laura drops all the presents to the ground, something shattering inside one of the boxes. “Oh my god, Stiles!” she shrieks, eyes welling with tears. She throws herself into his arms, as Derek throws open the front door.

“Stiles!” her brother bemoans. “We were going to tell her together. You are the worst secret keeper ever.”

“Says the man who told the entire community center the day we hit the third trimester.” Stiles’ voice is pure joy, love radiating toward his mate, who steps forward to wrap warm arms around him, one hand softly massaging the small of Stiles’ back.

“Let’s go inside and celebrate,” Derek says, reaching out to Laura.

Looking at the domestic scene—one Stiles fought against his whole life, one Derek never thought he’d get to experience—Laura feels happiness welling up inside her, the way it does so frequently these days. For the first time in years, an aching sense of loss isn’t her primary emotion. The future which, not long ago, had seemed so rocky and unsure, is a happy place now, steady as a heartbeat, full of promise.

Inside, she sees Erica and Boyd, Scott and Kira, John Stilinski, Isaac, Lydia and so many others, the faces of all the people she and Derek have come to call family. It’s a blessing, she thinks, next year there will be a new person to love.

What a gift.

#Princessabitchessa #stereksanta18 #*fic18 #*gifts18

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