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yzafre · 3 months

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we're flying above the valley below | Interlude 3

AO3

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Ventus wasn’t sure quite how long he’d been in this world.

He hit the ground hard after Braig – Xigbar? – tossed him through the door, breath rushing from him and stars dancing in his eyes. Half-blind, he staggered back to his feet, lurching forward again, but his hand met nothing but wall.

When he could see again, he found himself alone in a dimly lit room. The corner where he was standing was deeply shadowed, the only light present a few meager sunbeams slipping through the incomplete seam of the wooden door he could just make out on the wall across the room. Dust filled his lungs with every breath – from the floor, from the rickety, abandoned furniture.

His back hit the wall. His breaths were coming too fast. He didn’t know why (he did) but he needed to get out.

The next moments were a mad dash for the door. His fingers scrabbled at the knob. Thankfully, it turned quickly under his hands, opening to an empty, sunlit street. Heart in his throat, Ventus slammed the door shut as fast as he could.

He wasn’t sure why (he was) but in that last moment, he could swear he saw eyes staring at him from the darkness inside.

The city was beautiful. Brightly tiled plazas and sloping streets, small canals running through it all with shady recesses at different points to sit and watch, multiple squares dotted throughout with burbling fountains and intricate mosaic floors, even the taste of the air called to Ventus in ways he didn’t understand (he did).

Above, a castle loomed high above, towers on towers, intricate patterns winding through the hollow cut-out at its center. Sometimes, as he threaded his way through the winding streets, its shadow fell over him, sending a shiver down his spine.

The city was beautiful, and it was devastatingly empty. For all its grandeur, he was the only heart to wander the streets. Every now and then he thought he saw something from the corner or his eye – a ghost, an echo – but when he turned it was gone. He wasn’t sure how to find them (he was, he just had to let go).

Through it all, there was Aqua. Somewhere along the way, her constantly switching temperament had evened out, settling into a soft, distant melancholy. He leaned into her heart, settled on the edge of a fountain, staring into the distant horizon away from the castle that towered over the whole city. If he closed his eyes, pressed as close to her as he could, he could almost hear an echo to the water of the fountain behind him, roaring like an ocean, see a second, darker horizon in the lights behind his eyelids.

Each stuck in their own limbo, there was nothing to pass between them; they simply existed, drifting in the comfort of each other’s hearts.

Suddenly, with no reason at all, his heart began picking up.

No, not his heart, he realized. Aqua’s heart. With a sharp breath, he snapped his eyes open. Still entangled, her alertness spilled over into him, making every divot and grove in the pavement stand out in sharp relief, the bubble of the fountain crack against his eardrums, the sun burn against his skin.

Aqua?

Not now-determination-denial-teeth of ice and snarling things

Ventus shivered, sitting up and curling his fingers into the stone of the fountain’s edge. Helpless, he pressed even deeper into her heart, a mere spectator, feeling her feelings but still half-blind to whatever she was facing.

Aqua?

There was no response, only more steel-edged focus. He felt something spark from her, flint on iron, but then blaze too big, to wrong, bursting up and out and fizzled like a blown-out lightbulb. Despair flooded from Aqua, then a second, more bitter feeling he couldn’t identify before it was drowned by a flood of denial-determination-rage, burning bright, until, quite suddenly, it was doused.

It hit like ice, a shock that knocked Ventus out of the meld. Bereft, he reached for her again, only to be met with a muzzy blanket of dark fog around her heart, blocking his access to her, blocking her feelings. When he blinked back to full awareness, his heart was racing, and the city seemed more silent than ever before.

Aqua?

No response. His pulse raced once more, for his own sake.

He couldn’t stay like this, alone in this ghost town, his heart as quiet as the world around him. He had to get out of here. He had to find the answers to this place. He didn’t know how (he did).

The castle loomed over him.

He was scared (but it’s time to wake up, now).

It was a long climb to the top of the castle. The path was a bit convoluted, winding its way through waterworks before reaching rooms of strange machinery, then finally finely appointed offices.

At the very top was a large room, light steaming in from the ceiling-high windows stretching up the outside wall. Through it, the whole city fell out below. A desk was pressed up against the windows, seat placed so you could take in the whole city with a single sweep of your eye.

Ventus’s head craned around as he took it all in, until he found himself bumping up against one of the high-backed chairs that surrounded the large table that filled the rest of the floorspace. Without thinking, he sat down, and suddenly he wasn’t alone.

Ghosts sat at every chair, their faces blurred, disappearing if he looked too hard. Their voices filled the air around them, tones familiar and sharp but words beyond him, no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t know them (he did) except their names were on the tip of his tongue, and if he stopped searching, stopped trying so hard, he could almost, almost –

And wasn’t that the story of his life? Almost strong enough to save them, almost fast enough to catch up to them, almost good enough to be their equal – but not quite. Always falling short just at the last hurtle, no matter how hard he tried.

Ventus shot to his feet. Heart in his throat, heat burning behind his eyes, he staggered towards the door. He couldn’t do this (he could), he had to get out of here, he –

There was someone in the doorway. The face blurred, if he tried to take it in, but he could understand it piece by piece – pink hair and accusing eyes (blood on the floor, hands around his throat) and he didn’t ask for this –

The room grew dim. Dread shivered down his spine as he slowly, painfully turned.

Shadows had stretched up from the floor, draping like a cloak in the air to blot out the light, hovering over the desk, over the book spot-lighted below it. He didn’t know its contents (did he?), but he hated it on sight.

Light burned in his chest, and he knew them.

He did.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh, or cry. Untold years apart, and his story did nothing but repeat itself.

“Was it all for nothing? Everything I tried, everything I did, and I still – “

It was always going to be like this. Fate is not let to chance.

“So what? I just have to accept it? Just because it was written, just because some old man wants to use me in a war, I have to get split apart, cut into pure Light and pure Dark? I – “

He laughed, pressing a hand to his eyes as more – not memories, it didn’t feel like remembering, like a revelation – he was simply understanding something he’d always known.

“I was supposed to shape you, so they could win. So we could all be free of it. But that just landed me in the same situation all over again, with Vanitas!” He flung his arms up, turning to pace the room, feeling the Darkness watching, watching, watching, “I’m so tired of being a chess piece on the board. Shouldn’t I – shouldn’t we get a choice? I didn’t ask for this!”

He dug his hands into his hair, feeling his eyes burn, his knees shake. Slowly, slowly, he lowered into a crouch, burying his head in his knees, choking on tears that just wouldn’t fall.

“I didn’t ask for this...”

I did.

#kh #kingdom hearts #fanfiction #wingfic #wrap your wings au #Yza writes a thing

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kyunisixx · 3 years

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chiaroscuro

artist!Robert Plant AU one shot.

a/n: this really started out as a song I wanted to write. But I knew I had to turn it into a longer writing!!

themes: fluff, mild implications of nsfw and tw: childhood trauma.

summary: in which Y/N becomes a muse for Robert, a landscape artist in more ways than one. (Man, that summary is so shit but let's roll with it)

pairing: artist!Robert Plant x fem!reader

chi·a·ro·scu·ro

the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting.

an effect of contrasted light and shadow created by light falling unevenly or from a particular direction on something.

"Lean back for me a bit more, darling. That's right, relax."

As she moves, the old sofa creaks beneath her. Chilled air gusts through a partially opened window, making her shiver and sending miniscule bumps all over her bare skin. Her eyes drift over the fixtures inside the cozy cabin, illuminated by an outmoded oil lamp situated on the man's table. Several tiny moths were floating around it as the flame wavered ever so slightly from the breeze.

Scattered were all paintbrushes and smudges of paint were messily smeared all over the table. A round board was placed so close at the edge (one she heard him call before —a palette). In the middle is a rustic cup with half-empty, now cold tea. But a paint-smudged hand grasped on its handle and swiftly brought it over to a mouth.

Then her eyes met his.

His frizzled, curly blond locks are pulled into a disheveled bun. One he pinned up so carelessly with a thin, unused paintbrush as to prevent it from obstructing his view but a few ringlets managed to escape and are now framing his face.

Ivory-colored shirt, a few buttons undone to reveal smooth skin of his collarbones which were also marked with a few shades of paint. Some scattered across his jawline to his cheek.

Lips are pursed and eyes are pulled into deep concentration, they are set into a particular part of her. As if to capture the exact curvature of the crease on her waist.

Salient was the cleft on his chin and the sharp edge of his cheekbones by the incandescent light lent by the lamp, making him look like a contrast between sinister and elegance.

He dipped a brush and carefully made short strokes on the canvas, pausing every now and then to look at her.

The sun was setting and the sky was shaded a dull gray, providing so little of brightness which seemed to have darkened even more being situated in a lush forest.

Many months ago at this time of the day, she would have just been getting up from her sleep. Wake up and get ready for a long shift. It was a routine she had gotten so used to every day.

Take a bath. Eat. Pick out an outfit. Put on makeup. Be into the persona.

She would become a completely different person as soon as she stepped into the establishment she knew for as long as she moved into the town a few months ago.

From having to move into different cities and using different names to hide her identity. All of it to escape the filthy and haunted ghost of her past.

Screaming. Glass breaking. Bruises. Slamming doors. All of the things a child shouldn't have to go through. She took a risk and ran away from it.

And here is where she ended up thirteen years later.

Lacklustre eyes unmoving as they steadily stared back at her in a blurry mirror inside the changing room. All the girls' chattering seemed to have been muted and faded in the background as she gazed at her reflection. She picked up the small item in her hand, before taking the cap off and swiped the crimson lipstick across her chapped lips, creating a thick shade.

"Y/N, you ready to go?"

She turned her head back to Don, the club manager. She smiled and moved her head in a single nod.

“Sure, Don. Just give me a short moment”. She adjusted the strap of her black velvet dress and walked on the familiar, dimly lit hallway. Her stilettos clapped quietly on the floor as she padded and stopped in front of a red curtain covering the doorway from the side to the stage.

"How's it going, folks? Alright, alright. I'd get right into it. This is the moment you've all been waiting for. The crowd favourite, slithers like a python, mistress of the night; Marilyn"

Then, she waited as the main lights switched off and took her cue to enter as smoke filled the platform. Coloured lights gleamed right through. She situated herself right in the middle then circled her hand on the pole as the first note of the song started to hum quietly. Like a distant patter of rain—calm before the storm. Her hips moved into the rhythm and fluidly sneaked around the pole as the cloud of smoke started to clear out. Gazing into the crowd of men, her blood-red lips quirk into a smirk.

It was the only time she knew she had complete power and control. And she relished it, savoring the potency.

Her hands smoothed all over her now slightly perspired skin as men clamored and hooted for her. Bills were haphazardly thrown into the dancefloor. Something that she wasn't used to when she first started, it made her feel cheap. Dirty. But her routine carried on almost every night, she eventually got used to it and had even grown to like it.

Then she spotted him.

Big ball of golden hair illuminated by stage lights. He was situated amongst the sea of predators, his eyes followed the fluidity of her movements. But what struck her the most was the way he was watching her. It wasn't shadowed by lust, but more of an intense wonder and curiosity. It was as if he was memorizing each part of her curves, but for another purpose.

Her gaze somewhat mirrored his. He definitely wasn't strange-looking. Hell, he might have been the most beautiful man she has ever seen. He didn't belong to a place where no good men wander around. Both his beguiling beauty and aura was completely out of place for such a place like this.

The song then came to a stop. Her number was over but her eyes remained locked with his. It was only then she came back to consciousness as Don's voice boomed into the large speakers, signalling the end of her performance. She collected the bills scattered on the floor and walked off the stage, throwing a last glance into the crowd as she took her exit.

He was gone.

He wouldn't show up for a couple of days. She was sure, of course. The moment she steps out, her eyes would already be skimming through the lounge, and would sigh in disappointment if she didn't spot any sign of him.

"Have you seen your mysterious man yet?"

One of the girls she was closest to, Hershey, asked as she counted the thick block of bills on her hand.

"He wasn't out there tonight"

"You could have been hallucinating. Anyway, you told me he was 'like an angel'"

Hershey laughed, mimicking the way she had said the last part with a breathy tone and added, "Or could have been disappointed in your dance number, ran away and swore to not step a foot into this place again"

She stopped momentarily, chuckled lightly and sighed, "You may not be far from the truth but we'll see."

Then he would be there the next night, positioned right at a table at the back. His curly locks gave his identity right away, with his elbows propped up and fingers poised against his chin, bearing the same gaze.

Later that night, he'd be waiting right outside of the club.

"The show was spectacular."

She tilted her head to him, nodded and smiled.

"Thank you."

She wasn't sure how it ended up with her sitting on a stool inside a cozy 24-hour operating diner so late at night, chatting with her "mysterious man" late at night, who introduced himself as Robert. He was apparently a landscape artist and has traveled the world where he finds inspirations for his works.

"The best place I have ever been to? Hm. I'd say Machu Picchu, set in the high mountains of Andes in Peru, above a river called Urubamba. I had to hike all the way up, and you could see the breathtaking view when you reach the top."

"That does sound very lovely." She sighed wistfully.

"Have you ever traveled anywhere outside the country?"

"Oh no, I have not. I move to different places a lot but I've never gone out, never had the chance to."

"Ah, you should! It's wonderful."

She nodded, "Do you only do landscaping?"

"Well, no. I do a little bit of abstract art but I focus mainly on landscaping. I was thinking of expanding more, though. Maybe portrait, or nude art."

"That's a good idea. An artist has to come out of his comfort zone and be able to become great."

"Yeah…", he trailed off, as if lost in thought. "I hope this doesn't come off as strange or I as a creep. But may I ask you to be my muse? Don't worry! We'll only do portrait." He added the last sentence quickly.

She tilted her head to the side and looked at him, her brows furrowed deep in thought.

"You don't have to s—"

"I'll do it."

A few days later, she was again popped up on a stool inside his flat just a few blocks away from the club. His place was spacious, but had a very rustic feel to the interior design. A few souvenirs from different countries were neatly placed on a shelf and most of his paintings were hung stylistically on the walls (in which she stared at in complete awe for what she could tell an hour each painting until he had to drag her away to his studio)

Her fingers fiddled as she tried to stay still under his calculating gaze. She never had much problem with how she looked and never had insecurities. Perhaps she just didn't care enough to be insecure. But at that moment, she thought of how she must've appeared to him and if she was good-looking enough to be an inspiration for his art.

"Are you alright there?"

"Yes! Yes, I… Yeah I'm alright."

His hand stopped and placed the paintbrush on the table. "Are you sure? If you're not comfortable or if you need a break, we could stop for a bit."

She shook her head vigorously, "No, it's okay. Don't worry."

"If you say so."

She let her eyes travel from his bare foot, to his khaki trousers, to his satin shirt with top three buttons undone, to his face. Oh, his gorgeous face. It was pulled into a deep concentration as he stared at his work, giving her some time to study his majestic features.

His eyes flickered to hers as if sensing her stare and playfully frowned, a small smile curled on the side of his lips.

"What?"

He laughed, "You were staring."

"I was. Is it a crime?"

"No, I wouldn't say it is." He said with a teasing edge to his voice.

It was their arrangement which they stick to a few times a week. On her day off, after work if she wasn't feeling too exhausted. There was an obvious attraction lingering inside the room of his small studio but none of them acted upon it other than just casual flirtations thrown around. He was a perfect gentleman and had always been accommodating. A couple of times he would insist on paying her in which she would always refuse to accept.

"The tea you make for me is enough for a payment." She had jokingly said. "Do not worry about it, Robert. Really, it's okay. I'm making enough from my job."

One night, after their sessions, they had too many drinks and bottles were littered over the table along with his paint brushes which had long dried of paint.

"Tell me about you, Marilyn. Mistress of the night, who apparently, slithers like a python." He mused, mentioning her alias. His glossy eyes filled with mirth.

She snorted, took a long swig of beer and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

"Marilyn is… Nobody. I'm nobody. I came from somewhere that in my mind, ceased to exist." She stared ahead. "I ran away from home. Who calls it a home anyway?" She laughed humorlessly.

"My parents fought a lot. They spent so much time fighting, they didn't even have time for me. Looking back at it now, I could have just preferred that. But then, they turned their anger towards me." She sniffed and quickly wiped the salty tears before they even slid down to her flushed cheeks.

"I went to my grandparents. They loved me so much and I loved them so dearly. But they were not my parents. Eventually, both of them passed away and I was left on my own. But I was eighteen. I didn't have to go back to my parents. So I went to different cities, finding places where I could feel like I could fit in. Looked for jobs, and then I ended up here. I made friends and I have my own place, but it still never felt like home."

He was quietly staring at her, and the silence was deafening. Then he lifted his free hand to her face and ran the back of his index finger to dry her cheeks. Her hand caught his and brought it to her lips and placed a soft kiss.

"But with you, it feels… different. I like hanging out with you. I like being with you. You feel like home to me, Robert."

Her voice echoed softly as he took his time to reply. But he didn't, instead, he leaned down and sealed his lips against hers.

He layed limply on top of her body as he shuddered from his release. Both tried to desperately catch for their breath as her hand smoothed down his back and the other combed through his damp locks. He slid out of her and dropped beside her, not too long before he enclosed his arms over her and pulled closer. He catches her lips on his in a lazy kiss and smiled.

"You feel like home to me too, Y/N."

Her heart soared and nuzzled her nose against his.

"I want to paint you like this. May I? You are so beautiful. In light and in shadow."

She blushed, "Yes, but right now? I'm tired."

"No, no. We'll do it tomorrow. I'll take you somewhere." His warm breath hit her skin as he whispered.

"Where?" She whispered back.

"Well, I'm not telling you that. But it was what I helped my Father build when I was younger. It's somewhat like a special place for me, and I want you to see it."

He gazed at her as he waited for her to respond.

"Okay."

Under the light of the lamp, she peers at him under her lashes.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Mm? I have no idea what you are talking about."

"You know what it is. Cut it out or I'll never get to finish this."

She huffs. "You're no fun"

"I can prove you otherwise in a few minutes."

He continued to do his finishing touches and leaned back to admire his work.

"That isn't too bad. But nothing compares to the real art."

"And what might that be?"

"You, my love." He stood up, walked over to where she was, placed his hand at the back of her neck and pulled her to him.

"I've been waiting for this for hours."

"I've been giving you hints and you insist on finishing your art."

He chuckled. "Of course I had to."

His fingers danced their way from her sides to her hips, rubbing along the marks littered across her skin.

"Are you ready to see it?" He murmured against her neck. She shudders as she nodded, giving their playful banter a break.

He bit her earlobe softly, "Okay."

He walked over to his canvas and carefully turned it around to face her.

She gasps.

⭐ writings list ⭐

taglist: @jonesyjonesyjonesy , @princesspagey , @ritacaroline , @jimmys-zeppelin , @rebel-without-a-zeppelin , @reincarnated70sbaby (if you wanted to be added in, let me know 🤘🏻🤗)

#robert plant x reader #robert plant #led zeppelin #fanfic #led zeppelin fanfic #led zeppelin imagines #john paul jones #john bonham #jimmy page #fluff #cabincore #rustic #artist!au

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onecanonlife · 3 years

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In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (previous part) (next part)

(word count: 4,756)

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Part Nine: Tubbo II

Tubbo feels adrift.

It’s not an emotion he does well with, if it’s even an emotion at all and not just a strange, unsettling state of being. By all rights, he shouldn’t be dealing with this at all; it’s not as if there’s not anything to do, not as if he’s not a member of Wilbur’s cabinet and not as if he’s not trying to corral the candidates into productive debates and not as if they haven’t just finished handling Sapnap’s pet-murdering bullshit. It’s not as if he’s not busy. Not as if he doesn’t have purpose. Adrift is not a word that should apply to him.

But then again, it’s not as if he doesn’t know why he feels it.

It’s Tommy.

So many things come back to Tommy, at the end of the day. Normally, it’s not a bad thing. There’s no place he’d rather be than at Tommy’s side. But that’s just it, though, is the problem in a nutshell, because Tommy’s side is a place he finds himself less and less frequently.

Not in a literal sense. Tommy’s still around all the time. Is still around him. Physically, at least. But Tubbo’s known Tommy for years, and that means he knows how to read him, which is why it’s troubling that he doesn’t know how to interpret the look in his eyes half the time, all dark and distant, like he’s miles and miles away, staring at something that Tubbo can’t see. Staring past him, past everyone.

It’s scary, if he’s being honest with himself. And scarier still that Tommy’s trying to hide it, that whenever he tries to so much as hint at something being the matter, Tommy laughs and says something loud and obnoxious and deflects and changes the subject and refuses to tell him anything at all. Which is so fucking wrong. Since when does Tommy keep secrets from him? Since when does Tommy have a secret that he can’t trust him with?

Sometimes, he thinks that he’s imagining it, is making up the whole thing, is getting lost in his head and inventing problems where there are none, just because he has been a little stressed recently, what with everything. But then, he’ll see someone else make a sharp motion, and Tommy will jerk away, face shuttering, and he knows that he’s not inventing any of it.

Because Tommy always tries to play it off, but Tommy reacts that way to lot of things, nowadays.

And Tubbo doesn’t know what to do, because Tommy won’t even tell him what the problem is.

So, he resorts to the only action he can think to take. He goes against one of the only things Tommy has told him, that first night when he started acting off.

He decides to talk to Wilbur about it.

“I think there’s something wrong with Tommy,” he says. Blurts out, more like, no dancing around it at all, but dancing around it would hardly help anyone. It’s certainly not helping Tommy.

From behind his desk, Wilbur puts his pen down, signaling his full attention. The sun shines through the window behind him, late afternoon light casting the office in a gentle glow. Wilbur is backlit against it, painting his features in slight shadow.

“In what way?” Wilbur asks. “Has he said anything to you?”

“No,” he says, “and that’s sort of the issue. He keeps acting weird, but he won’t talk to me about it. He just pretends like, like I’m dumb or something, or that I’m making shit up. But I’m not. And then he keeps on acting weird, and it’s like he doesn’t expect me to notice it.” Wilbur’s staring at him evenly, calmly, and he feels a burst of desperation—he’s not making this up, he’s not, and he doesn’t want Wilbur to believe that he is, to believe that he’s jumping at nothing, to dismiss him. “He keeps saying weird shit, and he flinches sometimes, or he looks at people really strangely, like he thinks they’re—like he thinks they’re ghosts or something. Or like Herobrine incarnate—did you see the way he was glaring at Awesamdude the other day when he came by? It’s—I swear there’s something wrong with him, I’m not even joking. Really, really wrong.”

His own words burn a little in his mouth, and his brain summons up a memory: the dark of night outside, Tommy clinging to him with the fervor of a dying man, the sentence like an exploding firework, far off. You have to stay alive.

As if he thought Tubbo was planning to do anything differently.

It takes a second for Wilbur to speak.

“I’ve noticed,” he says, and the weight in his tone prevents Tubbo from feeling most of the relief the statement provokes. The relief that he’s not alone in this, that someone else has seen what he’s seen. “Since the night he gave up his discs.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo agrees, and then he falls quiet. For a moment, Wilbur doesn’t say anything else either, but then he sighs, leaning forward.

“Tubbo,” he says, in that way of his that means he’s about to make a pronouncement of some sort. Tubbo leans in too, mirroring him. “I will be completely honest with you. I was hoping that whatever’s wrong, Tommy was talking to you about it. Because he’s certainly not talking to me.”

He feels his hopes die in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted Wilbur to have an easy solution. Or a solution at all. Wilbur always seems to know what to do.

But not, it seems, in this case.

“He’s not,” he says, and now the words just taste sour. “He’s not talking to me. He’s never not talked to me. I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

Something flashes on Wilbur’s face, too quick to process.

“Neither do I,” he says, and grimaces. “I’m not fond of that. I imagine you’re not either. I wish I had an answer for you, Tubbo, but I—I’m worried about pressing him on this. He seems fairly quick to close himself off lately. I’m sure you’ve noticed that as well. And he’s not come to me with anything.”

Tubbo’s certain he’s not mistaking the note of despair in his voice. The words, not like he used to, go unspoken. In a way, it almost makes him feel a little better, that whatever this is, Tommy’s not trusting Wilbur with it, either, not trusting the man who he’s adopted as an older brother, and who has adopted him in turn. Or at least, it would make him feel a little better, if it weren’t so damn worrying.

If Tommy didn’t seem to be caught up in something beyond his understanding, or control.

“So I can only guess,” Wilbur continues after a moment. “I considered the idea that something else happened that night. Something he hasn’t told anyone. The only trouble with that is I don’t know what could have happened that he’d feel like he couldn’t share.” He pauses, and when he goes on again, his voice is softer. “He already gave up his discs. For—for all of us. For L’Manberg. I don’t know what would have been worse than that, for him.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “He didn’t—I mean, he didn’t die. He didn’t die, and no one else did, so I don’t—do you think this could be about the discs, still? I mean, those were important to him. To us. But to him most of all.”

Wilbur’s eyes flash again, and Tubbo notes idly that he doesn’t have his glasses on. He probably should—it strains his eyes to read without them, so Tubbo’s not sure why he wouldn’t be wearing them right now.

“Maybe,” Wilbur says. “Maybe that’s what this is. Though I wouldn’t have wanted him to—Tubbo, you know I wouldn’t have wanted him to, right? Under any circumstances. I never would have asked it of him, and especially not if I knew it would affect him this badly.”

“I know,” he says. He’s a bit surprised Wilbur feels the need to ask, but there’s an odd insistence in the question.

Maybe he’s just stressed. Prime knows they all have been, these past few weeks, and Wilbur most of all. He’s running in an election at the same time as running the actual country, and that’s got to weigh on anyone.

“The way he looks at me sometimes,” Wilbur says softly, shaking his head. “It’s as if—I don’t know. I shouldn’t—sorry, Tubbo, I don’t mean to ramble. You’ve got as much on your plate as any of us.” And Wilbur smiles, but for some reason, it feels fake. Plastered on. Like an expectation, the fulfillment of a role.

“I mean, yeah,” he says, shaking the oddness off. “But stuff about Tommy isn’t stuff that I’ve got to put on my plate, y’know? It’s just—important. Not something to check off a to-do list.”

Wilbur’s gaze softens. “I know,” he agrees. “I feel the same way. He’s my—well. You know.”

“Everyone knows,” he says.

“I can only hope,” Wilbur replies. He glances down at his desk, eyes flitting across his papers, the pen he’s set down, and then back up to Tubbo’s face. “But, Tubbo, if I can be completely frank, I think that out of everyone, you’ve got the best shot at getting him to talk to you. He’s—I mean, he’s your best friend, and you’re his, right? Part of a pair, you are. So even if he won’t—or doesn’t feel like he can talk to the rest of us, he might talk to you.”

“Maybe,” he says. “I haven’t had a lot of luck so far.” He frowns. “You really think he won’t say anything to you?”

He almost regrets the question, because it puts an expression on Wilbur’s face. Not a very nice one, and it’s gone in an instant, but for a second, he looks intensely sad. And between one blink and the next, it’s vanished, sort of like it’s a practiced motion, covering up things like that.

No, he’s reading too much into it. Surely.

They’re all so stressed. He can’t wait for the election to be over.

“I don’t know,” Wilbur says. “I don’t want to count on it. I sort of doubt—and this could all be a moot point, of course. Maybe he just needs more time, and we’re worrying about something that’ll blow over. It’s Tommy, after all. He’s always been so resilient. But that means he’s not going to talk about things until he’s ready to talk. If he truly doesn’t want to, we’re not going to be able to make him. All we’ll succeed in doing is making everyone miserable.”

“What do I do, then?” he demands. “I can’t just not do anything. He’s—you told me you saw it, too. There’s something wrong.”

“I know,” Wilbur says, voice rising. “I know, I’ve been telling you that I know. I don’t like it, Tubbo. I just—” He stops, breathes in, and Tubbo notices that his hands were clenched into fists and are now relaxing, fingers uncurling to rest on the desk’s wooden surface. “We can try to be there for him. Be ready when he comes to us. Let him know that he can, even if he doesn’t want to right now. That’s what we can do, if nothing else. I don’t like it. But we can’t force anything out of him, so that’s the best thing, I think. We be there, as much as he lets us. And when he finally tells us what the problem is, we kill it with fire.”

That last part, he’s on board with.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll do my best.”

And it occurs to him that he never told Wilbur about what happened that night, when Tommy came to him. In tears, acting so strangely, his voice wavering and wobbling and his whole body shaking like a leaf.

But Tommy told him not to tell Wilbur. He specifically asked him not to, so while bringing his general concerns to him was one thing, sharing that would be another. He’s not willing to break Tommy’s trust like that. Not unless things get truly desperate.

He thinks they’re not quite to that point yet. He hopes they’re not quite to that point yet.

“I know you will,” Wilbur says. “I never doubt you, Tubbo. And I’ll do my best, too. I promise.” He smiles, and it’s not as warm as Wilbur’s smiles once were, he thinks. But it is genuine, if tired, if concerned, if ever so slightly strained. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Somehow,” he agrees. “Thanks, Wilbur.”

“Of course. You’re always welcome to come talk to me.”

It does make him feel a bit better, talking to Wilbur. Knowing that he’s not alone in his concerns, at least, and the fact that he’s got Wilbur on his side is always reassuring. Wilbur’s like a light in the dark, a bit, the leader that they all look to, and his advice is always sound, always manages to be at least a little bit comforting.

So he tries to take it.

He tries to be there for Tommy, even if it’s difficult, at times, to stop himself from demanding answers, from taking him by the shoulders and shaking him until he admits that there’s something the matter, until he reveals what he can do to help him. Difficult not to react when he flinches, or when he stares at someone like they’re either a miracle or a ghost or something else entirely, or when he disappears without a word of warning only to reappear a few hours later as if he never went anywhere at all.

It’s difficult, but he tries. And sometimes, it’s almost like normal. Sometimes, Tommy grins at him with a gleam in his eyes and a bounce in his step, and they go off to try and rob Sapnap or mess around a little with Ponk’s lemon trees or get back at Fundy for the latest annoying prank. Sometimes, Tommy’s all bluster and confidence and unwavering chaos, and it’s like nothing’s changed at all, even as the elections draw nearer.

Tommy’s been very diligent about those. He even wrote a lot of the regulations, with a seriousness that Tubbo didn’t know what to make of. But the rules have been working so far—everyone’s declared their campaigns, there’s been no unsavory endorsements, no signs yet of voter fraud or other such shenanigans, and everyone running is a citizen of L’Manberg.

Everything ought to be alright.

“Are you alright?” Tommy asks.

They’re fucking around around the base of one of Eret’s new towers. Tommy suggested griefing one, just a bit, as a little prank, but then backtracked the idea, so now they’re just hanging around. Eret’s not even here at the moment, he doesn’t think.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says. “Just got a lot on my mind, is all. Elections and whatnot.”

Tommy snorts. “Don’t think so hard about it,” he says. “We’ve got this one in the bag. No way we don’t get the popular vote, so long as everyone does it by the book.”

“It’s making sure of that that’s the problem,” he says wryly. “It’s not as if we’ve got an impartial lawyer around here. I’d ask Big Q to help out, but Big Q’s got a vested interest in fucking around with things. At least I can pretend to be neutral. Sort of.”

Tommy makes a noncommittal sound. “You’re doing great, Tubs,” he says. “I’m telling you, this should go right.”

“I’m glad you’re confident,” he says, and squints up at the tower. It’s mostly stone, but nearer to the top, it seems that Eret has gotten a bit more elaborate. Gold glints in the afternoon light, just begging to be stolen. Maybe later, though, and only if Eret wouldn’t be too bothered.

“I’m glad I’ve got something to be confident about,” Tommy mutters, and he turns his head sharply. Tommy isn’t looking at him, is staring off at where the walls are visible, not too far from here. “I worked hard on this, you know. It’s fucking airtight, is what it is. I know what I’m doing.”

“You did a good job with all the rules,” he agrees. “I think Wilbur was impressed with how much thought you put into it.”

Tommy blinks, and then puffs his chest out. “He better damn well be,” he says. “I put so much thought. All of my thoughts, right there. So big and cool. I’m going to write a book of my thoughts, and it will be a bestseller, and everyone will read it and weep, that’s how poggers it will be.”

“They’ll weep, alright,” he says wryly. “Probably from the damage it will do to their eyes. And their brain cells.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy says. “Not my fault you don’t understand genius.”

“Genius is a word,” he says. “You’re right about that. Not sure you know what it means.”

“Why are you the way that you are,” Tommy says, rolling his eyes with great vigor. And then, to Tubbo’s surprise, he grabs his hand. “C’mon, let’s just go—fucking sit somewhere or something, I don’t want to do shit right now. It’s been exhausting, innit?”

He’s on the verge of pointing out that they’ve got a whole place where they normally go and sit, but Tommy doesn’t seem to be thinking about their bench. He leads him a few paces away from the tower and then flops on the grass, laying on his back and staring up at the sky. Tubbo joins him after a moment, situating himself right next to him.

“We’re almost there,” he says after a moment. “We’re almost done with it. Maybe then we’ll be able to get some good sleep.”

Tommy snorts. “It’s never done, on this server,” he mutters. “There’s always something else. There’s always—” He breaks off. “But yeah, you’re right. It should get better, at least. One less thing to try and be thinking about, I suppose.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask what else Tommy is thinking about. What else is on his mind. But the question won’t be welcome, and he’s trying to be open and inviting and supportive, not pushy, no matter how much he wants to be, so he refrains. And Tommy doesn’t say anything else, just lets out a long breath, so for a while, they’re just lying there on the grass, watching the clouds drift by.

It’s peaceful. He can almost forget that there’s so much going on.

And then Tommy speaks up again.

“If I were to get you a baby zombie piglin,” he says, musingly, as if he’s speaking to himself, “would it have to be any particular one? Or do y’think you’d be alright with any? Like, like replacing a goldfish or something?”

And somehow, that’s the breaking point.

“Okay,” he says, sitting bolt upright, “what the fuck?”

“What?” Tommy says. “It’s just a question.”

“No, it’s not,” he—says. He says. He’s not snapping. He’s not angry—but there’s something bubbling up, boiling over, and if it’s not anger, it’s frustration, at the very least. “It’s not just a question. It’s weird. You keep doing this. You say weird shit and you don’t explain any of it, and I’m left trying to figure out what the fuck you’re talking about, and you—you’re not talking to me, Tommy! You’re not telling me anything!”

Tommy sits up too, slowly, eyes wide, but he can’t bring himself to regret the outburst. Though maybe he will later.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Tommy starts, but he shakes his head hard, and the world blurs for a moment.

“That’s bullshit,” he says, and to his embarrassment, his voice cracks. “That is such bullshit. Do you honestly think I can’t tell something’s up? You can say that there’s not all you like, but that doesn’t change what you—you flinch when people get too close. You do weird things. You vanish and then come back without saying where you went, literally ever. You say shit that’s just—that’s just off. And then you try to brush it all off, but you can’t, you can’t brush this off, Tommy. Do you think I’m stupid?”

Tommy is completely, utterly silent. Tubbo tries to meet his gaze, but finds that he can’t, due to the fact that there are tears in his eyes, and everything is swimming.

“I just want to know what’s wrong,” he says, and doesn’t bother trying to disguise his misery. He’s gotten this far. Might as well let it all out. “I want to know what happened to you. I want you to let me help. I want you to tell me things, like you used to.”

“I can’t,” Tommy says, and his voice sounds alarmed, almost pleading, like he’s begging him to drop it. Well, he won’t. If he thinks he will, he’s got another thing coming. He’s let this drop too many times. Enough is enough. It’s time to push. “I can’t—there’s nothing going on, there’s not—not anything that’s a big deal or that you need to worry about, I just—”

“Stop lying,” he says. “Please, stop lying to me.”

Tommy goes quiet again. And that’s setting off all his head’s warning sirens, because Tommy never just goes quiet, but isn’t that just another thing to add to the list? Another response that isn’t as it should be? Mounting evidence that Tommy’s claim of being alright is just a bunch of horseshit?

“It was that night, wasn’t it?” he presses on, and his throat is closing up, but he chokes out the words anyway. It’s sudden, this sensation of being overwhelmed, but he’s powerless to stop it all from hitting. Powerless to keep himself from thinking about how there’s something wrong with Tommy, something wrong with his best friend in all the worlds, and Tommy won’t talk to him. “That night you came to me, and then you gave up the discs. Something else happened. Was it Dream? Did he do something? Or was it before that? Did something happen before you woke me up? Is that why you were crying? You’ve got to tell me, Tommy, please. I’m not letting this go. I shouldn’t have let it go before. I just thought—I thought you’d tell me, when you could, but you haven’t. You’ve been suffering, and I’ve just been watching.”

His voice cracks again. He can’t care.

“No,” Tommy says, almost a whisper. “No, Tubbo, no, that’s not it, there’s not—this isn’t something you can do anything about, Tubbo, that’s all. That’s all it is.”

“Do you not trust me, then?” he asks. “Is that it? Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” This is sharper, louder. “No—fuck, of course you didn’t. You haven’t done anything. You’re fine, Tubbo, it’s all fine, and I’m handling it. I’m doing alright.”

“But you’re not,” he says. “You’re not. You’re not alright.”

He blinks, hard, and the tears clear, finally. Tommy is staring at him, jaw slightly slack.

“I am,” he says, but Tubbo shakes his head again.

“You’re not,” he insists, before he can take that any further. “Why won’t you tell me about it? You know I won’t tell anyone else if you don’t want me to. You know that.”

“I know,” Tommy says. “I do know that, Tubs, c’mon—”

“But then why won’t you—”

“It’ll put you in danger,” Tommy snaps. “I’m not risking you!”

There are so many things he could say to that. Voicing the implication that whatever’s going on, it’s already put Tommy in danger, is high on the list, and it makes him sick to think that maybe Tommy just doesn’t care. Maybe he’s not paying any mind to the danger to himself, even as he worries about everyone else around him. But Tommy won’t listen if he says as much. He can tell already.

So he goes with his gut. Recalls the old conversation, puts together all the glances and the flinches and the stares when he thinks no one else is watching. Draws himself a picture, though he’s sure it’s still incomplete.

“Tommy,” he says, and tries to keep his voice level, steady, “I’m not going to die.”

Tommy’s face crumples like a wet sheet of paper, and there is a long pause.

“You don’t know that,” Tommy finally says, wavering and thready, and Tubbo doesn’t know why Tommy’s so scared, still. He doesn’t know what happened to make him fear this. And maybe he never will, if he can’t coax it out of him. But maybe that’s not so important at the moment, not more important than offering reassurance.

And that, he can do.

“I do know that,” he says. “Look, I’ll swear it right now. I’ll swear it on—L’Manberg itself. I’m not going to die.”

Tommy’s eyes go very pinched and squinty, and he bites down on his bottom lip, hard. Tubbo knows that look, so he extends his arms and tugs Tommy into him, into a hug, so that Tommy can cry without him seeing. He almost expects the embrace to be rejected, but after a moment of stiffness, Tommy melts against him, tucking his chin on his shoulder.

“You gotta have a little more faith in my abilities, man,” he says, aiming for some levity. “I’m not so easy to kill.”

“I do have faith in you, Tubbo,” Tommy mumbles.

“Then let me help,” he says, and decides that a compromise is in order. “Look, you don’t even have to tell me everything. Or anything. But if there’s something I can do, let me do it. Let me help you. Whatever’s going on, you don’t have to be on your own. You don’t have to handle it by yourself or whatever stupid bullshit you’ve been on about.”

“It’s not as easy as that,” Tommy says, still barely discernible.

“I think it could be,” he replies. “I think you’re overthinking it.” He holds Tommy a bit tighter. “And really, I’m not gonna die, big man. And even if I did, you wouldn’t be rid of me that easily. I’d come back as a ghost and haunt you for eternity. Move your shit around when you’re not looking.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Tommy whispers, “and I don’t know why.”

Okay, that’s—okay. He’s not going to mess up the progress he’s made, even though he’d dearly love to comment on whatever the fuck that means.

“Alright, then,” he says, “but are you hearing me? Can you do that? Let me in, just a little bit? ‘Cause I mean, really. You’ve got to be able to trust me to look after myself. I appreciate you trying to protect me or whatever you’re doing, but not if you’re hurting yourself doing it. And not if you’re being stupid about it. ‘Cause I’m not some fragile fucking flower, you know? So can you? Let me help?”

Tommy shifts a bit, but doesn’t attempt to pull back, so Tubbo takes that as permission to keep holding him.

“Okay,” Tommy says, after a minute, voice small. “Okay, I’ll—I still can’t, I can’t tell you much, but I’ll try. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you think that I—that I didn’t trust you or some shit, that’s not it at all—”

He sounds increasingly distressed, so Tubbo cuts in.

“That’s fine,” he says. “We’re okay. Just don’t shut me out, alright? Whatever I can do, let me do it. That’ll be enough for now.”

Whether it will always be enough is another question. But, baby steps. Baby steps.

“Okay,” Tommy says. “Alright. I’ll try.”

He’s still crying. Tubbo doesn’t comment on it. Not even when Tommy finally pulls back, and his eyes are red-rimmed, avoiding his gaze. Not even when they go back to L’Manberg together, Tommy staring straight ahead except for when he’s not, except for when he casts little glances over to him, as if to check that he’s still there.

Tubbo’s gotten more questions than answers out of this. But he’s also gotten a promise.

He’ll hold him to his word. And he’ll make a private promise of his own.

He won’t die. And Tommy won’t either. They’re both going to come out the other side, and everything really will be alright again.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #tubbo #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #dsmp fic #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #time travel au #everything's still fine :D

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kettlequills · 2 years

Text

The Reachfolk had always operated under looser definitions of alive than most. They called them Laataazin the Undying, which was almost certainly a brand of that particular cruel hag humour. But Laat did not mind.

Their heart did not beat, now. They felt no hunger, no thirst. The sun on their skin was faint. Sensation was muted, and the heart in their chest rubbed away the hard edges of living to leave a soft numbness. It enveloped them and washed their days into grey eternities, unbordered by the needs of the living.

It was difficult to mind much.

The other Hearts saw this as a blessing, of somesuch. It did not provoke one to linger on what they had lost, and what they had gained in trade. A Heart was never purposeless, not with a hag matriarch to protect and serve. But it gave some comfort during the long, lonely hours where the only company was the quiet murmur of the falling rain that they could hear, but not feel.

Laat kept guard, with the other Hearts, while the hags nested. They sat crosslegged on a platform far above the sleepful dots of the redoubt encampment, near the ashes of what had been a sentry's fire. Now skulls watched the mountain passes with hollow eyes, and Hearts watched the stone wearied steps with hollow minds.

Moira slept curled around the unmoving valleys of Laat's hips and thighs, so Laat kept one hand on her skinny back and the other on a hand-axe they could have hurled halfway across the camp even alive. Their gaze, unblinking, unbroken, poured out over the sunlit dawning.

If Akatosh wept for his child, the sun did not show it. Wreathed with pink and gold, the rising sun was resplendent, eternal, effervescent. The winking stars in the canopy did not protest their overshadowment but remained there, invisible, unseen, washed over by the flagrant currents of light and beauty.

Laat, hovering in Moira's shadow, understood their cold points. They outlasted the warmth and verve of the living, and when night fell, it revealed them. Watching. Waiting.

They did not mind.

Moira's waking was never gentle, these days. With half a scream or all a cry, she shook and shivered and wept in her sleep as she roused. Her shriek had a raven's bitterness and a woman's grief. She twisted to look at them. In that interrupted moment halfway between sleep and wakefulness, her fear was naked as her skin, unclothed now she walked in a Forsworn settlement, and slept in her lover's dead, sleepless furs. Only feathers and silver and a necklace of wood and ruby adorned her, that and the dawn, which touched her feathers gold and purple, and her dark eyes like wells. Her hair was a waterfall, waved from loosened braids, her skin rumpled and waxed from sleep.

Her claws cut Laat's skin when she grabbed them and tore shallow scrapes down their fleshy bicep. The wounds did not bleed, but oozed a dark tar.

"You awful beast," she hissed between loving teeth, and her clawed grip tightened - her human palm, warm and muscled, curving around Laat's arm. Steady with the constant movement and pulsing of her flesh, the heat, the struggle of life that pounded in her birdhearted chest. "You scared me so. I dreamt you gone."

Feelings were distant as mist, soft as water. They ghosted away from Laat's mind like ships scudding across the harbour, like flecks of ash carried on snow. They lifted their palms and Moira's face fit there like a puzzle piece, and her lashes fluttered closed over eyes that shone like jewels.

When she touched them, the briar heart she had bound with magic and twine ached in their chest, in the bloody wound where their own had once beat. It was the magic that sustained them, recognising it's maker in the hag that had dropped a lifetime of enmity with her mother's clan and forced a dying body adragonback to die not in the nest Laat had crawled to in their final hours but a cold altar in the Reach, instead.

They had died there, and woken a moon later, when the working was done. Neither dead, nor alive, they did not heal, they did not decay. Their body, exposed as it was in light leathers, was scarred by a hundred small catches of Moira's claws when she crawled into their arms to rest, a quivering fluff of birdbones and feather and the slow warmth of an ember in their arms. Laat reflected her heat and the chill of the stars both, cool to the touch and inert as stone. But Moira did not make a nest for herself like the other hags, or commandeer a fur tent, or a bedmate whose beating heart kept her warm. Instead she complained and huffed and fought her way into Laat's listless hold, as if nothing had changed at all.

Through the night, the briar heart would ache like a fresh cut, like the deathwound it should have been. But loyally, dutifully - perhaps, once, lovingly - they held their wife in their arm, and a handaxe in the other, and watched the night pass into day.

And Laat told the stars that they did not mind. No, they did not mind at all.

#briarheart laat #laataazin #moira #inkwrites #death tw #tes #skyrim

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bearly-writing · 3 years

Note

Hello! I absolutely loved "Bite the Bullet!" If you are still taking requests for Hurt/Comfort Bingo, could you possibly fill CPR with Dick Grayson/Nightwing receiving CPR from someone in the Bat family - preferably Bruce/Batman or Jason/Red Hood? Keep up the great work :D

Thank you so much for the lovely request! I’m really glad you enjoyed Bite the Bullet! I can only apologise for how long this fill has taken 😅

All of my prompts have been requested! I know it’s been a very long time since I last filled one of these, and I’m not sure if any of the prompters are still interested in these (or even remember that I was supposed to fill one for them 😂) but I am definitely going to finish these, including the Voltron ones!

Pale Reflections

Fandom: Batman

Prompt: CPR

Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd, Tim Drake

Warnings: Near death experiences, Drowning, Past character death, blood and injury

Summary: Bruce blinks again. A chill breeze brushes against him, searching for a way through his uniform. Concrete, Bruce tells himself, it’s concrete, not sand. It’s water, not blood. It’s Dick.

And yet, he’s as still as Jason was then, as lifeless. Bruce moves without thinking. He isn’t thinking. His mind is utterly blank, a void in his head.

Read it on AO3 here!

Bruce doesn’t actually see Dick go into the water. There’s a shout - Jason, Bruce thinks - the confused sounds of a struggle, the splash of something heavy disappearing into the river. Bruce doesn’t have time to worry about it, not with the horde of Joker’s goons he’s trying to keep from overwhelming him.

So he doesn’t see his son hit the murky water. Doesn’t see his muscles seize at the shock of icy cold. Doesn’t see the dark gape of his mouth or the flash of black hair as Dick struggles to stay at the surface, his arms rigid and useless at his sides, his face tipped up to the dark Gotham sky and then, abruptly, not.

By the time Bruce has dropped his final opponent and turned around, Jason has already pulled him out. They’re both soaked, filthy water running in rivulets over Jason’s leather jacket, dripping off the curly ends of his hair. There’s a small puddle of it under Dick, who’s lying motionless against the concrete of the docks.

For a moment, Bruce doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. There’s Jason, kneeling on the ground, his helmet gone, face tight with fear. There’s Tim, standing over them, mouth wide, eyes gleaming in the dim light. There’s Dick, lying still underneath them, so still, the lenses of his domino flipped up, his eyes shut, wet strands of hair plastered to his pale forehead.

Bruce’s heart seizes in his chest. Thuds to a stop behind his ribs. Around him, the night is cool and dark but Bruce feels suddenly too warm, flushed with phantom heat. He blinks, lashes rasping against the lenses of the cowl and it’s somehow still there - that morbid plateau, his children blocky shadows in the darkness.

Bruce blinks again. A chill breeze brushes against him, searching for a way through his uniform. Concrete, Bruce tells himself, it’s concrete, not sand. It’s water, not blood. It’s Dick.

And yet, he’s as still as Jason was then, as lifeless. Bruce moves without thinking. He isn’t thinking. His mind is utterly blank, a void in his head.

Jason glances up when Bruce reaches them and his eyes are wide and white and he snarls as Bruce reaches out towards Dick, hunching over his brother, getting in the way. Bruce ignores him. Kneels. Close up, Dick looks even worse: pale and shining damply like some water-logged corpse.

Bruce has to swallow against a surge of acrid bile. He yanks off his gauntlet, tosses it across the dock. Presses fat, nerveless fingers against the crease beneath his son’s jaw. For an aching moment, he feels nothing. No thrum of blood beneath his skin. No sign of life. The sun is hot against his back. Sand shifts beneath his knees - or maybe it’s ash, thrown up by the smouldering debris. The smell of blood is heavy in the air.

Then, weak and thready, but there - a struggling pulse.

There’s a ringing in Bruce’s head so loud that he almost misses Tim crouching beside him, the three of them lined up on their knees like men at prayer. Bruce tilts Dick’s head back and his face is like a mask, waxy and unnaturally blank and it looks so wrong. Bruce drops his own head and stares intently at his son’s chest instead. No puff of air against his cheek. No steady rise and fall of Dick’s ribs. Bruce yanks his cowl back with a shaking hand and presses his face right against Dick’s lips. Still nothing.

The world drops out from underneath Bruce.

“Is he breathing?” Tim asks. He sounds very far away, as if he’s the one who’s underwater. The air is thick as jello and just as hard to breathe,

Bruce’s throat is too tight to speak, the words sealed inside his chest. All he can do is shake his head.

He’s not breathing. Dick isn’t breathing. Bruce’s son isn’t breathing.

Remember his training: CPR, one of the first things he had learned. Clear the airways - Bruce has already tilted Dick’s head back the way you’re supposed to. So: rescue breaths. Bruce gently presses Dick’s mouth open, using his other hand to keep Dick’s head tilted back. Then he seals his mouth over his son’s.

One. Two. Three.

Check for breath. Nothing. Time for compressions, then. One palm flat on his sternum, the other curled around his own splayed fingers. Arms straight to keep the force behind the movement. Don’t worry about breaking ribs, right now, it’s more important to get his chest moving.

There’s a rhythm to the whole thing. A song: Nelly the Elephant packed her trunk and said goodbye to the circus.

Dick - Dick has a little stuffed toy elephant. Zitka, she’s called rather than Nelly, after the actual elephant he had known, back when he’d been part of the circus. Bruce has seen it a hundred times. Dick used to cart the thing everywhere - out on family walks on the grounds, cuddled in his arms during movie nights, tucked under his chin when he’d snuggled against Bruce after sneaking into his room at night, seeking comfort after nightmares.

Does he still have it? Bruce doesn’t know. Maybe it’s back at the manor, safely tucked away in a closet in his old room. Maybe it’s in Bludhaven, sitting proudly in the middle of a messy bed. It’s not like Dick is ashamed of that sort of thing - of needing comfort, of his fond nostalgia for his childhood.

Bruce should find it for him. Bruce - he needs to find his little boy’s elephant, he needs to make this better, because Dick is hurt and Bruce needs him not to be.

How many compressions has that been? Dick is still and silent under Bruce’s hands. When Bruce pulls back, he half expects Dick to be watching him, eyes bright, but his lids are still closed, pale and waxy in the dim light. The only eyes on him are Tim’s and Jason’s, burning heavy against the side of his face.

More rescue breaths. Dick’s chest rises a little beneath Bruce’s palm, but it’s only his own air forcing his child’s chest to move. More compressions. Tim is saying something, sounding like he’s speaking from the other end of a very long tunnel, and Bruce can’t hear him over the thundering of his own pulse in his ears. Something about an ambulance, maybe? It doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting Dick to breathe again.

Something cracks under his palm. Bruce falters. His ribs. His little boy’s ribs are cracked and broken under his fingers. A jut of jagged bone, slick with blood and viscera presses against him. Bruce snatches his hands back like they’ve been burnt. Stares at them blankly in the dim light. There’s - they should be soaked in blood, gloves torn by debris, but there’s only the slight shine of water against the black.

There’s a roaring like distant thunder. Like desert wind. The air is so dry. Bruce can’t breathe. His chest is so tight. Like iron. Like his own ribs are caved in. His vision blurs like the whole world is spinning around him.

Someone pushes Bruce out of the way. He tries to plant himself in front of his son, his little boy. No one deserves to touch him. No one should have a chance to hurt him. But Bruce’s muscles don’t seem to be responding to him and he’s too weak to fight against the forceful shove.

Broad shoulders block his view of his son, brown leather stretched between them. Bruce stares blankly at the man’s back as he takes over compressions. Muscles ripple beneath his jacket. The thud of each push echoes in Bruce’s ears.

It’s Jason, Bruce realises, as slowly as if he’s swimming through treacle. It’s Jason pressing down on his son’s chest with measured, forceful thrusts. But that isn’t right, because it’s Jason on the floor, his body broken and ruined, his chest still.

Or - no - it’s not Jason. It’s not Jason lying shattered on the desert sand. It’s Dick. This isn’t a memory of the past. A painful ghost of a horror that Bruce couldn’t stop. This is real and this is happening. To Dick. To Bruce’s eldest son.

And Bruce is sitting helplessly at the side as his son dies.

No. No. This isn’t - this isn’t happening. Not to Dick. This isn’t possible.

There’s a strange disconnect in Bruce’s mind. It keeps him frozen as Jason bends down and forces Dick’s shattered chest to rise. As Tim shuffles closer, pale hands fluttering, brushing damp locks of hair from Dick’s still face.

In the distance, a siren wails. Bruce hears it as though it’s coming from another planet. How many times has Dick been on another planet? How many times has Bruce worried himself sick over the danger his boy might be in, where Bruce can’t protect him. And now Dick is dying right under Bruce’s nose and he hadn’t even noticed.

The breath feels caught in Bruce’s throat. If Dick isn’t breathing, then Bruce doesn’t see why he should. Please, he begs, please let him take Dick’s place. Bruce can’t bury another son. He can’t.

He barely notices the ambulance arrive. It only registers when Jason pulls away, making space for the paramedics to take over saving Dick’s life. A desperate possessiveness rises in Bruce’s chest then. These people don’t know Dick. They don’t remember when he messed up sliding down the bannister and skinned his knee. They’ve never tucked him into bed with them after a nightmare, feeling tears soak through their cotton shirt. They’ve never held him in their arms after he took a bad tumble on patrol and felt how small he is, how fragile.

When he lunges for his son, not even entirely sure what he’s planning to do, strong arms catch him. Bruce fights against them without any finesse. Snarling. Desperate. But the grip holds firm. Someone is murmuring low in his ear but Bruce can’t hear them over the pounding of his heart and his own frantic noises.

“B,” the voice growls. “Stop. They’re trying to help him. You need to let them.”

Bruce hears the words, but doesn’t register them. All he can think is that Dick is hurt and someone is keeping Bruce from him. Someone is stopping him from getting to his son.

“B!” A different voice. Less growly but no less desperate. “Listen to Hood. Calm down.”

It’s Jason’s vigilante name that finally breaks through the static in Bruce’s head. It’s Jason’s arms around him, his voice in his ear. It’s Tim standing in front of them both, face pale beneath his domino.

Bruce slumps. Jason takes his weight with surprising ease. When did his boy get so strong? So big? Bruce had missed it. Missed Jason growing from the skinny little teenager he’d been to the vigilante he is now.

Tim closes the distance between them, blocking Bruce’s view of the ambulance and whatever the paramedics are doing with Dick. His face is so pale he’s almost glowing. His dark eyebrows are pulled low over his eyes in concern.

“He’ll be okay, B,” he says, shakily.

Bruce shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the fear on his face or the ambulance as it pulls away, taking his son with it.

***

Dick is fine, Bruce tells himself. The heart monitor is beeping softly and steadily in the background. Dick’s hand is warm in his own, fingers limp but soft and dry. They’re only keeping him in the hospital to monitor for dry drowning and to let his ribs heal up a little. The worst danger has passed.

Jason is fine too. And Tim. They’ve gone to get coffee and snacks from the vending machine down the hall. They were in here just a few moments ago. Jason is here. Tim is here. Dick is here.

Bruce hasn’t lost anyone today.

As if spurred by the thought, Dick’s fingers twitch in Bruce’s grip. Bruce squeezes them in his own almost automatically. Then he shifts to lean over the bed, brushing Dick’s hair back from his pale face. Dick blinks, dark eyelashes fluttering. He groans.

“Dick?” Bruce asks, lowly. He hadn’t meant the name to come out so tentative, so broken, but his throat feels like it’s been torn to shreds.

Dick’s head lolls against the pillow. Bruce shifts to cup his cheek and hold him steady. Blue eyes peek out at him from beneath heavy, waxy lids. Bruce’s mouth feels so dry. Like a desert.

“B?” Dick murmurs. And if Bruce had sounded bad, Dick sounds as though he’s been gargling glass.

“I’m here,” Bruce says. “I’m here, Dick. You’re okay.”

Dick frowns. He blinks but his eyes are still glazed and unfocused. “What,” he manages, “what happened? Where am I?”

Bruce strokes a trembling hand over Dick’s cheek. Why is he shaking? Batman’s hands are supposed to be steady. And Dick is fine. He’s here. He’s talking, even. Perfectly okay.

“You’re at the hospital, sweetheart. You were thrown into the harbour during patrol.”

Dick swallows dryly. His throat clicks. It sounds like it hurts and Bruce can’t stop himself from wincing.

“The hospital?” Dick whispers.

“Gotham General.”

“Why?” Dick asks, dark brows low over shiny eyes. “Why not…the cave?”

Bruce’s throat is thick, his words unwieldy. “You nearly died,” Bruce croaks. “You were…you weren’t breathing. We needed an ambulance. Otherwise…”

He can’t bring himself to finish. Stupidly, Bruce feels quick heat rising behind his eyes, the threat of tears. Suddenly, he can’t breathe. His hands are shaking so badly. To try to stem the trembling, Bruce clasps them close to his chest. Then he bends over them, pressing his face to Dick’s sternum. His son’s heart thuds beneath his ribs.

“B?” Dick asks, again, voice small and unsure. A hand touches Bruce’s head, nimble fingers threading through his sweaty hair.

“You nearly died,” is all Bruce can manage, muffled against the hospital sheets.

Dick makes a soft sound. He pets at Bruce and a swell of painful affection crashes through Bruce’s chest.

“I’m here,” Dick whispers, voice rough. “I’m still here, B. I’m fine.”

“I know,” Bruce whispers back, but he can’t bring himself to lift his head. The thud of Dick’s heart is too reassuring. He remembers it weak and thready against his fingers. He remembers pressing his face to a shattered chest and hearing nothing but hollow silence.

Dick doesn’t reply, but his hand continues to move against Bruce’s hair. Bruce appreciates the reassurance - the way Dick implicitly understands that Bruce needs to know he’s awake. He’s alive.

They sit like that for long enough that Bruce is surprised Dick doesn’t fall back asleep. Eventually, Jason and Tim return. If they’re surprised by the scene they stumble on - Dick awake but not fully aware, Bruce bent over him like a man at prayer - they make no comment.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” Jason says, gruffly. “You nearly gave the old man a heart attack.”

Dick hums. Bruce wants to defend himself, but he can’t seem to dredge up the words.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Dick says, softly. “All of you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Jason says, dismissively.

Bruce remembers the wide, wild look in Jason’s eyes. The way he had snarled at Bruce when he’d first reached Dick’s side.

He doesn’t remind Jason of that.

“Still,” Dick says, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Bruce says, finally lifting his head. He cups Dick’s cheek again, fondly. “I’m just glad you’re still here.”

Dick swallows again. Bruce will have to ask Tim or Jason to get some ice.

“Me too,” Dick says. “I’m not going anywhere, B.”

#badthingshappenbingo #bthb #dc #batman #dick grayson #bruce wayne #jason todd #tim drake #my writing #fanfiction #drowning tw #blood tw #injury tw #prompt: cpr

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botwstoriesandsuch · 3 years

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Finally finished this! Sorry I’m a bit late.

Made this song in pairing with a new Revalink soulmark fic: Paraphrase

Based on a prompt @motherhyrule (Happy Birthday and thanks!)

Read it on AO3 or, here...

Chapter 1: Holes

There were holes in the sky.

While the artificial blue glow of Vah Medoh was a constant reminder of abnormal circumstances of this view—looking out into the east, you could be fooled for a moment to believe in serenity.

The details of the great, inky abyss were blurred by the occasional grey cloud, crawling towards the light of a decaying moon. Its pale, crescent complexion gave a humble glow to the dancing seas of grass and the motionless hills of glistening lake water. Below, wooden huts embraced one another on the edges of an ancient spire. The winds had crafted a fine sculpture, the unique silhouette of Rito Village cast faint shadows on Lake Totori.

There was distant whistling from either the cutting breeze or a bored village guard, perhaps leaning against his spear, dreaming of slumber.

There's a fire, somewhere. A spiral of smoke rises with a delicious aroma fantastic enough to reach the heights of Medoh. Someone making a late-night stew, under the dotted, broken sky.

If you could tear your eyes away from the nature down below, the navy blue canvas would still be there to greet you—a perfect night that cloaked any traces of the sun, as if time was always meant to be this way. Unchanging, and ever an elegant, unrivaled mix of blue, black, and grey.

But of course, unchanging was not everlasting. The perfect canvas was pierced by the frozen heights of Hebra, and flaming stars. Whole armies of them were scattered across the sky, as if the goddess had flicked a handful of embers at the night, burning through the blue and into an unknown.

"I heard that stars are actually holes into the heavens." Link finally said. "Like...They break through the sky, and at night you can look through them and see the great beyond." He leaned back, shifting himself into a more comfortable position on the rocky cliff.

The ghost beside him raised an eyebrow, wings tucked behind his back.

"Oh? And where exactly did you hear that?"

Silence.

The boy looks out to the distant mountains, wreathed in grey clouds with filtered moonlight. When the wind blows his golden hair just the right way, you could catch a glimpse of a familiar expression.

"...I'm not too sure."

Revali nodded, looking back into the night. He stood beside the hero, and let a quiet sigh escape him, the turquoise flames that circled around the Rito seemed to rise and fall with his chest. "Well. I cannot confirm or deny such a thing, but I imagine it's a decent enough fairy tale to entertain the fledglings."

Link scoffs, a smile tugging at his lips. "Really? They don't give you a big ghost book on how all of life works? What's the point of being dead if you don't know the answer to all the fancy questions?"

"I appear to have missed Hylia's educational spirit lecture. Perhaps my schedule was busy at the time. I do apologize."

"Don't apologize to me! You're the one who missed a once-in-a-afterlife-time opportunity."

"..."

"...Too soon?"

"No, it was just a horrible joke."

"Pfft. Well OK, Mr. 'Well I'll be plucked'"

"I don't think I'm going to accept criticism from someone who's sense of humor isn't even a year old."

"Aha...Fair enough."

A chuckle. A nod. A smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Silence.

The moon crawls further west. Winds start to die with conversation.

The ghost sighs again, but of course, no breath escapes him. Something itches in the back of his mind, and he looks up at Medoh.

Her phantom blue eyes pierce both mortal and incorporeal, yet there's a tenderness in the way her head tilts towards Revali—every so slightly so as not to wake the whole kingdom with the groan of gears. The gesture is wordlessly understood by her pilot, something about speaking the unspoken. He clicks his tongue.

I don't remember flipping a relationship advice switch in your control unit...

Medoh's lights glow brighter and dim, playfully.

The Rito shakes his head.

No, he thinks again. It's better this way.

The Champion looks out towards Hyrule Castle, Medoh's red laser aimed directly into the heart of the swirling malice. From this view, it’s almost beautiful. Like layered petals of a rose...

I cannot wait to burn it to the ground.

"Yeah..." Link replied. "Don't worry, Revali. It'll be different this time. I won't let you down, again."

The Rito blinked. "Ah. Did I...say that outloud?"

Link nodded, tilting his head to the side with a smile. "You always seem in such deep thought when looking at Medoh. Your face gets a lot more s—uh...I don't know... " He trailed off, making the wise decision to not finish the sentence. Afterall, he wanted to hang out for a little bit longer before Revali's glares punted him to the Akkalain Sea.

Nonetheless, Revali grimaced. Looking at him? Acknowledging him? Oh, there was nothing worse in the world than that...

Time really can change anything.

"Hmph. Well," Revali turned his head back towards Medoh, "With Windblight gone, it's nice to actually have conversations...As unconventional as they may be." He makes sure that his smile can only be seen by the sky.

"She's good company."

Link picks at loose pebbles, tossing them off the cliff and letting gravity take them to new destinations. His hands are already coated in a dusty beige dust.

"Well, if Medoh ever becomes a bore. My schedule's always open." He chuckles. "I'm certainly a different sort of company in comparison, so I should be able to spice up your d—!"

"No."

The iciness of his tone runs Link's spine cold. He dares to look up at the Champion.

It takes all of Revali's strength to continue staring at the stars.

"You should really stop coming here, Link. You have a job to do, and so do I. You gain nothing by returning here each night."

He pauses, his beak clenched just a bit too tightly.

"You did well, avenging me, but now...Your job here is done, and there is more work to do. The fact that you keep visiting each night while the world fades away is pathetic, honestly. You banter and quip as if you have all the time in the world, as if everything doesn't depend on your success. Quit acting childish."

Silence. It drowns out the whistling wind.

Revali looks at the holes in the sky.

"It'll be morning in a few, so get lost. I don't need you here."

The Rito can feel the hero's eyes tearing into him.

= = = = = = =

"Careful now! Can't have you return with half a head. Can I?" Revali loosed an arrow just above Link's head, striking true in a Bokoblin's right eye.

Link whips around just in time to see the monster drop dead, just a foot away from where the knight stood. He turns back and gives the Rito a thumbs up in gratitude.

"Eye think that solves that problem." Link groans and rolls his eyes, but Revali smirks at the grin he attempts to hide. "Ah...One of the best things about these occasions is that you're in no position to quip back at me with your hands full like that." Revali shoots him a wink. "Perhaps I'll interpret your silence as overwhelming awe for my verbal abilities."

The Rito bows left and right, playfully. "Thank you, thank you. It takes a great deal of practice, but perhaps you'll grace my level of skill one day."

Link signs as best he can with the Master Sword in his left grip.

"You're an asshole."

"Perhaps. But it's your fault for sticking around!"

"On your left..." He suddenly says.

There's no hesitation as Revali moves his head out of the way, letting Link swing his sword over his shoulder. A brilliant beam of blue light escapes the edge of his sword, the disc of energy making contact with a Bokoblin's neck, slicing it asunder mid-roar.

"Hmm. Now that's just breath taki—"

"Shut UP!" Link says, knocking an elbow into his ribs. He starts to sign again. "Let's keep heading east. We need to close this pincer quickly. I'd like to finish before lunch..."

The Rito scans the snow covered path, littered with monster guts and blood. Deep reds and purple stain the pristine, crisp morning. The sky is a deep green, pine trees covering the day, dressed in coats of white. The breeze blows the smell of rotting corpses and hickory his way.

"Alright. Let's get a move on. Don't need the Princesses yelling at us again."

"A bit late for that, don't you think?"

The boys both look up in time to see a large burst of water erupt from a nearby cliff. It cascades into a shimmering slide, that freezes as it flows. A bright red Zora flips through the air and descends on it, landing delicately in front of the two. She gives a warm smile that could melt the winter.

"Shall I assume you ran into some chuchu troubles, again?"

Revali scoffed. "That was one time!"

"Hehehe...chuchu go 'sluuurrrp...'"

"Plus, that incident was entirely a certain knight's fault. I've been nothing but incredibly efficient and productive, since then."

"And your tail feathers are all the better for it!"

Revali thwacked Link with his bow to shut him up. The knight rubbed the back of his head with an "Ow..." and shot a rude glare, but the Rito continued. "So where is the Princess?"

Mipha gestured uphill to where she had come from, her magical waterfall already beginning to melt away. "We finished cleaning up the other end of the Tabantha path. She's met up with Urbosa and Daruk by one of the bridges."

The Zora smiles as she looks between Revali and Link. "I volunteered to check on you two while the others headed back. Neither of you need help cleaning chuchu slime out of your hair, yes? I do have the pliers, this time."

Revali's rageful squawk was drowned out by Link's laughter.

Before the trio's banter could truly serenade with the sounds of the forest, Mipha was off to regroup with the others, and Link was soaring in the sky.

The sky was open and clear, not a speck of grey clouded the air. The sun was perched comfortably on the heights of Tabantha ridge, painting the horizon with strokes of orange, the distance blushing in the morning's presence.

The wind flipped Link's hair back and forth, so he finished tying the braid behind his neck, woven tightly with a single, Prussian blue feather. Its tip looked like someone had dipped it in the moon's pale glow.

Braid or no, the heights above Lake Totori were quite cold, and Link nuzzled himself further into Revali's soft feathers. If he were any softer, it wouldn't be out of the question to drown in him.

"You're distracting me." Revali craned his neck back, raising an eyebrow at his passenger. "Keep it together, back there."

The hero shrugged his shoulders. "It's cold."

"I told you to drink another elixir before I took off."

"I wasn't cold then! Besides," He flopped back into the Rito's soft down. "This is adequate protection." Link's words were slightly muffled as he spoke.

Revali sighed. "You're insufferable..."

Eying the destination down below, the Rito rolled his shoulders to get Link's attention. "Keep steady. We're almost there." He started to dip forward.

"And try not to go flying, I imagine it won't work out well for you."

Before Link could even process his words, his stomach started to drop. Falling fast, Revali arched nearly perpendicular to the ground, his bright blue scarf flapping behind him. The Hylian on his back could do nothing but grip onto his armour for dear life, clothes flapping wildly. His loose sleeves caught the wind, pushing them back to reveal pale gold letters, etched in the underside of his right forearm.

Leaving so soon?

The wind rushed by Link's ears, and the sky quickly faded from the cerulean glow of morning, to the snow laced air of the Hebra. What was once broad strokes of indistinct colors soon morphed into the intricate faults, flaws, and edges of towering grey mountain peaks. With the heavens stolen from them, and the frozen earth quickly coming to greet them, Revali quickly opened his wings to catch the air, swooping just above the ground and shooting forward towards the Flight Range.

Rows of cool safflina and wildberries whizzed by, the scent of smoked boar drawing closer and closer. Revali could practically feel Link's appetite from aura alone. Although, the fact that his grip on his back was starting to tighten didn't exactly keep it subtle, either.

"I left the stew going before we headed out for the mission. It should be perfect by now..." He tucked his wings into himself with a quick twirl as he shot through a narrow pass.

The cold updrafts of the Flight Range now biting into his face; the Rito let his wings expand with a few more great flaps, before landing gracefully on the railing of the wooden platform.

Link practically soared off Revali's back and bounded straight for the simmering pot.

"'Thank you, Revali, for giving me a ride across all of Tabantha without asking for so much as a rupee in return!' Oh, you're so welcome, my dear hero. It's always a pleasure to aid a flightless Hylian in need." He shook his head as he made his way into the hut.

"'Oh, but really Revali! The speed at which you travel, and the strength required to take on my loathsome person as you fly is truly something to admire. It's a miracle you took me with you at all.' Why, you are much too generous with your compliments, Link. I have half a mind to write this all down for��MmMph?!"

In a brilliant move of both telling Revali to shut the fuck up, while also sharing their meal, Link shoved a ladleful of delicious stew in the Rito's beak.

Warm, savoury stew trickled down his throat, banishing the cold from his body in mere moments. His tastebuds were nestled with flavours of nutmeg, tender meat, and the delicate heat of a perhaps a single, spicy pepper.

Link's expression was equal parts, "Will you shut up now?" and "So how's it taste?"

"Not too bad...The prime meat I procured is obviously the main event. But your seasoning skills are certainly something of note..." Revali made his way to one of the cabinets, as Link rolled his eyes.

The Rito set his bow beside the Master Sword, leaning it against the painted wood. His eyes lingered on it for a bit too long, before he scoffed and continued on his routine.

Quiver on the counter; bomb arrows wrapped properly; armour loosened and set aside; scarf—

The feathers on Revali's neck suddenly floofed up at Link's touch. But he didn't dare turn around and risk losing the sensation.

He carefully unfolded the fabric around Revali's neck, and drew it off his shoulder. He wrapped it around himself, and signed at the Rito, "Mine, now."

The Rito chuckled, before turning back around to look at the hero, now adorned with far too much blue. Blue tunic, blue scarf, and sapphire eyes—it wouldn't be out of the question to mistake him for the sky.

Link stretched out his hand, and traced the edges of Revali's face, eventually falling down his neck, and towards his shoulders. His fingers eventually hovered over some familiar words that wrapped down the left side of his neck and down his shoulder.

You should give yourself more credit.

They both did nothing but smile at each for a moment, leaning closer and succumbing to the moment. Revali could already feel Link's breath, and see the bits of snow still sticking to his (horribly) braided hair.

The Hylian saw something curious in the Rito's expression as he planted a kiss on the tip of his beak. Looking back up at his jade eyes, he couldn't help but smile wide. Revali cocked an eyebrow.

"Something to say?"

Quiet. The fire chuckled in the background.

Link finally leaned in and whispered to him.

"You smell like shit."

Revali scoffed loudly before shoving Link to the carpet, where he burst out laughing, the wind carrying it to the spirits above.

"Gods, you're insufferable. Why do I settle for you..."

Link unsuccessfully attempted to toss a pillow in his face in revenge—Revali catching it with ease.

"Beats me! Now come here, you stinky bird." He patted the space in front of the fire. No doubt he wanted to sit between his wings again

"Stew or no, I need you to keep me toasty."

In no time, Revali had sat down and wrapped himself around Link, resting his beak on his head.

A hole in the ceiling let sunlight trickle on them as they warmed up.

= = = = = = =

Link finally sighed, the sound falling off into the void below.

"You-I can't-It was never..." He trails off, before chucking another pebble off the cliff, shaking his head.

"...I'm sorry. I know that you...That we're not really...friends or whatever...I don't mean to force you into anything uncomfortable. I owe you that much..." He looked up at the spirit, a determined look on his face.

"But, don't worry. Whatever mess I was before, whatever person you hated 100 years ago. They're gone, now. I promise I'm different. I promise I won't repeat whatever mistakes I made with you."

Revali just wants to die all over again.

"Well. That's good to hear. Perhaps there's hope for you yet, hero..." He walks forward, so he can't see his face, pointing a translucent feather far out east.

"I'd say your next objection should be Rudania. It's the closest. You can backtrack through whatever roads you've already trailed through getting here." The Rito then waved towards some glistening summits just a bit south. "Although, you said you've been to Kakariko and Hateno, yes? You could probably trek to Zora's Domain from there. The Zora will no doubt be a great asset to your further adventures—"

"Who was I closest to?"

Revali knew it was impossible to feel cold at this point, but he felt something shiver nonetheless.

"What do you mean?"

"Like...the pilots I mean. Was I...particularly close with any of them?"

"Well how should I know!" Revali snapped. He immediately regretted it seeing the look in Link's eyes. "I mean...sorry..."

Silence.

"...Mipha would be overjoyed to see you, I'm sure." He pointed again towards the cliffs surrounding Zora's Domain. "She had quite the heart...She'll make better company than I, I'm sure."

"Mhm...Alright." Link nodded to himself.

"But whatever you choose, don't try taking on Naboris, yet. Urbosa was one of the strongest warriors that even I've ever met. So I imagine that what awaits there is...deserving of more preparation."

The moon escaped from the clutches of a grey cloud, and the two of them were bathed in moonlight.

The knight's sword on his back glistens.

"I'll start making preparations tomorrow, and I'll finally be out of your hair." Link scratched the back of his head. "Although...I hope you don't mind if I come back every now and then to get pointers on using your Gale. I really only used it that one time when you gave it to me, and I've been a bit scared ever since, aha..."

Revali nodded. "That would be a more productive use of your time, yes."

Link finally stood, adjusting the strap of his sword around his shoulder.

"S-So...with Mipha. I actually heard from Kass that...uh he's—well you see, I figured you could confirm if she actually—"

"Stop." His response was as sudden as thunder. Link started sputtering again.

"S-Sorry. I know you just s—"

"Stop doing that. Stop trying to learn about the past, there's nothing for you there." Revali poked a feather at Link's head, which surprisingly made physical contact as he flinched away. "You've been given a gift, you understand? You have the luxury of being unburdened by the pains and memories of 100 years ago, while the rest of us have been stuck wallowing in what we once knew for over a century. Things that we can never attain now that we are dead." He glared, eyes sharp enough to stab into Link's flesh.

"It'd be an insult to the rest of us to throw away such a gift. So stop being ungrateful, and move on."

Silence.

Revali sighed, turning back towards Medoh. "Now get los—"

"You have no right to speak to me like that!"

The Rito whipped around. "Excuse me?"

"You don't know what it's like!" Link stomped a foot down. "You don't know what it's like, to have no attachments, no nothing to grasp onto!"

The Hylian shook his head, looking at his hands. "You're dead because of my failures, and for that, I'm truly sorry. I really am. But..." He looked the Rito, dead in the eyes. "But now I have nothing of value. Nothing to tell me what I'm worth, besides being a fighter. Besides defeating the Calamity. I don't know what kind of person I need to be," He waves a hand at Revali, "Or even what person I should try not to be. I can't...I don't want to just be nothing. Nothing but a sword and useless snippets of a dead past.

"So don't try and tell me there's nothing for me in the past. I need to know what I was, what I lost, and what I did wrong. N-Not just for me, but for everyone's sake! I want to truly know what this is all for, even if it hurts me..."

Link looked down, caressing his right wrist. "I want to know...what it was like to be complete...at the very least..."

Revali looked him up and down, something clawing up the inside of his chest, threatening to escape as dangerous words.

"...Let me see your arm."

"What—?"

"Hurry up, and just come."

Link cautiously stepped closer to Revali, extending his right arm towards him, like a handshake. But he roughly tugged him closer and folded the sleeve of his Rito garb away, exposing the skin to the crisp night air.

Pale gold letters adorned Link's inner arm, running from his wrist to his inner elbow.

Why did you think it was impossible?

The Rito nodded to himself. He had noted the first word being different when he had first reunited with Link, but it put him at ease—and completely shattered something—to have his suspicions confirmed.

"Do you know what this is, hero?"

"Yeah, it's a soulmark. This is probably what my soulmate 100 years ago said when they—"

"No." Revali let his arm fall, turning away. "It's a soulmark alright, but your soulmate is very much alive."

"Wh-What?!" Link started to walk up to Revali. "T-That's impossible! I-It's been over a hundred—"

"That's not the soulmark you had when I met you." Revali said simply. "You died. You were revived. You are adorned with a new mark, and are destined for someone new. Or someones. Or, maybe your soulmate is just yourself, it really depends..." He turned his head back.

Link was just staring at his arm. He bore no smile, but Revali could see the new fire in his eyes.

"It's like I said. It'd be an insult to go digging up the past. But I suppose I can't stop you..." Revali continued to make his way to Medoh. "You want something to fight for? Fight for that..."

The moon disappeared behind another cloud, and the glow of Medoh was all that bathed them. Link finally looked up, calling after the ghost in the mist.

"I...Thank you, Revali. But just so you know..." The Rito Champion turned, staring directly at the hero's determined expression.

"This doesn't change what I want. I still intend to know who I was."

There was quiet as they each looked at their ghosts.

Revali sighed, giving a sad nod.

"I know."

He disappeared in glowing blue flames, the embers falling towards the stars.

#if you reblog this revali comes to your house and gives you a hug. it's a proven fact #revalink #paraphrase revalink #mudkip music #botw fanfiction #botw #breath of the wild #legend of zelda botw #loz botw #soulmark au #botw soulmark au

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silence-burns · 3 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 45

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers, banter, smut in this chapter

Loki, despite being raised in a royal family, was at heart a man of simple pleasures. What more could he want from life than what he already had?

The Edge was a place of wonders, that much was indisputable. And even if not all of them were easy to enjoy, there were still moments worth living for.

The stars above felt closer than the last time Loki paid attention to them. Galaxies swirled in their eternal dance, the stars bright and colorful. Here, at the edge of the known universe, one had to wonder what laid beyond it. Here, it didn't feel far at all.

But even though some part of him couldn't stop the curiosity, Loki was tired of adventures. Or at least the ones where he had to risk his life and others'. Years ago, he'd have been surprised any 'others' would choose to stick with him and stay by his side despite it all. It was still a strange, new concept that baffled him whenever he realised how comfortable he’d grown in his new life. How vastly different it was from what he had predicted his future to look like.

But it was okay, Loki concluded. If life wanted to surprise him in that way, he'd allow it.

Loki closed his eyes. The wind gathered the sweet scent of flowers, blowing it through the lush gardens, overflowing with life. It was one of the many wonders of the Edge - how capable it was of change. How easy it was for the muddy creeks to turn into crystal-clear ponds. How the dry patches of grass could turn into fields of greenery and flowers. How the gnarled trees could turn into a forest thrumming with noise and movement.

All of it for a price paid in blood and ash.

Loki's hand brushed his throat, where he had still felt the ghosts of pain.

It was over, Loki had to remind himself again. The mission was over and they were all leaving the Edge soon. There were other, better, things to focus on. He should think about how soft the grass was as he laid on the field. How warm you felt, pushed into his side and wrapped in his cape. How peaceful it was among the trees, with birds singing somewhere in the distance-

"Don't ya fucking LICK that frog, Peter, or I swear on your aunt, I'll-"

"It smells like carrots!"

"It doesn't mean you have to- oh my god… This is the last time I abduct you."

Loki smiled. The birds were no longer singing, or at least not through the deafening ringing in his ear, but he didn't mind. He didn't mind that life at all.

He heard rushed steps to his left moments before the boy reached him. Loki cracked one eye open.

The fattest, most annoyed, orange frog he had ever seen flopped from the boy's hands, all six legs dangling loose.

Peter's smile was brighter than the countless stars overhead. "Look what I found, Mr. Mischief! There were more of them, and in different colors too!"

The frog burped. It indeed smelled of carrots.

Loki closed his eye. "What does it taste like?"

"Like a frog, unfortunately…"

"You should check out the other ones."

"Okay!"

And before he knew it, the boy was gone. The thicket shook. A few faeries rushed away, desperately flapping their translucent wings.

"He's gonna lick all the frogs now," you grumbled from your cocoon. "He's gonna be sick."

"I can heal him."

"How nice of you. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

"What can I say, darling? I'm a generous god."

"So in all your godly wisdom you told the boy to go lick some frogs?"

"Let him have some fun."

You turned your head to face him. Loki was looking at the stars overhead. Dark bruises peeked from under his collar. Magical aftershock, he had called them when he had explained why they didn't disappear despite his healing. They'd stay for a while, he said. A small price to pay.

"I'm glad it's over," you said quietly.

"So am I."

"Do you think…," you licked your lips. "Is it okay for us to just lay here and enjoy this change?"

The Edge took a shape that was so vastly different that it still seemed like a miracle. The balance was indeed a precarious thing there, no flicker of energy ever wasted. The land replenished, bringing to life things that made you admit that magic could be beautiful.

Still, you couldn't forget where all this energy came from. How the Queen had delayed her own fading by killing so many others.

"We did what we could," Loki understood your worry too well. "It is beyond us to change the laws of these lands and their dwellers. Harsh as this might feel to us, this is what life looks like here. All this," he gestured to the shimmering forest around, "is what the Edge was always supposed to be like, if the order of things had been kept."

"Wise words coming from an outsider."

You unfurled from Loki's cape so fast you almost ripped it from beneath him. The Prince was standing at the edge of the clearing the three of you chose to spend your final hours at. He was wearing a robe in distinct shades of silver, the pattern covering the fine fabric meandering within the eye-catching lines. It was the most vivid thing you'd ever seen him wear, the shine of the metal pieces razor-sharp.

The Prince wasn't looking at you. "I have lived for so long I couldn’t remember how my own world was supposed to be. How strange it was to see it wither throughout the centuries despite the Queen's fading supposedly filling out the essence lacking. How strange it was for so many Rifts to form and plague our lands. How peaceful it had become now…"

Loki and you exchanged glances, but kept quiet. The Prince kept his hands clasped behind his back, but you couldn't forget them drenched in blood.

During the silence after the Prince's words, Peter came back from whatever he had occupied himself with and likely annoyed whatever creature he managed to find. He took one look at the visitor and disappeared between the trees again. He was a smart boy, after all.

"We are glad this issue is resolved at last," Loki said carefully.

"So am I."

The Prince nodded to himself. His eyes were cold and distant. You wondered how long one had to live to forget their own past.

And how long it'd take the Prince to vanish, now that the weight of fading had fallen to him.

"The body of your ambassador is being prepared for the transport," he said at last before leaving the clearing. He did not take the path towards the palace, though. Loki and you watched him disappear between the trees, walking slowly among the flowers in full bloom. You couldn't help but wonder if he was reminiscing, or creating fresh memories.

The air tasted like ash in your mouth.

"I think I prefer spiders."

Loki shushed you. "Don't bring bad luck. I want to leave this place in one piece."

"Oh? And where would you rather be?" you asked as you laid back down on the soft grass.

"Somewhere nice and quiet, but I'm open to suggestions," Loki purred into your ear, bringing you close to his chest.

"Then I'm sure my little surprise will be to your liking."

Loki stilled. "A what?"

"You'll have to be patient. We're here, so I'm not sure what's going on on Earth, but I think it should be ready when we're back."

Loki's mind was overflowing with all the possibilities and ideas. He went over your past conversations, trying to piece together whatever hints you might have given him. "Should I guess?"

"I'm not telling you anything. You have to wait."

Loki did not want to wait, but his options were limited.

By the time you were to leave the Edge, he was no closer to finding out what you had planned. The three of you waited patiently on the same balcony you had arrived on all those weeks ago. It hadn't felt that long, probably because of how much had happened since then.

Roses climbed high over the stone walls of the palace, their flowers heavy and blooming. Petals rained down, picked off by the wind and taken away.

The ambassador's body was wrapped in silk and bound tight, ready to be taken to his birthplace at last.

"Do you think he found out what the Queen had been doing?" you asked quietly.

"He might've been suspicious enough to look for all those ancient scrolls in the library and pieced together the facts," Loki said.

"And the Queen didn't let him spill her secret."

Peter frowned. "So… she was the bad guy, right?"

If only things were so easy.

"Often, there's no good or bad," Loki said, looking at the roses. "There are just things that'll hurt you more than the others, and the things that'll hurt others but save you the pain. Everything is a matter of choice. And values."

The three of you watched the Bifrost open and swallow the remains of the ambassador. Only he would be allowed on the grounds of Asgard that day, at least officially. No hint of emotion could be noticed on Loki's face as he watched the flash of light disappear. You took his hand.

Out of the shadows of one of the towers came the Prince, entering the balcony from the side of the river, shimmering far below. He was alone, no guards following his steps. You wondered how many of them were left.

"Looks like this is farewell," he said in a deep voice.

"We are glad we could help," Loki lied smoothly.

There were no words left to exchange. It was clear that whatever would happen now to this place was way beyond either of your control.

No amount of evidence could ever make you trust the Prince, though.

The light surrounded you in a flash of colors, pulling on each and every fiber of your being. Loki tugged you into his side, Peter sticking himself to his other.

The feeling of being ripped to atoms and then roughly put back into shape half a galaxy away was almost familiar by now. Still, it was no more bearable than the previous times and left you with a mild dizziness once your form materialized back on Earth.

You'd never laugh at people clapping after plane landings again.

The sudden change of the surroundings hit you with a cold blast of winter chill and sun, although its light was diluted through the clouds. It was strange not to see the galaxies in the reach of your hand.

What was even stranger was seeing Thor calmly standing at the top of the Stark Tower, where the three of you had been transported to.

"I think I prefer the bag," Peter mumbled, dangerously green on his face.

Thor approached you with a frown that, Loki knew, had never led to anything good. At least not for him. Brotherly love could be rough at times.

"So, you're back," he said, openly eyeing the kid. "How did it go? Are we at war?"

"We're all good, thanks for your concern," you cooed sweetly.

"The Edge was never more beautiful than when we left it," Loki smiled.

Thor took a steadying breath. "...is it in ruin?"

You thought back to the slightly devastated great hall of the palace. And the gardens still dealing with the aftermath of a spider infestation.

"I just told you it's not! Why do you always accuse me of lying, brother? I'm deeply hurt by your lack of trust."

"It's the safer option," Thor said. "As glad as I am to learn that the crisis is apparently solved, I dare ask what is the boy doing with you?"

Peter blanched.

Loki pushed him off the roof. "What boy?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw not-a-boy swinging off into the city as fast as his webs allowed him.

The second steadying breath helped Thor even less than the first one. There was a tiny little vein pulsing at his temple, threatening to burst along with his temper.

Loki patted Thor's arm on his way to the stairs. "Don't worry, brother. We took care of everything."

"That's precisely why I worry."

You sent him a kiss as you followed Loki. It didn't seem to be appreciated enough.

You couldn't believe you were back on Earth. The change that felt huge before, only grew with each step you took down the Tower's familiar corridors. The kitchens, the day rooms, training grounds - it all felt so strangely unreal after the weeks living among the shifting, feral magic of the Edge.

"It's good to be back," you said at precisely the moment Bruce Banner appeared on the other end of the corridor leading through the labs.

Bruce froze, his eyes growing wide. He, apparently, had a dramatically different opinion about your coming back.

He shifted nervously on his feet, but there was no escape. "So, uh… How did it go?"

Loki pretended to think. "Well, don't expect to see the real moon anytime soon."

The look on Bruce's face was worth a pic, but your phone had been left in your room before the mission.

"It really is good to be back," Loki repeated your earlier words sometime later, once the door to your room closed behind your back.

Not much seemed to have changed, which was strangely reassuring. Loki wasn't sure what his feelings were towards the small figurine of his unnerving similarity were, but even its sight was not unwelcome. It still stood on the narrow and slightly dusty windowsill, covered in the snow on the other side of glass.

But there was one thing out of order that immediately caught Loki's attention. As far as he was concerned, the neat stack of business cards on the bedside table was not there last time, as well as the not-so-neat single one, with hand painted spider and a set of what could be horns, if one squinted hard enough.

'thought it would be cool' said the little note scribbled with a gel pen.

"And what is that?" Loki asked, picking it up.

"Part of the surprise."

"'Professional mischief for an affordable price'," Loki read out loud. "Sounds like a catchphrase of some detective agency, like the ones from the shows you showed me."

Loki thought about what he just said. He looked at you with a frown.

"Only if you want it to," you shrugged with a little smile ghosting over your lips.

Loki blinked. "You're actually serious."

"I thought it would be nice if we had something of our own. You know, outside of this mess," you pointed towards the door, currently being banged with a fist from the other side. Two voices demanded to know 'everything about that damn moon'.

Loki looked back at the neat stack of cards. The thick paper was pleasant to the touch.

"You said it was only part of the surprise?"

"How glad I am you asked, love."

Loki watched you pick up your coat and gloves. You opened the large window to the left, letting the alarmingly chill air inside. "Shall we?"

One more voice joined the ones behind the door. Loki could not see into the future, but he had a feeling that door would be the most occupied place in the Tower soon.

"That's a lovely idea," he said and picked you up.

The burst of magic solidified under his feet as the two of you left the Tower and all the people looking for you.

The sun was slowly setting. It was not late, but as always during the winter time, day hours were sparse. You were high enough in the air for the pedestrians not to notice you, but even then, what would they do? Tony had been flying around in his suit on a daily basis, and wouldn't hear anyone having a problem with that.

The wind pushed rogue snowflakes into your faces. It felt refreshing to be back in the city you were so familiar with. Everything seemed new and wondrous, especially from such a perspective. Even plane flights couldn't do it justice, not when you couldn't feel the breeze in your face, and clouds passing by so closely you could almost reach out to them with a hand.

Loki changed course when you directed him to the older part of the city. It was still relatively close to the centre, but no skyscrapers, and certainly no towers could be found in the neighborhood of old brick apartments; only buildings a few floors high, and narrow lawns separating their fronts and the road, both currently covered in snow. No one bothered to take care of it, at least since it last fell.

Loki put you down in front of the one you pointed him to.

"I must admit I'm surprised," Loki said. "I'd never expect to come to a place like this, for whatever reason."

"You don't even know why we're here yet." You led him up the ice-covered stairs to the scarcely lit interior stairwell.

You ignored the apartments on the lowest floor, and instead took him upstairs. With a set of keys you fished out of your jacket, and which Loki dimly remembered you grabbing before leaving the Tower, you opened the door with a number 13 on it.

"You're not superstitious, right?" you laughed quietly.

Feeling you observe him carefully, Loki stepped inside. The short hall led to a room that once upon a time could've been someone's office. But that was a long time and a few crises ago, when the furniture was free of the scratches, and the walls didn't shed old paint every time seasons changed. Still, it had its charm, Loki had to admit as he stepped further in. If cleaned, the large window could allow a lot of light onto the heavy desk in front of it, and to the sitting area with two couches and a coffee table. To the right, Loki noticed another set of stairs, leading upwards.

"The upper part is connected. The previous owner used it as an apartment, with this here being his working area," you explained.

Loki nodded.

"What do you think?" you elbowed him in the side, too nervous to wait patiently.

Loki sat on one of the couches. Oh, he could definitely feel the atmosphere of this place, so similar to the crime shows you had made him binge (and he didn't even whine about too much). He had never thought of himself as a detective, not like the ones on TV, but on the other hand - who on Earth could be better at solving any and all supernatural secrets this planet might still have? There certainly didn't seem to be a lot of competition in that area.

He was still contemplating his future and, of course, possible fame, when you slipped onto his lap and cupped his face.

"What. Do you. Think?," you asked clearly, looking him straight in the eye. "Don't make me wait, asshole."

A lazy, satisfied smile creeped on Loki's face - precisely the one he knew always drove you crazy.

"I'm still unsure, darling," he drawled, leaning further back onto the couch and reveling in the feeling of having you pressed against him. "For some very strange reason, I can't make up my mind just yet…"

The setting sun painted golden patterns on your face. Your hand wandered over Loki's chest, and stopped over his racing heart. However much he tried to stop it, his heart had always been the one to betray his every emotion.

"That's such a shame," you leaned into his neck, pushing his head to the side. "I would do anything to make it easier for you…"

Loki's hands slipped to your thighs, holding you steady against him. His fingers shook when he felt your lips follow the curve of his neck, right over his rapid pulse. He closed his eyes as you slowly worked on undoing his shirt.

"Anything you do will be enough," his words were breathy and quiet.

"Are you sure?"

"I can't think of a single thing I wouldn't let you do to me right now."

You certainly were enjoying yourself just as much, given the smile ghosting over Loki's collarbone, and the trail of kisses going slowly down. Loki's grip tightened over your legs, his breath becoming shorter the further you went. He felt the heat rising deep inside his chest, just as his thoughts turned murkier with each small movement of your hips, brushing unnervingly close to where he had wanted them to, but still not-

A strangled sound escaped his throat. Loki pushed the coat off your shoulders and threw it to the side, not caring where it landed. He had other things on his mind, and one of them included his hands diving under your shirt, and roaming over your back, so wonderfully warm.

Loki shivered when you brushed over his bulge, earning you a breathless moan as you worked on his belt.

"I think I'm starting to warm up to this place," he muttered into your lips. His fingers tugged on your trousers, as impatient as yours.

You drank in the sounds that came from him. You stroked his shaft gently, brushing your thumb over its underside. He shuddered in your grip, tense to the point of near pain. Loki's nails dug into the skin of your back as you rose and then sank onto him, taking him in an unnervingly slow pace.

His heart thundered in his chest as you rode him gently, the sight engraving itself into Loki's memories - those deepest, most secretive ones, which he often came back to to relive and thoroughly enjoy.

The couch kept creaking under the two of you, growing louder as your moves became sloppier and more desperate. Loki couldn't help his hips from grinding into yours every time you rose above him, chasing the pleasure and getting close to it. Loki's thrusts became erratic. His hands gripped your ass when you leaned closer, hitting just the right spot-

He came, shivering under your touch, waves of pleasure shooting through his body.

"Sorry," he muttered, his voice hoarse. He could already feel the redness blooming over his cheeks. He didn't think he'd be done so soon, hadn't planned it…

You shut him up with a kiss, brushing the hair plastered to his forehead to the side. Your hips rolled over his a few more times, riding him into the couch and melting his bones as you extended the feeling.

"It's okay," you said. "We have all the time in the world now."

Loki nodded, words failing him. He brought you closer to his chest, his arms closing around you in a tight embrace as he burrowed his face into the crook of your neck. For a few moments, the only thing he could think about was that home wasn't always a planet, or a building. Sometimes, on those few rare, and incredibly lucky occasions, it could be a person.

And it was more than enough.

"I love this place," Loki admitted quietly.

#please hate me #loki x reader #loki x you #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki #loki laufeyson #loki imagine #loki marvel #loki mcu #marvel #loki series #loki fanfiction #loki smut #I Love Loki

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beewolfwrites · 3 years

Text

And When I am Formulated, Sprawling on a Pin - Chapter Eighteen: Do Not Go Gentle

Hello again! Welcome to Chapter 18 of this Chishiya x OC/Reader fic. So many of you loved the ending of the last chapter, I hope you like this one too.

There are certainly some... revelations coming to light.

You can find the full fanfic and this chapter here on AO3 too. Enjoy <3

---------------------------------------------

The rooftop was usually quiet at this time, but not today. The ruckus below could be heard for miles, cheers and laughter stretching across Tokyo like sunlight. But even the sunlight left shadows in crevices and alleys.

Legs dangling off the roof, I watched on as Hatter, flanked by Aguni and several militants, got into a car. He waved and blew kisses at the swathes of Beach residents. It was one big show, nothing but superficiality as the Beach’s king headed off into battle. The sun bounced off his ring as he kissed a woman’s hand, the blinding light only serving to darken his sunglasses.

‘Not joining the party?’

I didn’t bother turning at the familiar voice. There was a rustle of fabric as he sat down beside me, leaving enough space between us that it wasn’t uncomfortable.

‘I’m not a party person.’

As the car pulled away from the hotel, my eyes drifted to Niragi who was standing by the hotel door. He looked visibly irritated, most likely because of the fire that had spontaneously started in his room the night before. Apparently, he’d gone on a rampage, throwing accusations and pinpointing certain names. In an attempt to calm him down, An had used her forensic background to sweep the room, only to find no fingerprints, hairs, or traces. Niragi had been seething ever since.

‘I’m guessing you heard about what happened,’ I tried to hide a smile. ‘Somebody tampered with the plugs of his bedside lamps while he was in the game last night. Whoever it was cut through both the earth wires and messed with the live wires.’

Like many of the other lamps in the hotel, they had metal casings. And because the bedside tables were made of wood, it didn’t take much for the metal to overheat.

Chishiya let out a content sigh. ‘There were no fingerprints. It could have been faulty wiring.’

‘That’s true,’ I said, thinking back to the box of disposable latex gloves in Chishiya’s room. ‘Though it’s one hell of a coincidence that it happened to both the bedside lamps.’

‘But not impossible.’

‘No,’ I said softly. ‘It’s not impossible.’

He reached into his pocket and held out the taser. ‘It wasn’t too bad. Just a case of rewiring it.’

Holding it in my lap, I felt instantly safer. ‘Thank you.’

We fell into companionable silence, me watching as Hatter drove off into the desolate Tokyo streets, and Chishiya mulling over whatever crazy calculations were running through his mind. Eventually, when the car disappeared into the dust, the Beach residents retreated back to the patio, continuing as usual as they waited for the return of their king.

‘Hatter’s going to die in this game, isn’t he?’

‘Of course,’ Chishiya said. ‘That’s why I’ve invited Arisu up here with us.’

‘You’re going to include them in the plan?’

A faint smile ghosted his features. ‘Did you think you were special because I included you?’

‘Of course not. That’s ridiculous.’ It was ridiculous, and yet something unpleasant twinged in my chest at the thought that it wasn’t just me, him and Kuina. It begged the question, if he wanted help from Arisu and Usagi, why did he bother with me? ‘Chishiya, I know I’ve asked you this before, but why did you bring me here?’

‘If you’ve asked me before then you’ll already know the answer.’

The answer was that I was useful to the Beach, but something told me it wasn’t the true answer. There was something I was missing here, if only I could figure out what it was.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Why did you really bring me here?’

He didn’t reply, but I could see him considering the question, thinking of all the different avenues he could take to answer it. Lucky for him, he never had to, as the rooftop door swung open and Kuina stepped out, followed by Arisu. He looked pained, as though he’d seen a ghost, but when he saw me, his expression filled with recognition.

‘I remember you from the Tag game,’ he said.

I gave him a smile. ‘も覚えています.’ I remember you too.

He relaxed slightly at seeing a familiar face, but when he turned back to Chishiya, there was still some mistrust there. ‘You and Kuina wanted me to come up here. What’s going on?’

Chishiya and I got to our feet, and I was reminded a little of the time when I had been invited up here too. Only now, my bruises had healed, and Chishiya and I were on good terms again.

‘I’d like to ask you one thing,’ Chishiya said, his tone calm and calculating as always. ‘How do you plan to live in a world that’s so full of despair?’

Arisu seemed visibly surprised by the question. But I wasn’t. I knew Chishiya enough to see that this was a test. What the answer was didn’t really matter. It was all just a way for him to gauge Arisu’s personality and analyse which parts of his nature could come in use. Seeing this test being used on someone else, I wondered how often Chishiya had deployed the same tactics on me.

‘I’ve come this far,’ Arisu said, ‘and I just want to know who’s behind all of this, who I should get revenge on. And if there’s only one person who can leave, I want to make sure it’s Usagi.’

Usagi must be the name of the climber girl.

Chishiya smiled. ‘It’s a good answer.’

‘でも、悪い溶液だ,’ I said. But it’s not a good solution.

Kuina strolled along the edge of the rooftop. ‘In order to leave, you and Usagi would have to win game after game and become number one. It’s impossible.’

Arisu’s face fell, although he must’ve known this deep down already. It was impossible to win every game, and despite how much we talked about surviving, Kuina, Chishiya and I would probably die before then. The odds were against us.

‘It has nothing to do with you guys anyway,’ Arisu said, defensively.

‘We think you have potential,’ Chishiya replied, looking out in the direction where Hatter’s car had disappeared. ‘That’s why we came to find you earlier.’

‘Potential….’ Arisu’s confusion was illustrated all over his face.

‘What if I said there’s a way to change the status quo all at once?’ Chishiya casually suggested, and Arisu’s eyes widened.

I drifted in and out of understanding as Chishiya explained how the tensions between the militant sect and the idealist sect were growing stronger, and that Hatter would probably not return home from his game today. Arisu’s nervous reaction was too open, too trusting.

He wears his heart on his sleeve. That’s why Chishiya picked him.

‘What are you planning?’ He glanced between the three of us.

Chishiya’s smile was terrifying. ‘I plan to steal all the playing cards,’ he said. ‘We’re leaving the Beach.’

And just like that, Arisu was hooked. Trapped in the net of manipulation so carefully laid out for him.

Chishiya was a trickster. Now that I could his tricks laid bare in the sunlight, it was more obvious than ever before. In my head, I ran through all the conversations I’d had with him, but there was nothing that stood out as obvious lies or half-truths.

And he’s always helped me. He screwed with Niragi’s lamps and started that fire. He didn’t have to do that… it can’t have been for nothing.

As if sensing the conflict within me, Chishiya’s eyes locked onto mine from across the roof. They were guarded and distant, with just a hint of something warmer, and a little voice in my head told me it wasn’t real, it couldn’t have been real. Yet it didn’t stop my heart from shuddering, or my face from glowing under the sunlight.

And all at once, I realised I was just as stuck as Arisu.

---------------------------------------------------

Later that day, Hatter failed to return from his game.

It was information kept within the executives out of fear that the Beach’s residents would panic. Naturally, Chishiya had told Kuina, Arisu, Usagi and I, not that it was a surprise to any of us. Apparently, gunshots had been heard in the area, but the only witnesses around were militants, and each and every one of them swore that Hatter died in his game.

There was no time to waste, and the situation had formed a perfect opportunity. Chishiya had invited us to his room to go over the the plan, but now that it was actually happening, it felt a lot more nerve-wracking.

Arisu and Usagi were sitting in their chairs, sharing uneasy glances as they wondered whether to go ahead with this. From my seat on the couch, I listened carefully while Chishiya brushed through the details in Japanese. He was speaking slower than usual, probably so I could understand as much as possible, but there were still some things I would have to ask about later.

He began passing around walkie-talkies, sliding them across the coffee table towards Arisu and Usagi. As he placed the device in my palm, his fingers brushed mine.

‘The playing cards,’ he said. ‘they’re kept in a safe hidden somewhere in the royal suite. Nobody knows the passcode except the current number-one. But because there’s always chance that the number-one could die in a game, the code is also kept in a black envelope. The black envelope is only opened when there’s a new number-one.’ He sighed. ‘There’ll be a meeting tomorrow, and Aguni will open it in front of all the executives.’

The system itself made sense, but how could Chishiya find out the passcode without being able to see inside an opaque black envelope?

He’s cunning, but cunning doesn’t give you x-ray vision.

‘It’s only read by number-one, right?’ I asked, wondering if I’d missed something along the way in my attempt at translating.

‘That’s right. But as for the safe itself, Arisu will be the one to infiltrate the royal suite.’

Arisu frowned. ‘But what about the passcode?’

‘I already have an idea about that,’ Chishiya said dismissively. ‘I’ll tell you when you’re in front of the safe.’

‘You really are cautious,’ Arisu replied with a grin. He nodded. ‘Got it!’

Chishiya looked at Kuina and Usagi. When he turned to me, I dropped my eyes to the coffee table, feeling embarrassed at how I was acting. It was as if I were a schoolgirl again. ‘You three will be on the lookout,’ he said.

Usagi flinched, eyeing the walkie talkie in her palm. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ she whispered. ‘If we’re found out, we’ll be killed.’

Her eyes were hazy with worry, and it was obvious she cared deeply about Arisu. They must’ve stuck together after the Tag game, becoming not just allies, but something more. It was clear as day from the way they looked at each other.

‘It’s fine, Usagi,’ Arisu tried to console her. ‘With Hatter dead, there’s no unity at the Beach. This is the only way.’

I wanted to believe him, I truly did. But as I bore witness to Chishiya’s growing influence on Arisu, the more doubts I had. Looking at him now, beyond his calm surface, there was something calculating there. An empty darkness. And I was right in the middle of it.

Just what are you really planning?

---------------------------------------------

The next day, Chishiya disappeared to attend the opening of the black envelope. It meant the rest of us had a few hours to kill before the executives and militants would hold a speech in the lobby to declare Aguni as the Beach’s new king.

I was sitting alone in my room, the walkie talkie on the desk beside me as I ran through the plan over and over. There was so much that could go wrong.

So far, I had intentionally stayed hidden. With Hatter had gone, there was nothing stopping Niragi from killing me and having done with it, and if I wanted to make it out of this place, it was best to keep my head down and remain out of sight. Luckily, my visa still had four days left, so I didn’t have to worry about running into Niragi at a game or in the lobby again.

If everything goes well, I’ll be seeing the last of him.

There was a knock at the door and Kuina called out from the other side.

‘Door’s open!’

Kuina entered, looking cheery and troubled all at once. ‘When is it not?’ she said, taking a seat on my bed as she played with her hair.

I folded my arms against the back of the chair as I took in her dismal energy. ‘You look drained. Something happen?’

She stared at the carpet. ‘Nope, but something will. I can sense it.’

She must be feeling it too.

‘Do you think the plan’s going to fail?’ I asked.

She laughed at first, then frowned. ‘I don’t know. It might, it might not. I just hate waiting like this. It feels a bit like waiting to die.’

The sun was beginning to set, and our time at the Beach was drawing to a close. Either we’d make it out and escape tonight, or we’d be deemed traitors and made an example of. It all depended on whether Chishiya could figure out the passcode, and whether Arisu could locate the safe in the first place. I bit my lip at the thought, tasting metal on my tongue.

I hate putting my life in someone else’s hands.

‘Kuina,’ I said, feeling a little awkward. ‘Do you trust Chishiya?’

She seemed to struggle with the question as she took her time to answer. ‘Not exactly. I trust him to a degree, and we’ve kind of become friends, you know. But if it really came down to it, he would put himself over me, if it means he’s able to survive. He might feel bad about it afterwards – or not, who knows? But that’s what he’d do.’ She looked at me, perplexed. ‘Why?’

My mind skipped through every time I had caught myself caring about him… the comfort I felt around him during the Hunting Season game… the fear of seeing him injured and the guilt of knowing he was in pain… the hurt every time he upset me… and the warmth of safety, knowing he was looking out for me in his own way. Even if he was downright cruel, he always gave me a reason to keep going.

‘I don’t either.’ I swallowed, trying to force myself to admit the truth. ‘But at the same time, I think I feel something… for him, I mean.’

Kuina took the quit-smoking aide out of her mouth. ‘I know.’

My head shot up.

What?

‘You know?’ I asked, surprised, confused and overwhelmed all at once. ‘How did you know before I did?’

She shrugged. ‘Because any idiot could see it, even Niragi. You’ve got some serious chemistry going on there.’ With a shake of her head, she said. ‘It’s a shame he’s such an asshole.’

I pushed my head in my hands, but it wasn’t enough to hide my embarrassment. I felt so exposed, like my mind and heart were put on display. If it was that obvious, it meant everyone would have been able to see it. Everyone.

‘Chishiya already knows, doesn’t he?’ It wasn’t even a question at this point.

She tilted her head from side to side, trying to make me feel better by pretending there might have been some room for error. ‘He probably does.’

‘There’s no ‘probably’,’ I groaned. ‘He definitely knows. Nothing gets past him.’

‘Can’t say I agree with your taste in men,’ she said, quietly, ‘but I guess it’s too late to interfere.’ Even though her tone was lighthearted, there was an edge there. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

How do I even begin to answer that question?

I slumped down onto the back of the chair, tired and exasperated with the whole thing. It had always been my dream up until now, to fall in love, live freely and keep looking to the future. But not like this. It was the wrong place, the wrong time, and as much as I hated to admit it, the wrong kind of person.

‘Who knows?’ I groaned. ‘This isn’t exactly the best place to fall in love with someone. This was what I always wanted, but now that it’s happening, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.’

I looked to Kuina for advice, hoping she’d anchor me down and tell me it was going to be fine. Instead, she was at a loss, unsure of what to suggest.

But then the walkie talkie on the desk hummed to life, and it no longer mattered.

‘They’re about to make the speech.’ Chishiya’s static voice buzzed through. ‘It’s time.’

#alice in borderland #aib #imawa no kuni no arisu #chishiya #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x oc #chishiya x reader #chishiya alice in borderland

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wwilloww · 4 years

Text

cliff diving pt. 2 | kth

CLIFF DIVING (m) | KTH 2 OF 3

genre: fluff. smut. nonidol!au. camping!au.

pairings: Taehyung | Reader

rating: 18+. NSFW. Explicit.

word count: 5.8k

warnings: cursing. talk of sex. skinny dipping. spooning. grinding. dirty talk.

summary: Every year as soon as the weather warms up, your friends haul ass out of the city to the mountains where you camp and hike in the shadow of giant rocks and ancient evergreens—and now apparently jump off of cliffs for fun. This time, an innocent round of truth or dare inspires you and Tae to play a mischievous game without getting caught by your friends.

a/n: ahh I had so much fun writing this chapter. If you liked it, please let me know! And if you want to be added to the tag list, leave a comment and you’ll be notified as soon as the finale is published!

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WWILLOWW©️ DO NOT TRANSLATE, REPOST, OR COPY MY WORK

“Ah, shit,” Jimin curses, wiping his brow and stepping back to examine his hard work. “I think I grabbed the wrong tent on my way out. It seems too small.”

Jungkook is holding the tent bag. “It says it’s a five-person. But we know that’s never quite enough to fit daddy long legs over here.” Jungkook nods at Tae.

“We’ll squeeze,” Jin adds, unaffected, already unloading the sleeping bags from the car.

And you do. With your bellies full of s’mores and limbs tired from a long day in the sun, you’re all ready to crash. Tae and Jin each take an edge. Within ten minutes of climbing into the warm shelter, Jungkook is passed out on his back and sprawled half-in, half-out of his sleeping bag in a fashion that leaves the rest of you to sleep on your sides, squeezed like sardines. Jimin slides easily into the small space between Jungkook and Jin, throwing an arm languidly over Jungkook's snoring form.

You’re the last one to enter the tent. Taehyung smiles sleepily at you, patting the remaining spot between him and Jungkook. You smile shyly back at him, before turning away from the boys to slip out of your shirt and into an extra-large sleep shirt and shorts. You’ve done this a million times before: changing in front of them before a night out or when one of them decides to crash at your place. And yet, you find yourself covering your chest in a poor exercise of modesty and ducking your head as you crawl onto the sleeping mat in between Taehyung and Jungkook.

After the events of the day and this strange burning feeling you get every time you’re around Taehyung, you feel an uncomfortable mix of tension and excitement. You curl up into the smallest space that you can, facing away from Tae.

It seems like forever. The night drags on and snores rise up from your friends. But all you can think of is the small space of air between you and the long-limbed man behind you. There’s an unnamable energy that flows within the empty space, sending tingles down your spine.

It’s a while before you fall asleep, but as do, you can almost imagine rough fingerpads ghosting against your skin.

When you wake, there’s a crick in your neck, half of Jungkook’s body thrown over your leg, and one of Taehyung’s arms sprawled across your chest. When you try to untangle yourself from your friends, there’s a sharp pain in your scalp and you look down to find Taehyung’s fingers twisted into your hair.

“Ow.” You throw your head back on your makeshift pillow, attempting to push the two men off you. You manage to tip Jungkook off of you and he grunts, rolls over to his side, and quickly falls back asleep. Taehyung, on the other hand, is a notoriously heavy sleeper.

“Tae,” you groan, shoving your palm into his face. He groans and smacks his lips together, but doesn’t move any more than that. “Tae,” you hiss, shoving him again.

His eyes pop open and he turns to look at you. As he takes in your flustered look and his hand tangled in your hair his eyes widen.

“Oh-oh shit.” He does his best to release your hair from his grasp, in the meantime snagging several hairs. You wince. Once he’s freed, he brings the other hand up to smooth over your head. “Sorry,” he murmurs, patting your head.

“‘S okay.” You smile gently up at him.

His gaze traces your features, a little sleep-puffed, but still beautiful. Your eyelashes flutter sleepily and your cheeks and nose are reddened from the cold--and your hair, tangled, and spread out across your pillow, and perfect. He finds a smile creeping across his face.

“What are you looking at?”

“You,” he answers honestly. Your lips twitch in amusement.

“Okay.” You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as the word slips out.

Taehyung doesn’t touch you. Not all morning.

His gaze continues to flicker over to you as you hike. He helps you haul equipment in the morning and is your shadow as you prepare lunch. He doesn’t touch you, at least, not until you ask him to help spread the sunscreen onto your shoulder blades and back. His fingers linger a moment too long as he slathers your back in just a little too much of the white paste, but then his touch is gone, snatched away as if he had remembered something.

After an adventure-filled morning and a late lunch, the others head out to scope out some new climbing spots, leaving you and Tae alone at the campsite.

“There’s only one left!” you call over your shoulder. You are bent over the cooler, the ice quickly melting underneath the summer sun. “And we better eat it soon before it melts!”

Taehyung waves. “Eh, you have it. I’m still full from lunch.”

You beam at him and grab the popsicle out of the cooler, unpeeling it and carefully climbing up the boulder to where Tae is sprawled on his back, overlooking the small lake where your friends have set up camp for the week. He makes room for you as you reach the top, patting the spot beside him.

“You sure you don’t want it?” you tease, waving it under his nose. You slide a little closer to him, and he pulls away slightly, leaving a friendly distance between you two.

“I’m sure.”

“Alrighty! More for me!”

He watches you bite down on the popsicle, your lips rounding perfectly around the tip of the dessert. What would it be like if those pink, plump lips were wrapped around his—What the hell is wrong with me? He shakes his head, as if by doing so he can physically dispel the obscene images swilling through his mind. He doesn’t want to think about these kinds of things. He doesn’t want to tread over that invisible barrier between friendship and… whatever lays on the other side of that, not when he’s entirely unsure of where you stand.

Still, he can behave.

He brings himself back to you, back to your words and the way you beam and glow underneath the summer sun. He loves the way you talk when you’re excited. When you detail your most recent passion, your eyes always seem to drift somewhere far away and your hands fly around animatedly. It’s contagious. As much as he’s falling into the world you describe to him, still, god, still, his eyes are drawn to your lips where a drop of melted popsicle has collected.

“You—you have—,”

He reaches out to wipe the pink juice from your lips and before he knows it, his thumb is pressed deliciously to the corner of your lips. You stop in the middle of your sentence, eyes widening up at him.

He glides his hand away from your slack mouth and before he can consider the consequences of his actions, pops the edge of his thumb into his own mouth, sucking off the drop of sweet juice. A red flush starts to creep up your cheeks.

“God, sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair, unable to look at you. “That was weird.”

Your next inhale seems oddly loud, and the two of you are both aware that you’re both holding your breath.

“Ah,” you finally giggle, breaking out of your shock. The blush still hangs heavy on your round cheeks. “No, it’s kind of sweet.”

He sends a tight smile your way but still won’t meet your eyes.

You desperately search for anything to say to him, to break the horrible silence hanging between the two of you.

“Haveyouever beenina friends with benefits relationship?” you spurt.

Oh no, you think. Not the right question. Nope. Not after all that.

The blush on your cheeks lights anew.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I have,” he responds slowly, looking over to your shocked state. He gives you a light shove, hoping you chill out. “Didn’t last long though.”

“Why not?”

Stop. Stop asking these questions.

Despite the anxiety that rises in you, he answers your question without hesitation.

“Ah, she couldn’t withstand my ethereal beauty and got attached,” he says dramatically before laughing light-heartedly. “Nah, actually it was more than that. We were young. Things got messy, fast.” He shrugs.

You nod sagely, as if you understand—despite never having stood in his shoes.

“What about you?” Taehyung's deep voice breaks through your thoughts.

“Hm?”

“Have you ever been in a friends with benefits relationship?”

“Ah—uh, no, not really.”

“Why’s that?”

“Never really came about.” You fiddle with the popsicle stick in your hands, using it to trace random patterns on your legs.

Taehyung follows the swirls you trace, entranced by the small white trail that follows the pressure of the wood before disappearing into the soft flesh of your thigh. Is this the way your skin reacted last night, under his fingers? He gulps and pulls his gaze back to yours.

“What?” you ask.

Let me trace those patterns for you, let me press those pretty lips to my own, let me see you wrap them around my—

You search the incomprehensible look in his eyes, as he’s still not answering you. He’s just… he’s just staring at you, mouth hanging slightly open and still, fucking gorgeous.

That night in the tent, sleep teases you. It hovers at the edge of your consciousness, pushed back by the swirling thoughts of the day.

You reach up to graze over the corner of your lips where Taehyung’s thumb rested not so long ago. When you close your eyes, you can almost feel that slight pressure and the distant heat of his touch.

You nuzzle into your pillow, attempting to focus on anything but that. Anything but him. Anything but the thought of him slipping his thumb into your mouth, hooking against your lips, his face nearing and lips slightly pouted—stop.

You are split in half between the fire burning in your abdomen—the one that tells you there’s something there, there’s something to explore between the two of you—and the coldness of the knowledge that you couldn’t handle his rejection. He’s too dear, he’s too precious—the thought of losing him, of messing things up, is greater than the thrill of having him.

“Are you awake?” a low whisper brushes against the nape of your neck. You start at the sensation.

“Mhmm.”

“Are you… okay? You seem tense.”

“‘M fine,” you mumble back.

Taehyung has always been able to read you though, his sharp eyes tracking your every movement and expression. Even with your back turned to him, he knows exactly the face you’re making with your shoulders pushed all the way up to your ears.

You’re hiding from something.

“Come ‘ere.”

His arm snakes around your waist and pulls you flush against his body. The smallest of gasps brushes past your lips.

“Just relax,” he murmurs into your ear, his voice now dangerously low because of the proximity. “Is this about yesterday?”

You say nothing.

“Did I disappoint you?”

“What?”

“I know it isn’t ideal to be put in a position to pick between your friends, especially for something so… intimate… and I know I’m not your ideal choice, but—”

“That’s not it,” you flatline. “Not it at all.”

The two of you are quiet.

“I don’t think you could ever disappoint me,” you say softly.

Oh, Taehyung thinks. OH.

“So you’re saying… you would like to—” Taehung grins against your neck.

“Never said that.”

“But you also didn’t, not say it either.”

When you don’t reply, he brings his hand up to trace along the thin line of skin between your raggedy t-shirt and shorts, chuckling as you jump at the touch.

“Shut up,” you hiss, more in response to what you know he’s thinking than what he’s just said.

Gotcha, he smirks. Just this little touch has raised goosebumps on your skin, despite the warmth of the tent. It all makes sense. Your tenseness, your silence, your wide gaze wasn’t that of confusion or discomfort—it was one of want. But why are you holding back from me?

“You know, when I said that it could be worse, I wasn’t lying. I could do a lot worse than you.”

“Go to sleep, Tae,” you say, but he can see the blush creeping up the side of your face.

“Are you sure you want me to?” His hand sneaks under the edge of your t-shirt, palm flattening against your side. You would be lying if you said that you didn’t enjoy this: Tae pressed so tightly against you, his hands wandering your body as if they belong there.

Your usual response is to pull away from this kind of pleasure. And you should. Especially from Taehyung: your friend, the cold voice in your head reprimands you.

But there’s a new voice alongside that one, the same one that whispers jump.

Something snaps in you.

You want this. There’s no denying that. You want his hands all over you, underneath your shirt, dipping underneath the band of your shorts. Wherever they go, you’ll follow.

You take a deep breath and release it, slowly. Closing your eyes, you slide your hand up your thigh until it rests atop his wrist. Without fully interlacing your fingers, you allow your fingers to slip between his, guiding his hand even further up.

He freezes.

“Tell me to stop,” you breathe, twisting your head back. It’s an invitation, an out—not an order.

He extracts his hand from yours to better trace intricate patterns against your flushing skin, knowing your face is flushing with the delicate attention. He draws his name on your skin.

With a sudden burst of confidence, you push your back against him. A small gasp slips out as you understand what’s resting against you: his hard cock.

You can feel his bulge press against your ass and when he moves to nudge away from you, you push your hips back, slowly trying to feel him against you again.

“Fuck,” he hisses when you roll your hips as if you’re readjusting. “Are you trying to kill me, woman?”

You feign innocence.

“What? What did I do?” you breathe, adding a beautifully executed note of concern to your voice. The thrill that rushes up your spine when his grip tightens around your arm makes it all worth it. “I’m just trying to get comfortable.”

You wouldn’t necessarily consider this comfortable, your ass pressed against his quickly hardening cock. The warmth and comforting presence of his body wrapped around yours, yes, you would consider that comfortable. But the growing ache in the valley of your belly—there is nothing comfortable about that.

“You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”

“Hmm,” you hum.

He nudges your hair away from your neck and breathes your name against your skin. “Before, I—,”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing but go the fuck to sleep,” Jin hisses from the other side of the tent.

You clasp your hand over your mouth, holding back your gasp of embarrassment. You can feel Tae shaking against your back, holding back laughter.

“Okay,” Tae whispers back to Jin.

His grip tightens around you and in the warmth of his arms, it’s not long before both of you are drifting off into sleep.

When you wake the sun has just started to peek above the horizon, casting a pink glow over the mountains. That crisp predawn chill still threads through the air, cutting through the thin lining of the tent and reddening your nose. But you’re surprisingly warm.

Tae is wrapped around you, but you don’t want to move. His warmth pulls you somewhere safe and secure. The feeling of his arms wrapped around you paints you in a glow that you can’t quite put a finger on. It’s effortless as you allow yourself to slip into it.

As your eyes grow heavy again, you reach down and wrap your hand around his wrist, tugging weakly.

“Tae, we should move,” you whisper. “The others…”

But he just tightens his grip and nuzzles your neck and soon your eyes are fluttering shut again, drawing you back to that easy, sweet place as you try—and fail—to write a mental note that quickly dissolves into sleep.

The next thing you know, your eyes are blinking open again, foggy with sleep. When they finally focus, you find dark, deep bunny eyes staring unwaveringly at you.

Jungkook. He’s got his head propped up on his elbow and he’s grinning at you.

“Shit,” you gasp, remembering where you. Who you are. You immediately try to untangle yourself from Tae. Since you were last awake, he’s nestled his nose into your neck and has somehow wrapped both of his arms around your torso, pulling you tightly against him. As you disentangle yourself from him, he groans and tries to pull you closer.

“Tae,” you hiss. “Let me go.”

Tae’s eyes finally pop open to find Jungkook staring at the pair with a frown on his face.

“y/n is such a cuddle whore.” He pouts. “Next time, come cuddle with me. I’m not a bony noodle-like Tae is. I do it better.” He winks.

“Fuck off,” Tae groans, flopping away from you and onto his back.

Today the group splits up.

Tae and Jungkook head off to hike while you, Jimin, and Jin split off from the rest to tackle some of the bouldering routes they scouted the day before.

This height feels different to you than that of the cliff. There’s a thrill in the ache of the challenge. You love the way you are entirely in your body as you scale the rock. In a way, it quiets the ricocheting thoughts of Tae, the spiraling sensation of his body wrapped around yours all night. You’re the last to pull yourself to the top and you quickly plop yourself in the center of the boys as they cheer you on.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Jin says, passing you a bottle of water as you sit atop the rock, looking down on a slope of evergreens. “What’s going on in that big, sexy brain of yours?”

You giggle at his phrasing. “Nothing much. Just stuck in my head a little.”

Jimin watches your expression carefully.

“Someone stuck in your head?” he asks slowly.

“No?” Jimin and Jin exchange glances, but say nothing. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” you smile sheepishly.

For the rest of the day, you push yourself hard, scaling the routes faster than ever, faster than either Jin or Jimin.

By the time you all return to the campsite from your separate adventures, laughing, a little sunburnt, and covered in dirt, you’re ready for a distraction. It’s getting dark and your muscles ache from pushing just a little too hard. You’re tired. Tired of the stirring in your chest. Tired of trying to unravel Taehyung’s indecipherable stares while your heart flutters endlessly. Excessively.

After you all head down to the shore to wash up after the long day, you help Jin with dinner. He’s always had a special touch in the kitchen, and even with the limitations of the great outdoors he manages to transform the campfire griddle into a Michelin star kitchen. Gratefully, you accept his instructions to stick to washing and chopping vegetables while he absent-mindedly flutters about the make-shift kitchen stirring and tasting and measuring. To him, this kind of magic is second nature.

Dinner is exquisite, as anticipated. You groan obscenely when the stew he's thrown together hits your tongue.

"Jin, you've done it again."

The chef blushes heartily from the praise, always a sucker for compliments.

You lean over to Jin, who’s sitting right beside you to pat him on the shoulder—but when you look over at Taehyung across the fire, his spoon is frozen halfway between his bowl and his mouth, jaw hanging open. As your eyes meet, he collects himself and throws a wink your way. You quickly look back down to your bowl, spooning more of the soupy goodness into your mouth.

You finish the meal in silence, a sign of a good, long day. Or sprouting, unreadable confusion.

Once the bowls are empty and the food is cleaned up and put away you return to the fire where you slump in your camp chair. The sound of the gentle lapping of lake waves and crickets stringing their song in the chilled air fills your head. Brings you some semblance of peace.

A peace which is very quickly broken by Jimin sprinting out of the tent wearing only his swim trunks.

"We're going swimming!" he commands, pulling you out of your chair and shoving you towards the tent to change. You laugh, never one to turn down a dip in the water. "Give the lady some privacy and then I expect every single one of you in your swimsuits and splashing in that divine lake.”

“But—it’s night time?” Jin says.

“All the better,” Jimin replies.

You laugh, hearing Jin's protests and Jungkook's excited chatter. Your heart swells with affection for your beautiful friends. Even with this new, uncanny twist of luck with the introduction of butterflies around Tae, you still feel a hard edge rise in your chest when you think about risking the friendships that have so unwaveringly supported you all these years. These people are your heart. They comprise the unending list of delights and joys that pepper your life.

It's silly, truly, to risk that all for the tension between your legs. Or the thing fluttering in your chest.

You quickly change into your bathing suit and rush out of the tent to meet Jimin in the water. He grabs your hand as you step tentatively into the cold water.

"Shit, that's freezing," you hiss.

"It's better once you're all the way in," Jimin reassures, tugging you deeper into the sun-warmed water.

He's right. Once you've gone in deep enough to duck your head under the water, it feels as if a switch is flicked.

The water surrounds you—soft, warm, reassuring.

You've always felt most comfortable in the water. There was something about the way it lifted the tension out of your bones and soothed your mind, as if when you submerged yourself within it you became connected to something larger. Larger than just you, your individuality, your problems.

Even the burning tension in your stomach that rises at the mere thought of Taehyung seems soothed by the darkness of the lake. You take a deep breath and flop belly up to float on the surface, fascinated by the split in sensation between the sharp, arid air and soft, cradling water.

The rest of the group joins you in the water, floating and splashing around. Jungkook is the last to join you, waddling to the edge of the water will a full donut inner tube and floaties.

It’s easy to fall into them. Into their crack-head humor and constant energy and endless affection. And if it weren’t for Taehyung’s lingering gaze, you could almost imagine all the events of the past twenty-four hours never happened. That you hadn’t backed yourself against the edge of some unknowable cliff in your friendship by calling out his name, by letting him wrap himself around you last night, by letting his gaze linger like this, letting it put a fiery brush to your cheeks.

How quickly you would come undone for him.

You snap out of your thoughts only to find that your gaze has been rooted on him the whole time. And his on you.

He sends you a wink and you almost scream in frustration. As much as you want to wink back this unrooted, ungrounded worry eats at you.

“Think I can make it all the way to the other bank?” you blurt out, suddenly feeling the need to shake out the feelings that are building up in your body.

“I hope you’re not expecting us to join you,” Jimin said as he floats languidly on his back.

“Nope, just need to move. See ya on the other side.” You blow an eyebrow-raised Jin a kiss and push off into the water. The water gets a little colder as you swim further out, and the chill starts to numb you, pushing out those burning, disastrous thoughts that—

“Hey! Hold up! I’m coming!” you hear an all too lovely voice call out from behind you.

So much for an escape. Well, if he’s going to be this way, you might as well push it.

“I’ll race you!” you yell over your shoulder. You kick off into the dark water. Taehyung grins and swims after your quickly disappearing figure.

The wind has died down from earlier and there’s little resistance as you glide forward, paddling sleekly through the water. With the darkness of the night, the water looks like the darkest of inks before you, a darkness only broken by threads of glossy silver moonlight on the ripples of the surface. You could be paddling through a painting for all you know.

Unfortunately for you, the splashing from behind you is getting louder—and closer.

You throw all of your energy into your stroke, the fire of exertion burning through you, cleansing you. Just as you’re finally nearing the opposite shore, something slimy slides up your leg and wraps around your thigh.

You scream bloody murder.

You shake your leg frantically, trying to get whatever the hell it is that is trying to eat you off of your fucking leg. You continue to splash and kick—until your foot hits something hard. There’s a loud splash immediately behind you and then a sharp, “Fuck!”

You whirl around to see Taehyung, clutching his face, one hand still holding onto a long green and slimy lake plant.

“Oh no, no, no,” you quickly swim over to him, trying to pry his hands away from his face. “Tae, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know!”

He peeks out between his hands, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

“Gotcha.”

He’s fine. Your jaw drops and your concern quickly morphs into anger as you beat against his bare chest with clenched fists.

“Kim Taehyung! How dare you scare me like that!”

“Ow, ow!” He groans as he tries to pull you to where the water is shallow enough to stand, wrestling you around in the process so that your back is pressed against his torso and he’s got his arms crossed over your chest, capturing your wrists in a makeshift straight jacket.

“You know I have an irrational fear of lake monsters and you fucking used it against me!”

“Chill! Hey… just chill.” Taehyung cackles despite trying to soothe you. “I’m sorry, but oh my god your scream! You would have thought someone was trying to murder you.”

“You, you were trying to murder me!” you snap, squirming against his hold.

He’s still laughing, his voice echoing loudly around the lake, his chest shaking against your back.

“Ah! Tae, let me go.” You try to wiggle out of his grasp by dropping your weight and swimming underneath his arms, but in the process untie the thin straps of your swim top.

You don’t even realize it until you’ve re-emerged from the water and the cold air hits your chest.

“Oh shit,” the two of you intone.

Taehyung stays cool but immediately averts his gaze and dives below the surface to retrieve your top. It seems like forever before he resurfaces, facing away from you, eyes squeezed shut for the sake of your privacy. He blindly holds out your swimsuit to you.

There’s a moment where you consider pulling his face towards you, asking him to open his eyes to you.

Instead, you mumble a hasty “Thanks,” and turn away to press the material to your chest and re-tie it. Your fingers fumble and you can’t quite keep the material from slipping down. “Ah, Tae?” you ask.

“Yes, darling?” The pet name glides so smoothly off his tongue.

“Can you help me tie this?” You hold the fabric to your chest as you look over your shoulder at him.

“‘Course.” He swims over to you and nimbly ties the strings around your neck and your back, pulling them just tight enough. His fingers linger just a second too long on that final knot. “There, all better,” he pats your shoulders and spins you back around so you’re facing him.

Once you’re facing him though, you both go quiet. He doesn’t take his hands from your waist.

Taehyung is struck by the way the moon seems to slip down your hair, glossy and heavy with lake water. Even your dripping features seem illuminated by the thin light, as if you had captured the night and held it somewhere deep inside you to radiate outwards.

Taehyung has always known you were beautiful. Always admired your strength and your passion and loved your slap-stick humor. But the way you were looking at him now, that same half-smile from earlier gracing your lip— this is a new kind of beauty. One that has nothing to do with the lighting or your features.

His gaze has been resting on your lips for a moment too long.

“Fuck it. Can I—”

You cut him off by pressing your lips to his.

For a moment you both melt into the sensation, allowing your bodies to relax against the other’s. And then his pillow-soft lips are moving against yours and everything seems to move into hyperdrive.

There is an unspoken urgency in your movements. You both press hard, desperate to release the building tension. But instead of allowing it to break and fall away from you, it seems that his lips against yours only adds to it.

He bites down on your lower lip, sucking it into his mouth.

It takes an impossible amount of strength, but you are finally able to move your lips to his cheeks to mumble, softly, “Should we stop?”

He pulls away, searching your face.

“Are you asking me to stop?”

“N-no, I’m not.”

“Good.”

You gasp as he moves his lips to your neck, biting and sucking in the most delightfully painful way.

“But the others—?”

“They can’t even imagine it,” he repeats Jungkook’s words, an edge in his voice. “They’ll be none the wiser.” He loves the thrill of a challenge, of destroying someone’s expectations. But he loves the thrill of holding you here, alone, just his, even more.

“I don’t want to mess anything up,” you say softly, even as your hands come to tangle in his hair.

He pulls back from your neck and tips your chin up so that you’re looking directly at him. “Does this feel like messing up to you?”

You chew on your lip as you think over his question.

“No. It doesn’t. It feels like something else.”

“I agree.” His eyes spark with joy as he leans down to capture your lips again. He wraps his hands around your ass, lifting you just enough so that your legs come to wrap naturally around his waist. You gasp softly as you feel his hardened bulge press against your core.

Gently, you roll your hips against his length and he grunts. Pleasure spikes as the tip of his cock slides against your clit, the thin fabric between you leaving little to the imagination. Slowly, you continue to grind up against you, egged on by the small moans slipping out from him. Hands wrapping even tighter around you,

As he continues kissing you, his hands slide down your spine, tracing each dip and bump, before pressing into the gentle valley of your lower back. Your back arches against the gentle touch. He smirks against your lips, tucking tracing into his back pocket for later.

“Does that feel good?”

“Mhmm,” you mumble, trying to chase his lips. But he pulls back, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You like my cock sliding up against you? Is this what you were thinking about last night—while you were grinding with our friends sleeping right next to you?” You gasp as his teeth nip at your earlobe. “Do you know how hard you left me, that gorgeous ass pressed up against me?”

“N-no,” you gasp as he thrusts against your folds again.

“I bet there’s a part of you that wanted them to wake up and see you like that, my cock between your ass cheeks.”

“No—not like that.”

“No?” he smirks as his hips circle against you, building that singing feeling in your cunt. “Would you have stopped me if I slid those shorts to the side and just--just slipped inside you?” When you don’t answer, he pulls back and waits. “Hm?”

“No, no, I wouldn’t have.” You pull his face back to yours, kissing him fervently as he continues to thrust against you. “I wanted—,”

From the shore, you can hear Jin calling your names and you freeze. His voice sounds so distant, even though he couldn’t be more than a couple hundred feet away. You ignore it and lean into the sensation of Tae’s chilled touch, twirling your fingers into the tangles of his dark hair and pulling him closer.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want—,” But then Jin’s voice is much closer. Too close. “Shit,” you whisper against Tae’s mouth, sighing.

You ignore the frown that spreads across his face and peel his hands from your body, pushing away from him. You’ve barely just broken apart when Jin comes into view. You paddle quickly towards Jin where he stands in the shallows, still dripping, with a towel and a flashlight. You wince when he shines it directly into your eyes.

“Thank Jesus!” Jin cries. “I thought you drowned! You can’t just scream and then disappear in the dark in the lake and expect me not to b—What the hell are you doing?” he asks, suspiciously eyeing your guilty faces.

“I, uh, we—,” you stumble over your words as you emerge from the water, wrapping your arms around your chilled torso.

“YN lost her top. I was just helping her find it,” Tae flatlined.

“Ah, how very gentlemanly of you,” Jin narrows his eyes at Tae. Jin had always been protective of you, but it felt strange to have his protectiveness directed at one of the members of your own friend group.

Nonetheless, Jin wraps the towel around you and carefully escorts you back to the camp, leaving Tae slack-jawed and covering an unfortunate boner in the shallows.

tag list: @dontaskshhhhh @myimaginationsrunningwild @taehyoungmoney @taffyteffy @london-dreamer71 @satoujk @spicykoreantatertots

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#ksmutclub #btsgoldnet #btswriterscollective #bts #tae smut #v smut #kth #kim taehyung #kth smut #taehyung fic #bts fic #fluff #v #tae fluff

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seizethecarpe · 3 years

Text

Know By Hart || Solo

Timing: Current Summary: No matter how practiced he was, Dave had never been good with grief. Triggers: Somehow… none. Contains grief. Author note: Before you read this, I want us all to remember that I’m completely innocent please file your complaints to the local mime ungulate

In 2004, José De Nueves had walked into Dave’s life. He’d had an easy smile and slightly glassy eyes. It had taken a rusalka, a Swedish fortune teller, and three drinks for José to hold up his hair and reveal in true depth the feathery scars that framed his face. He grinned with two teeth missing as he’d explained the tendril like creatures he’d hunted for one night. “Made me the perfect soldier,” He’d said with a laugh as he downed his whiskey glass. “I don’t give a fuck about anything.”

When Dave had followed his scent to a crypt a year later, he’d found a spawn chewing on José’s drained neck, a stark reminder of how the smallest mistakes could make even the routine hunt a death sentence. He’d wondered that night if José had even cared as they’d ripped his guts out in front of them, felt anything at all as they’d dragged it out of him until his intestines had torn all over the cemetery lawn. Or if he’d screamed and begged for his family anyway, right at the end, his soul returning to life only when it was too little, too late.

Unsure which fate was worse, Dave’d raised a glass in the man’s memory, and chose to forget.

——-

In ‘11, there had been Jasmine. Her honey warm skin highlighted the feathery scar that tucked under her jaw. Her bar, her spare room and her bed had all been Dave’s home for a little. But she’d always been clear that when push came to shove, he wasn’t her priority, he wasn’t human enough to risk her life for. All the same, they’d talked for hours under the thick cover of clouds as they waded up mountains to find the monstrous beast contaminating the local springs, they’d talked through her thick cigarette smoke, outside the fading wooden sign of her bar. They had talked more than Dave had spoken to anyone in years. She bared his soul, little by little, and in turn one day she told him about the nest nearby that she sent her friends too when they had lost one thing too many. Dave had listened intently, harder than he’d listened to anything, until the glass in his hand had shattered.

Not too long, she’d warned. You could lose too much of yourself too fast, and end up more ghost than man. The next day Dave had hiked five miles, peering into the edge of a dried out lake, and saw the silvery creatures there, languidly floating through the air with a dozen tentacles. Dave thought of José, all light gone from behind his eyes, and Jasmine whose grief sometimes sounded wrong, like an untrained actor on the stage. Dave turned and left, hungry tendrils chasing after him fir half a mile.

Two years later, Jasmine had insisted she was retired at forty two, but there hadn’t been another slayer for a hundred miles, so she had come when he’d called anyway. Some cruel unnatural winds had extinguished their fires, and when the aipaloovik wrapped its arms around her and pulled her underwater, Dave made just one attempt to get her free before he told himself there was nothing he could do.

The white polyps she’d told him about haunted his thoughts longer than she did. A quiet, gentle what if.

——-

Last year, Dave had met a boy wearing a grin like armour and who considered his enhanced healing another weapon in his arsenal. Dave had saved him from drowning, the kid had saved his life with the penance for the murder of Winn Woods. And then the saving had happened again, over and over, until it became as routine as the wise cracks and eye rolls.

He loved you. It rattled around in his head. When he’d seen the words on his phone in what had obviously been a final goodbye, Dave hadn’t let them ring any more true than the promise that they’d go fishing with beers. Now, the caster’s voice was stuck in his head, sneaking up on him when he was elbow deep in the bowels of his van’s engine, as he garroted a fish to eat in his human form, when he covered his body with slime to slide into his seal pelt. Sixty feet of ocean above him and he still wasn’t safe from Nell Vural’s voice. Thanks for that, Adam.

It was worst in the mundane moments, like folding laundry, because his mind churned while his hands were busy. See, Dave found it easiest to associate with hunters because he always knew they were destined to die. Everyone agreed there were things no one talked about because there was the deep undercurrent of knowing that Dave probably broke most of their codes, but as long as they didn’t know, it could go ignored. It was an emotional barrier that suited everyone just fine. Until now, apparently.

Dave smoothed his fingers over the edge of a shirt that had seen better days, folding it down as tight as he could before putting it away in a drawer that clipped into the wall of his van. His van was a mess, fishing gear scattered across the floor, seaweed drying on a bucket he hadn’t cleaned out, photos hanging skew on the wall. He wasn’t ever perfectly neat because how humans took care to keep their possessions perfectly in line was alien to him (the sea was never tidy), but he damn well knew he could do better than this.

Humans considered it a sign of intimacy to show someone their living spaces. Dave couldn’t remember the last time he’d let anyone in here that he wasn’t giving a ride elsewhere. Adam hadn’t known him, not really. Hadn’t seen the emptiness in Dave’s heart, that the fire that kept him going ran on fumes. Who the hell was he to speak of love, when Dave hadn’t let him deeper than his second skin? That there was so little left in Dave worth loving.

He looked down at the shirt he was folding, the collar pressed down skewed and the sides lined up at angles, and realised at some point he’d picked up the wonkyphoto from the wall, and the cracked, bloody compass Nell had given him that Dave had put on his bedside table and not looked at again. In the photo, three toothy sharp smiles were yellowed with age, teenage boys tussling in the sand. The photographer’s shadow stretched across the sand beside them, and even twenty five years later he could see the impatience behind the boys’ expressions at the doting woman behind the camera. The brass of the compass offered no such warmth, and filled the interior of the van with the scent of the last blood Adam had ever spilled. He flicked it open, and saw it pointing south west again. How could he forget, his home wasn’t a house but an underwater grave.

Fucking ironic, that each grief pointed so sharply to the other, blurring the lines of his most defining pain. Dave didn’t know how long he stared between one and the other before he returned to folding his shirts, and putting them away. He hung the photo back on the wall, and carefully put the compass away along with the rest of his fishing gear, tucked into fabric so that the scrapes it had taken in Adam’s final moments would be its last. When he was done with the laundry, Dave’s mind was set.

His grief had always been a call to action.

--------

In the hours of hiking since Dave had set out, White Crest becoming a distant blip on the horizon, Dave hadn’t changed his mind. More doubts should have crept in, but they hadn’t once, his mind clear of thought and feeling already. Just one step past the other, past the purple heather fields and overflooded lily pad ponds, under canopies drooping with pine needles and summer chirping birds.

White tiny flecks began floating past his face through the trees, which slowly grew as he walked deeper into the heather moors. White floating tendrils extended out, brushing against his clothes and hair. The deeper he walked into the cloud, the more the air felt like water, as if the trees had become kelp forests and he was swimming through clouds of chrinoids. The only thing that made the masses of them different than a mist was that Dave could not feel his way through it. They pulsed around him like Jellyfish, glowing under the setting sun.

In the densest part of the mist, he turned instead to an ethereal white creature at his side, as large as an old TV. Its mass of white tentacles fluttered against Dave’s skin curiously. Shame prickled in his veins, flinching away from those delicate touches. The sick, sinking feeling that this was wrong finally set in, worse than most vices that people leant on for their grief. If Adam could see him- but Adam couldn’t. He wasn’t a single damn person’s role model, and didn’t owe anyone his grief. Not even for a good man whose connection to him had been skin deep and yet reached him to his core. Dave swallowed, and turned back to the town for the first time since he’d made this choice, but all he saw was the clouds of white as he weighed the same thing as so many others had before him.

Grief had always been a call to action. He stepped a little closer, and didn’t flinch as the tendrils brushed against the side of his face, then latched on.

The tendrils were as gentle as a kiss. He’d expected it to be like the time he’d gotten tangled up in an octopus, suckers bruising his skins for days, but if he hadn’t felt the white static encroaching on his mind, this wouldn’t have been unpleasant at all. Tendrils which hadn’t attached traced over the planes of his face, lulling his eyes closed. Peace spread from those pinpricks deeper into his mind, and he could see the appeal of staying here for eternity. Let them clear him out, until there was nothing left except his mission.

Dave sighed quietly as he felt himself become lesser. He pulled away, and the tentacles let him, and Dave couldn’t even feel the absence of whatever they had taken. That was good, feeling the loss would have been too close to more grieving. The flickering tendrils of the hartvlinders trailed after him as he hurried away, through the clouds of gentle creatures until he burst out into the dying of the sunlight.

Dave tested a memory like he might tongue at a broken tooth. Deep in a swamp with the rotting corpse of a giant fish clogging up his nose. Dave gave a countdown before lowering Adam into the cleanest water they could find, working quickly to wash off the last of the acid gunk. Adam had been weak kneed and badly burned after his adventure in the monster’s stomach, but he had shut his eyes dutifully and held his breath as Dave washed the worst of the acid out of his hair with exceeding care. As soon as he was out of the water, he’d cracked a joke filled with post hunt exuberance, one after the other while they waited for their stamina to return, until holding back his grin made his cheeks hurt. They hurt again now, hot tear tracks prickling his face. Dave sagged against a tree, and then down onto his knees. Something was gone, he was sure, but not this. The hartvlinder hadn’t been so goddamn kind as to take away his newest, sharpest grief. Or even what he’d really wanted gone: the regret of words left unsaid, the guilt of outliving another kid, the shame of envying a good man for a life where he’d completed his mission and saved everyone.

Dave would have to learn to wear it until it became another ropey scar on his heart, another line on his death-weighted net.

#para #solo #wickedswriting #adam

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curiosity-killed · 3 years

Text

grey hours

word count: 1685 cw: mentions of suicide/suicidal ideation

“You can’t be serious,” Jisel said.

Callebero shrugged, passing the wine to Sirion at the third point of their little triangle.

“You can’t marry till you’re of age,” he said. “That’s two decades from your first nameday.”

Staring at him, Jisel squinted as if she could suss out a lie underneath. After a moment of futile searching, she turned to Sirion.

“He’s joking, right?” she demanded.

Caught in the middle of a sip, Sirion wrinkled his nose but still lifted his left hand to shake it once in the negative. Callebero leaned forward, a grin curving up his lips.

“Alas, were it not for the laws of this land, we really could have had a runaway romance as the rumors tell it,” he teased. “Here you could be imperial consort and—“

Wadding up the waxed fabric cover of the jar, Jisel threw it at his face. He caught it before it hit because he was a little shit, but he was laughing.

“And here all you’ve given me is my kingdom,” Jisel retorted, dry. “What a paltry betrothal gift.”

“Hie, I didn’t give you anything,” Callebero said, pointing at her with the hand clutching the pink fabric. “The whole scholarly court accorded you the title based on a thorough review of the histories.”

Rolling her eyes, Jisel leaned back on her palms, careful to keep to the fabric of the blanket she’d brought this time rather than the cold stone beyond it. Between them, Sirion wore a small smile, a little bemused as if he didn’t know quite how he’d wound up sitting with the two of them on the palace roof in the middle of the night. The bewilderment was fair, she supposed: it didn’t make sense for any of them to be sitting here under the sea-salt stars while Ancelm curled slumbering around them.

“Aeridians,” she griped. “Next you’re going to tell me that all the horses in the city have to be dubbed like knights.”

Callebero and Sirion shared a brief look, little more than a flicker of their gazes, before turning to her with solemn looks.

“No,” she said immediately. “No, absolutely not—“

Standing alone on the roof now, Jisel couldn’t remember what they’d told her—if they’d tried to spin together some nonsense tale or if they’d descended into laughter too quickly. She remembered the warmth of it, the easiness in their little knot tangled together under the bruised vault of night. Those nights dropped pearl-like into her memory, iridescent and gleaming against the stains of the changing years.

The sky hung heavy and low with grey clouds now, painfully bright and unmoving. Underneath their heavy blanket, the city seemed stilted, hushed. Even the grand bazaar was closed, its vibrant canopies folded up and tucked away under the punched-gut shock that threaded through the city. Jisel had come up here to escape that oppressive hush in the palace, but even here, the breeze was too limp and half-hearted to do more than brush against the ends of her scarf dangling down her back.

As a child, she’d read stories and heard people talk about grief. Enough young men had died during the last war with Alir that everyone knew someone who had died, from brothers and fathers to uncles and cousins. Every family had a missing son in those years. She’d heard them say that it didn’t feel real at first, that they kept expecting to look up and see their lost ones cross the threshold of their home, lit by the setting sun and safe in the warmth of home.

That was not why Jisel had come up here, to this flat roof paved with gentle memories. She’d prepared for this, over the last couple years, ever since Jimar, ever since Callebero came back cold and distant. Callebero possessed a remarkable force of will, and if he wanted to die, then no matter Jisel’s efforts, she would not sway him. So: Callebero was gone. She did not hunt his ghost in the crooks of these old stones.

But—Callebero had often been gone, these last years. Always running toward the sword and away from the sheltering wings of the castle. As much as she knew he was gone, it seemed unfathomable that he could never return. Was this what the Aeridians meant, she wondered, when they called for the spirits of their ancestors to walk in step with them? The hauntings she’d grown up on were curses and cruelty, malicious spirits dragging their victims down into an early grave out of envy and hatred. Yet every time she sorted through papers or read a line in the book by her bedside and thought ‘I’ll show Callebero this,’ her breath caught and she had to pause, fight to reorient herself to this living land.

The door creaked behind her.

Few people came up here at all, the point of her escape, and Jisel glanced over her shoulder expecting a servant or, perhaps, Fran. She stilled, gaze hardening.

For his part, Catterik seemed equally startled to see her. He stopped short with his hand still pressed flat against the door, halfway between the shadowed stairs and the dismal light outside. After a moment, he swallowed and stepped forward, letting the door swing shut behind him. Jisel watched coolly as he crossed the terrace to stop beside the diamond-carved railing.

“Alir liked heights, too,” he said after a long moment staring out at the grey city. Swallowed. “Used to run old Riker ragged trying to make sure the imperator princep didn’t die from falling out of a tree or slipping out of a tower window.”

Biting down hard, Jisel turned her own gaze out on Ancelm. From here, she could see all seven minarets spearing up toward the sky, the ring of eight completed by the palace’s own dome behind her. Soon, the evening horns would sound from the westernmost towers to call the city home to rest. Their sound had felt unnerving lately, as if they suddenly were too loud in the uneasy quiet.

Catterik spoke quietly, but his voice was still too much for this shroud-grey hush.

“I—” he scoffed out a laugh that almost sounds wet. “I couldn’t stand him when he was young. I was so wrapped up in Alir, and he took her from me, and—”

She was never his, Jisel didn’t say. From what she’d heard of the hallowed emperor, Alir been no one’s but her own—and perhaps, for a brief moment, a part of her had belonged to her son. The rest—war-forged, restless, hungry with her own toothed ambition—had been incapable of being owned or tied down. As much as the gentry all scrambled to compare Callebero to his mamán, they differed in this: Alir had refused to be anyone’s, and Callebero longed to belong to someone.

Folding her hands behind her back, Jisel considered a small figure walking alone down the main boulevard of the city. From this distance, she couldn’t make out the colors of their clothes beyond a green smudge and couldn’t guess at the features of their face. For all she knew, it could have been Callebero walking to the palace gates to interrupt his own funeral. It could have been herself, the first time she came to Ancelm with her wide eyes and unwritten future.

“Jisel.”

She looked to Catterik coolly, jaw tight. Swallowing, he pressed his lips together and inclined his head in a gesture that almost looked like concession. He held her gaze.

“Praesidion.”

Better.

“The funeral tomorrow,” he said, tone strangely urgent. “Don’t go.”

Liquid fire dripped down Jisel’s back, a molten rage. It steeled her spine, forged a rod of adamantine in place of bone as she turned to face him fully for the first time since he intruded on this place of memory.

“Warming Alir’s bed did not make you Callebero’s malán, Imperator Viachi,” she said. “If you cannot stand the sight of a Capallan at his funeral, stay home.”

His lips pulled back slightly, disgust or a snarl starting in the pinch of his brows. Fuck him, she thought. Fuck him and the gentry he came from, all their gilt and hollow claims. Turning on her heel, she swept past to the door and tugged it open. He didn’t call after her, but as she stepped over the threshold, a servant skittered back. Bowing quickly, they yelped a frantic excuse she didn’t bother listening to. One would expect the imperial spymaster’s welps to be better trained, she thought as she followed the curling stairs down to the heart of the palace.

At least they weren’t subtle enough for her to worry about them catching anything of importance. There was enough unease to balance without having to consider whether some determined spy could get into her chambers to steal anything of use.

Only when she closed the door of her office did she finally pause and exhale. Reaching up to slip the heavy circlet from her head, Jisel tipped her head back to hang against her neck. From across the room came a quiet whine, and she sighed, straightening to walk over to where Nox laid. Without Callebero or Sirion to pester, he’d clung to her heels like a stray following the first kind stranger to offer it food. She didn’t know what to do with him, really. Without his master or sister, he was still a warhound—trained for the chaos and slaughter of the battlefield more than the quiet schemes of the palace.

She knelt down beside him, scratching behind his ears briefly before her hand settled into long, soothing strokes down his back. With a little chuff, he flopped his head into her lap and blinked his wet brown eyes up at her before settling in fully.

“I know,” she murmured. “I know, little love. It’s unfair, isn’t it?”

He offered no reply except the steady weight of his head on her thigh and the silky blanket of his fur under her fingers. In her other hand, the crown’s cold edges bit into her palm.

#tcp is ANOTHER story where the main character (or one of them anyway) dies in the first chapter #but it's fine #he gets better #story: tcp #my writing #ch: jisel #ch: catterik #fun facts for this: the fabric is pink bc i rlly wanna try dyeing shit with beets #hm thought there were more fun facts but maybe not

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perlen-gold · 3 years

Text

Storm Night

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

Ordinarily it is not the rain that arouses Hawke. He was not awake to witness the birth of the storm, far away from the shallow piers of Kirkwall, across the heaving and hungry sea. After hours of silent hunting, dark and looming clouds have entrapped the aspiring stone buildings of men.

The rain gushes down in endless silvery streams, chasing any four-legged or upright stranglers mercilessly into desperate shelter. Violently, a myriad of furious drops besiege the quivering glass in the windows, its irate cadence ceaselessly drowning out the occasional crackling of the fireplace. For a brief moment the bed room is plunged in an uncanny flash of dazzling light. The columns of the four-poster bed flinch, ghosts briefly awaken upon the seashell white bed sheet. Above gloomy curtains shudder in trepidation as the searing white lightning strikes once, twice, thrice. The skies over Kirkwall are illuminated in wraithlike shadows full of clouded hunters and rumbling beasts, washed over by the piercing of light, and felled in forlorn battle by thunder and bolt.

In the blink of an eye, Hawke’s eye, amber-colored and wide awake, the short-tempered light disperses into the night.

The smell of fresh, hard rain mixed with the herb burn of the dance in the fireside that shelters the bedroom under-fire from the feud outside is nearly palpable. Once more the keen blade of light strikes and transforms the hunters into warriors and the warriors into tombs for the fallen and demised, cleaving through the stormy night.

That which usually rudely awakes Hawke from sleep is neither hunter nor tomb; a kick, unexpected and painful in the lulling reverie of slumber; a sudden stroke hitting some uncovered part of his body that leaves his knee, his thigh, his shoulder, his ribs a bruised mark as purple as ripe plums; an entangling wrench yanking imprisoning feather and fabric away; and sounds, sounds, sounds, muffled, leashed, involuntary, sounds seared in Hawke’s mind.

This night is different, though.

When he wakes up, thunder forces his eyelids fly open. He lies still and he knows something is wrong.

He looks around, searches. That which wakes him this night is the slashing of the relentless rain and the cold spot on the soft mattress beside Hawke.

After a short moment of blessed silence as the storm outside gathers its strength for the next oncoming assault, Hawke sits up and swings his feet to the dry carpeted floor. It is this bare patch on the bed beside him, bereft of any body’s warmth, that has imprinted itself upon his dormant consciousness.

On bare feet he walks out of the room, along the ghostly dark corridor. Beyond the stalwart stone walls of the Amell estate dark and light continue to lash out at each other as sundered lovers. Listening to the weeping skies Hawke remembers Carver’s wide-stricken eyes and how he swallowed his own boyhood tears for his brother’s and sister’s sake during a similar night. So big a house sunken in a darkness so impenetrable, it is impossible for Hawke to judge whether he has been roused in the middle of the night or at the cusp of dawn and day.

Wrapped in the clattering sound of the endless rain he passes the stairs, two closed doors, the kitchen till a flicker of faintly orange light piques his interest hidden amidst shelves of books.

In bad nights, Hawke will resolutely grip Fenris shoulders in order to shake him awake from his violent thrashing. In good nights, observing his twitching jaw muscles, Hawke wraps his arms around Fenris’waist, cradling him, bringing him close to his chest so he can breath softly into his ear, easing him out of his sleep just to the verge of awakening.

On those nights that are worst, Hawke will wake to a cold bed and find Fenris swigging down abundant-flavored wine from dark bottles. During these nights, Hawke joins him. They drink, they talk about other things while Hawke laughs and smiles and mounts guard over the distant look in Fenris’ wakeful eyes. Then, occasionally, out of the blue, Fenris might blurt out some mutinous memento, granted by his former life under the unyielding Tevinter sun, that leaves Hawke unsmiling and Fenris with bitterness or – worse still – with a callous shrug.

“And here I thought you hated reading.”

In this particular night Hawke finds Fenris hunched over a book in the lone flame of a single candle. He could illume the lamps and torches in the library without so much as a flicker of his fingers but he refrains from doing so. Instead, he pulls up a plain wooden chair and sits opposite Fenris, elbow on the abraded tabletop, one side of his scratchy face in his hand.

“Why?” Fenris retorts brusquely.

Hawke cannot help but smile in remembrance.

“Because last time I tried to teach you, you ended up flinging my poor book aside with the result that it was crouching in a corner quivering from spine to edge. I have not seen it since. It is probably in hiding by now.”

Fenris’ even brow patterns into struggling concentration.

“It is easy enough for you to taunt. I expected you were going to teach me reading but the sole thing you do is unnerve me with your constant correcting and scoffing.”

“And here I thought you liked my dallying.”

On other nights Fenris might look at him, his eyes alight with that dark spring green glare that there dwells perpetually, till a sudden smile flickers across his curling lips. Tonight, he does not give in to his bait, though. There is an edge in Fenris’ voice that is not often prevalent, not when they are quite alone like this. Hawke strains towards it without Fenris’ notice.

The drum of tempest-tossed rain falls upon their ears. Hawke feels his smile grow softer.

“Maybe you are just a dreadful student.”

“Maybe you are just a dreadful teacher, Hawke.”

A chuckle rises from Hawke’s chest, light and amused.

“I probably am.”

He can see Fenris’ skin is still damp on the undersides of his arms and the nape of his neck.

The deluging torrent is not as loud here but its unyielding tremor splashing the rooftop unforgettable.

Fenris leans back, his elbows raised, his hands abruptly restless on his thighs. With a sweep of the flickering candle flame all his riposting ire seems gone all of a sudden.

“I was a fool to believe I could learn a skill like this.”

Fenris does not raise his gaze when Hawke stands and comes round the table. He draws his chair to Fenris’ side, sitting next to him. Thunder anew rumbles in the invisible night as Hawke clasps Fenris’ right hand. He does so gingerly, with the slightest hint of tarrying deference just before their fingers touch as if to see whether Fenris’ hand will move away, ever so slightly.

After dipping it into blue-black ink he threads a gray-blue quill between Fenris’ almond-colored fingers (a griffon plume, ostensible, when it was actually taken out of a phoenix’ reluctant plumage.)

With great care, slowly, deliberately, the feather tip scratches in high curves and narrow prongs over the mottled sheet of parchment. The scraping sound seems to echo among the endless shelves of books even under the voices of the thunderstorm. Long after the scratching has stopped Fenris keeps staring at the straight arcs and meandering lines in blue-black colors. Brows lowered in reflective toil his fingertips brush over the barely dried lines, smearing them at the outer edges.

“What does it say?” requests he.

Indicatively Hawke’s index finger passes from inky character to character, pronouncing each consonant and vowel with great care. Once he has reached the final letter, the last shred of reluctance is brushed away of Fenris’ expression. Superseded by a diffident smile that he is not yet poised to evince.

“Show me yours.” he asks, half plea, half demand.

Once more Hawke guides his hand over the torn piece of parchment, tip grazing, ink fanning out as a peacock indigo feathers.

“H,” he pronounces softly but sumptuously, “A. W …”

Again, Fenris gazes at the finished name for quite a long time before he begins writing it down slowly, painstakingly, yet perfectly, unaided. Twice he then writes his own name before switching the quill from his right to his left hand. Gradually, the letters, first bristle, become more fluid with increasing pace.

Arms folded, Hawke leans back and watches Fenris practice. First copying down the portrait of their names, secondly each letter individually, then rearranging them hesitantly and strained-eyed until new words are being born, the characters pronounced meaning suddenly becoming easier with each line. Soon there is not an inch of crammed parchment left to pen on and Hawke produces a whole new sheet from his writing desk while the storm outside howls and prowls with strenuous menace.

Quite abruptly the ink-gleaming letters, bearing a childlike quality, loose their fierce focus. The subsequent line swerves out of line, then steadies, but the next does, too, and the one after that. Then the trembling begins.

At first it is only his hand, though Fenris keeps writing, writing their names, teeth gritted.

Mere seconds later the shaking has befallen his fingers, his legs, his shoulders hunched into his chest. His whole frame shudders under the shivering grip, as iron as his own grip on the quill.

Hawke has stood up.

Soon Fenris’ clammy hand cannot clutch the quill anymore. It falls, twisting itself out of his quavering grasp, dark spots of ink spraying everyway.

Few futile attempts later he stops altogether.

Hawke is standing behind his chair when it starts. With slow movements he wraps his arms loosely around his shoulders. He does not count the minutes, muss less the seconds.

Somewhen and somewhere Hawke feels Fenris startlingly cold hand on the side of his face, fingers cradling his charcoal black beard.

Rivulets of time run by.

Then Fenris picks the quill up again.

Leaning into the gentle touch Hawke lowers his weary head and rests his chin atop the crown of Fenris’ head, char stubbles shaving ebony shocks of white hair. By experience, Hawke knows better than to waste any words on that which has just happened.

So silence remains.

As Fenris finishes his next word it gives the impression of an even more childish scrawling.

Softly Hawke reads the letters aloud, feeling the fine strands of pearly white hair rubbing between his beard. “Garrett” Then, quieter, “where did you pick that one up?”

“It was stitched onto the insides of one of your shirts you gave me.”

Hawke feels a smile capturing his lips, first small, then warm and filling.

“Fenris?”

“Yes.”

“Come”, he whispers and takes his hand into his, the one that has the scarlet scarf slung about its wrist, leading him back to the warm shelter of the room of their bedroom.

Beyond the drop-gleaming windows the undying rain has lost its edge and grown somewhat quieter, enough to transmute into a deceiving semblance of repose. Back in the wide four-poster bed they arrange for sleep in the same fashion they adopt each evening, night after night. Hawke lies on his back in the not-so-exact middle of the soft mattress, Fenris at his side, half-spread, half-outflung across Hawke’s chest, one long sharp-ended ear bedded against Hawke’s shoulder, collarbone, heart. As twisted as they might move during sleep – entangled into the warm blankets so one of them has to yank it back from under the other’s body – warped and tousled, on their sides, backs, sprawled on their stomachs – Hawke’s nose may be pitched by Fenris adamant fingers to stop his occasional but insistent snoring, his limps loose with sleep – however slumber may let them wander apart, this is the irrevocable way they settle for sleep.

Fenris’ ear near Hawke’s heart where he can harken its steady, willful beat.

Hawke knows Fenris can hear its wordless, confessing avowals for he can hear Fenris’ equally, a little arrhythmic heartbeat through his hand on the elf’s back, the answer creeping up the arm he has slung around him.

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

This ineptness is an inevitable part of the man beside him as is the color of his eye or skin and Fenris can no more shed it than he could change the length of his limps or stop the breathing in his lungs.

“I like this.”

“What? This?” Hawke pulls him closer in merriment.

“I like this kind of weather.”

Astonished Hawke listens to the rataplan of the rain. No lightening forks the dark martial skies outside anymore save for a distant rumbling afar.

“Bethany,” Hawke remembers, still startled, “liked storms, too.”

Suddenly, Fenris straightens up and with one swift, vigorous motion he pulls Hawke out of the sheets intentionally.

Out of the bedroom into the hall he is dragged by the elf whose strength is as unsettling as ever. Hawke, no weakling himself and impressively built, once probed the silver-bladed sword (Fenris cherished nearly as much as Varric did Bianca) for several minutes and strained to fathom how Fenris could bear running around with it all day long without having his tendons and ligaments reattached afterwards. How he commiserates and dotes on this brutality of his.

“Oh,” Hawke groans, irony and grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I am not going to like this.”

Down the shadowy stairs, through the unlit foyer, up to the storm-pondered font gate and, in an instant, gushes of rain and wind wash over their faces.

The moment they leave the safety of the house Fenris opens his grasp on Hawke’s hand but the impulse of his powerful motion propels Hawke forward right into the battle ground of the storm. Before he can blink he is soaked to the skin.

Side by side they stand in the sheath of glassy rain, barefooted, barely closed.

Before them the skies are ashore with waves of gloomy clouds. The ever-raging warrior thunder, lightening his merciless blazing blade, is aloud with booming vengeance here and fighting the skies and the earths alike.

A stroke of electrifying light from afar paints the streets and walls of Kirkwall in sharp relieve, a miniscule, insignificant thorp cowering at the feet of blue and gray and black mountains awash by breaking, spuming , spraying waves of stormy sea.

Water streams down the sides of Hawke’s face, filling the tiny spaces between his seeping beard stubbles. Angry winds gush and billow.

Endless rivulets of rain, sapid with the aroma of the wounded skies, flow in streams along the inside of Hawke’s palms, cascade forward from his slack fingertips.

Hawke closes his eyes.

In he breathes the taste of the thunder and the light, inhaling the raining waters.

All four of their naked, bare feet are engulfed by ankle-deep flows of water.

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke exclaims in a sudden mad fit of laughter, “how can you stand this all day long?”

Since there is no answer, lost in the grace of nature, Hawke finally opens his eyes.

Fenris’ face is only a blur in the embrace of the rains. Winds tear at the strangely pearly white hair glued to his cheeks. Innumerable drops of gleaming water are falling upon the cobbled streets from his naked arms, his pointed ears, the tip of his nose.

So fierce are the winds that their sheer physical strength all but overthrows them – even so, Fenris’ slender shape towers among them indomitable. His elven face may be blurred by the spray of the gush and rain, his deep green emerald eyes, however, glitter with the rage of the roaring warrior and his blazing blade.

Once again the skies are cast alight and Fenris face flashed, his eyes lit as by a fire within.

Sometimes Hawke wishes he would simply start crying.

He is stepping towards Hawke.

Hawke is giving him a wet smile that he cannot hear through the chaos. His eyes are fixed with studying one single silver bead among a plethora which is running down along his curved neck and disperses wetly into his the well of his collarbone.

“We will both be stone-cold dead by the end of the night.”

Thirst-ridden Fenris’ eyes blazing virid eyes find his, and his hard mouth, arms entwining around Hawke’s neck, finds his and is pressing against his lips tasting of rain and the aroma of his caramel-shaded skin. Hawke grasps him, savors him not heeding the chatty gossip that might burst from a prying eye behind the dark rain-stained windows around them – who would anyway?

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

In the peach-colored rays of morning light when the horizon will be skewed with skeins of tangerine, Hawke will sleepily wave away Orana’s considerate knock at the door and her regardful eyes peering from behind the bedroom door announcing that breakfast is ready, and Hawke will feel inclined, as ever, to cover Fenris’ long elven ears lest he might give him that glare that brings Hawke to consider a tremendous pay raise each time he does so. Soon, Orana will be wealthier than half of his Hightown neighbors.

For now, however, they trip and splash back inside leaving wet footmarks all over the floor and carpets. Long after drying each other with nowhere near enough towels, the window aglow with firelight reviving honey and daffodil and gold beads, they fall back to sleep, hearts pounding, skins resting, as they always do.

There might and will be many a nightmare in the gloomy nights to come.

But for now, for the remaining fragment of this one short, storm-shaken night, Fenris eases peacefully in his arms.

#fenhawke #hawris #m!fenhawke #fenris #hawke #garrett hawke #a fragment of a still incomplete fanfiction of mine #which I've been writing for aeons as I'm so slow #and I'm too overcome with nerves to upload it #so just ignore this :)#my writing

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angstyaches · 3 years

Note

hey flick! I'd love to read something fluffy - maybe a valentines drabble? I'd die for some ryan x nancy content but I'd also love seeing what charlies and shaynes first valentines day together is like

well - you decide. just write whatever you want honestly

ps: I hope you're doing well

Date Night with Nancy and Ryan! (A Little Late for Valentine’s Day, Oops)

Em. Em, I just – I could not decide whether I wanted Ryan or Nancy to be in discomfort, and my brain melted somewhere along the way. (It seems that some days, I can be very bi, and maybe a little too goofy.)

CW: indigestion, hiccups, burping, slight nausea, lady sickee(s), food mention, brief blood (drinking) mention, just silliness

Nancy put a hand on the blanket and reclined a little, her long, dark ponytail sliding over her bare should before swinging against her back. She was dressed optimistically for early spring, especially since the sun had been down for a couple of hours already, but spontaneous European getaways with your 200-year-old vampire wife called for the most romantic of clothes.

She shook her head slowly as lights – as many on the tower as they were stars in the sky, it seemed – sparkled in her eyes. A smile crossed her face as she remembered how Ryan had said “Picnic by the Seine”, and Nancy had thought it must have been the name of a new restaurant that had opened nearby. However, one flight and one limousine ride later, and here they were, basking in the Eiffel Tower’s glittering beauty while an actual accordion was being played somewhere downstream. (Although Nancy had carefully pinned the idea for a French restaurant with a picnic theme in her mind for later consideration.)

“Nancy Aldridge,” Ryan droned from a mere couple of inches away, where she was propped up by her elbow as she lay on her side. “Are you ponderin’?”

Nancy tilted her head back a little further. “I might be.”

“What are you pondering, love?”

Nancy smiled and reclined even more, until the back of her head was resting against Ryan’s thighs. She was still holding a glass of the crispest, most refreshing wine she’d ever tasted, and she held it with the stem pressed against her stomach as she looked up at her wife’s face.

“I was thinking that I must have married a mad woman.”

“Huh.” Ryan gently swirled her own wine glass, which was sporting a thin, black lipstick stain. She was drinking the same wine as Nancy, even though she usually opted for clear spirits when she wasn’t drinking purely blood. The low lighting of the city and the shadow of the embankment cast her sharp, pale features quite softly. “Mais je pense souvent la même chose.”

Nancy groaned. “You don’t always have to exhibit the fact that you’re multi-lingual, mon cheri.”

“Mon?” Ryan repeated in her usual Northern-Irish accent. She glanced pointedly down at her white blazer, and white shirt that was tucked neatly into cropped grey trousers. “Am I looking particularly masculine tonight?”

“Oh.” Nancy covered her mouth with one hand and giggled, causing herself to hiccup slightly. Her wine glass jumped along with her belly, but the liquid stopped sloshing just short of the rim. “It’s ma cherie, right? You know I’ve only learned whatever French I’ve heard in movies.”

“Mmm, the same way you learned to flirt from movies.”

“Says the one who took me to Paris for Valentine’s Day,” Nancy teased.

“Yes, because I know you’re partial to the odd cliché now and then.” With the hand that wasn’t holding her wine glass, Ryan ran the pads of two fingers along the curve of Nancy’s neck.

Nancy closed her eyes briefly and made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a purr, which quickly escalated into another hiccup. She opened her eyes again and carefully set her wine glass aside on the ground, one hand resting on her stomach.

The wine, along with the selection of cheese and the fresh bakery bread that she’d been munching on while they watched the lights and the boats from the riverbank, suddenly sat awfully heavily inside her. She hadn’t meant to eat quite so much, but the bread had been so crispy on the outside and bouncy on the inside, and each kind of cheese jolted her taste buds like they’d previously been in hibernation. And it didn’t help that the scenery so all-encompassing that she hadn’t paid much attention to quantity as she nibbled and drank.

The next hiccup was high-pitched, and brought the acidic sting of indigestion into her throat. Nancy clapped a hand over her mouth as the sound echoed through the little section of embankment that they had claimed for the evening.

Ryan removed her fingers from Nancy’s neck, instead resting a hand on her shoulder and peering down at her face. “Are you alright, Nan?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Nancy giggled from behind her hand, even as her stomach pinched slightly. “The wine, or – or something, isn’t sitting very well.”

She ran a hand tentatively down across her stomach, finding that it filled out the front of her cherry-red dress a lot more than it had when she’d first gotten dressed. It wasn’t tight or stiff with all of the food inside, but it was distinctly rounder. She felt a rumble beneath her hand, frowning and pursing her lips as she rubbed it away.

“Do you feel nauseous?”

“Oh - well, maybe a little.” Nancy smiled up at Ryan with some strain when her wife’s face betrayed a touch of concern. “Oh, I’ll be quite fine. Don’t look so stressed, cookie; you might end up with wrinkles for the rest of eternity.”

She reached up to tap Ryan on the end of her nose. Ryan looked back down at her with a lazy, contented look in her deep-yellow eyes. The Eiffel Tower was just out of Nancy’s sight, but its lights still flickered and softened the lines of Ryan’s jaw.

Unfortunately, that was the moment when another hiccup decided to wrack Nancy’s entire body, making her stomach slosh audibly before it bubbled down into quiet grumbling again.

“You’re really contributing to the ambience, love,” Ryan mumbled with the slightest ghost of a smile. She reached across with one hand to rub the top of Nancy’s belly.

“It’s not quite my fault,” Nancy half-chuckled, squirming and blushing slightly at the attention. “You probably don’t remember it, but indigestion can be quite unpleasant...”

A deep gurgle erupted under Ryan’s palm. Nancy pressed her lips together briefly before blocking a belch with the back of her hand. It, too, seemed to reverberate against the embankment the same way it had against her ribs, and Nancy’s heart sank as the distant accordion player ceased their playing for a moment.

“Oh, excuse me,” Nancy gasped, keeping her hand against her mouth as she listened for the music, waiting for it to begin again. “I think I scared away the accordion player.”

“I’m not complaining.” Ryan smoothed Nancy’s ponytail out over her knee. “We can enjoy some peace and quiet for a little while.”

“Mmm, that sounds nice, actually.”

Nancy sighed and rested her hands on her full belly again as Ryan went back to propping herself up with both arms. There was indeed a stretch of quiet along their stretch of the river, aside from the soft movements of the water and white-noise city traffic.

The indigestion passed by the minute, the pressure in Nancy’s gut easing as everything settled and the acidic taste was gone from her throat. Her diaphragm was no longer tense with the threat of hiccups, and she felt even more relaxed than she had all evening.

So when there was suddenly a loud gurgle, Nancy was as surprised as Ryan, who looked down at her again with a mock glare.

“That’s not exactly quiet.”

“That...” Nancy tightened her grip on her stomach out of instinct, though she was very sure that the sound hadn’t come from her. “That wasn’t me.”

She sat forward slightly, looking over her shoulder at her wife. Ryan’s gaze was already averted towards her own midsection, where the clasp on her trousers seemed strained in front of her tucked shirt.

“Apologies, love.” Ryan’s hand hovered near her stomach, like she was reluctant to touch it, but was perhaps considering it anyway. “It seems the wine isn’t agreeing with me either.”

Nancy pursed her lips as she frowned sympathetically. She glanced down the embankment, confirming that they were still alone, and that no boats full of tourists were about to come gliding past. “Undo your pants!”

Ryan scoffed. “You must be incredibly drunk, if you of all people are suggesting public indecency.”

“It’s not public indecency, is it?” Nancy laughed. “There’s nobody around, cookie. You’ll feel better, trust me. I’m wearing a nice, loose-fitting dress, but those pants look painful.”

While her features barely shifted, Nancy could read the doubt and hesitation that lingered on Ryan’s face.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” Nancy said, shifting onto her knees and reaching for the clasp below Ryan’s waist.

“What - don’t you dare!” Ryan tried to roll away from Nancy’s hands, when suddenly she froze, eyes widening as she sat forward.

Nancy froze too, carefully placing a hand on Ryan’s back and tilting her head so she could see her face. “Ryan, are you quite -?”

The vampire’s eyes widened even further as she opened her mouth, air rumbling audibly in her chest before it burst out of her. The belch ended abruptly, with Ryan covering her mouth with her palm. It was, unfortunately, a little too late to stifle what had already happened.

“Oh, wow.” Nancy covered her own mouth to disguise the terrible job she was doing of suppressing a grin. She patted Ryan’s back with her other hand. “What do you say, cookie?”

“What?” Ryan blinked and shook her head. “I - excuse me, love. Really. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Nothing wrong with a little ambience,” Nancy shrugged.

Ryan sighed and finally rubbed her stomach, prompting a growl from inside the distressed organ as she turned to look at Nancy. “I believe I’ve had enough ambience for tonight. Shall we head for the hotel, love?”

“Yes,” Nancy agreed, leaning in to peck Ryan on the cheek. “Allons-y.”

Ryan audibly gulped back another burp, frowning and peering curiously at Nancy as they slowly moved to tidy everything up. “Why do you know allons-y?”

Nancy shrugged again, gently resting the wine bottle and glasses inside the picnic basket. “Doctor Who reference.”

___

And to just quickly mention Charlie and Shayne’s first Valentine’s; I believe it’d be low-key, if they got to see each other at all. Their graduation exams are coming up soon and they’re still living far away from each other. Plus I haven’t even worked out at what point they’re “officially” going to be dating lol my timeline is currently one whole mess.

#sickfic #indigestion #hiccups #burping #hiccup fic #burp fic #OC sickfic #my OCs #Nancy #Ryan #wlw #stomach kink #Swallow the World #vampire sickfic #witch sickfic #though Nancy being a witch doesn't really come up here #Valentine's Day sickfic #stomach ache fic

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pitch-pearl-void · 4 years

Text

Rest

The sun had been setting the last time Phantom saw Fenton. By now, the moon had risen to just before midnight, and Phantom worried Fenton had already gone to sleep, exhausted by a full day of school followed by an evening training with his parents. Phantom wouldn't blame him. In fact, it was probably better for Fenton if he was asleep.

Phantom flew faster toward Fenton Works regardless, all the while mentally scolding himself for being so selfish. Humans were fragile. Phantom knew that better now than he ever had in the past. When he had shared in Fenton's humanity, the gap hadn't seemed so wide. They had felt strong and immortal. But humans couldn't even stay awake a full 24 hours without it affecting them. Phantom on the other hand...he couldn't remember the last time he had slept.

Fenton Works came into view, and Phantom felt a lead weight sink in his stomach. Fenton's bedroom light was off.

Phantom slowed his flight until he hovered uncertainly outside Fenton's window. He should turn around, leave Fenton to his rest and try to shake off whatever was haunting him by flying into the stratosphere or rescuing someone or...

Something inside Phantom ached. He didn't need a distraction, he needed company. Human contact. Someone who saw him and not the hero.

He drifted toward Fenton's window, torn between not wanting to disturb him and not wanting to be alone.

At the last minute, he switched out of the visible spectrum so his glow wouldn't wake Fenton, and then he flew inside. As ever, the wind's howls, the crickets' chirping, the distant roar of the traffic, it all became muffled as soon as he slipped inside, creating a bubble of isolation and privacy. No fans to hound him. No news crew to dodge.

As Phantom had suspected, the room was dark and Fenton was in bed, but Phantom felt elation rush through him as he saw Fenton's phone illuminating the human's face. Phantom landed on the floor of Fenton's room, unable to maintain his flight any longer. Were he any less graceful, had he still held traces of Fenton's clumsiness, he might have stumbled forward on legs that suddenly felt weak with relief. As it was, he had to stand in place instead of stepping forward.

"You're awake," he gasped.

Fenton yelped and fumbled his phone. It fell on his face. "Shit!"

Phantom laughed weakly.

Fenton removed the phone from his face, casting himself in shadow as he switched it off. "Phantom?"

Phantom returned to the visible spectrum, and Fenton's eyes snapped to him as Phantom's glow illuminated the space beside Fenton's bed. Illuminated Fenton. Phantom smiled at him in greeting, half expecting Fenton to grumble about ghosts spooking people on purpose, but Fenton's eyebrows rose and he sat up on his elbows.

"Have you been crying?" he gasped.

Phantom reached up and felt his cheek, forgetting for a moment his gloves wouldn't let him feel any tears. "Um. Perhaps. Spectra was...difficult. And then Skulker attacked."

Fenton sat up all the way, pushing back his blanket. "Are you hurt?"

"Hurt?" Phantom forced another smile. "My powers heal all injuries in minutes, Fenton, you know that."

"There's more than one kind of injury, especially when it comes to Spectra."

"Oh." Phantom lost his smile. "I...yes. Then. Yes. I am. Hurt."

Fenton stared up at him, looking suddenly small and helpless. "Oh..."

Phantom stared back, waiting. Unfortunately, Fenton seemed lost. He opened his mouth once or twice, but he didn't seem to know what to say. His expression was one of concern and sympathy, but emotions and navigating relationships weren't his forte. He may want to help Phantom, it may be a need that burned inside him, but that wouldn't mean he knew how to go about it.

Usually, Phantom would step in and give him a hint in the right direction. But after what Spectra said...how could he know for sure Fenton actually wanted him the same way he wanted Fenton? Phantom was always the one leading their relationship. He was the one who most often initiated contact. Fenton--

Fenton gave up on trying to find the right words and reached for Phantom's hand instead. Phantom raised an eyebrow. He didn't react immediately, not until he felt Fenton tug on his arm. He bent forward, assuming Fenton had realized he wanted a kiss, but instead of meeting Phantom halfway, Fenton leaned backward. Phantom didn't fully understand, but he followed him down. He didn't stop until Fenton's head rested on his pillow again and Phantom was bent awkwardly over him and the bed. Kissing from that angle was a little tricky...

Fenton snickered. "Holy shit, dude..." He wrapped an arm around Phantom's shoulder and pulled him down an inch. "Down. Lay down."

Phantom hesitated. "Lay down?"

"Yes." Fenton released Phantom's hand and lifted his blanket up in clear invitation. "You can even, like, lay on me? If you like?" He blushed, the color a pale red against Phantom's white light. "Just don't, um. You know. I have school tomorrow, and it's hard to, uh. Shut all that down. You know."

Phantom's body moved on autopilot. He set his knee on the mattress, causing it and Fenton to dip toward him. He took the blanket from Fenton, lifting it higher so he could slide under, ignoring or not noticing Fenton's flustered shifting. His mind was occupied deciphering the emotions rising inside himself at the realization Fenton was offering to cuddle with him under the blankets. Something they had never done before, something Phantom hadn't realized lay so directly at the core of his being it was as though Fenton had seen into his soul.

Embarrassingly, as Phantom lowered himself over Fenton and Fenton's other arm wrapped around his shoulders, tears pricked in Phantom's eyes and a small sound escaped his throat.

Phantom's legs brushed into position alongside Fenton's as he slid into place. Perhaps Fenton had only meant it as a suggestion, but Phantom took the offer to lay atop him seriously, forcing Fenton's legs to spread and make room for Phantom. Fenton didn't object. In fact, as Phantom finally rested against Fenton, laying his head on Fenton's chest instead of his shoulder as Fenton likely expected, Fenton's arms tightened around Phantom before relaxing.

"Like this?" Fenton asked.

Phantom closed his eyes, listening as Fenton's heart pounded a slightly quickened beat beneath his ear. He tucked his arms against Fenton's sides, holding him as well as he could without pushing his arms under Fenton and making him uncomfortable. He shifted upward a little until he felt Fenton's chin touch the crown of his head, and then he sighed, the breath a little shaky. "Like this. Please."

Fenton waited a second longer to see if Phantom would move a little more, but Phantom was half convinced he could remain like that well into the morning. One of Fenton's arms moved, its absence missed, until Phantom felt Fenton adjust the blanket over them, pulling it up around Phantom's shoulders.

Phantom gave up an internal battle and slipped his arms under Fenton's back so he could hug him tightly. "Fenton," he said, his voice shaking.

"Yeah?" Instead of draping his arm over Phantom as before, Fenton brushed his fingers through Phantom's hair, tickling his scalp near the back of his head. "Is it too hot? It was actually getting a little too hot for me before you, er, joined me. We could probably lose the blanket."

Even had Phantom not heard the nervousness in Fenton's tone or recognized it in the way Fenton spoke too fast, he heard it in the thumping of Fenton's heart. "You would get cold, then."

"Well..."

Phantom clenched his teeth against more tears and turned his head slightly to nuzzle against Fenton's chest, the slide of Fenton's pajama top soft against his cheek. "It's perfect, Fenton. I had missed feeling warm."

He hadn't even realized how much he had missed it until now. He felt like he was melting into Fenton, basking in his heat, his presence. The weight of Fenton's arm on Phantom's shoulders, the gentle stroking of his hair, the feel of his solid, heated form in Phantom's arms felt like a balm to his soul.

"Oh," Fenton said. His heart began to slow, the nervous tension leaving him as it always did after the initial flare-up. "It's just that. Well. You're crying again."

"I know." Phantom smiled, but this time it didn't feel forced despite the single tear leaking down his cheek. "Happy tears."

"Oh. Really?"

"Yes."

"...Just from cuddling?"

Phantom's smile grew, became a little more playful. "If I say yes, will you let us do it more often?"

Fenton hummed, his chest vibrating beneath Phantom's ear, throwing off the previous gentle rhythm of Fenton's breathing. "We can cuddle every night if it makes you that happy."

Phantom choked out a few chuckling sobs. "Yes. That would. That would be great."

"Yeah. It's...not that bad. It feels nice. Holding you like this, I mean. I don't think I'd mind."

"Does that mean spooning might be in our future?"

"Can I be the big spoon?"

Phantom laughed again. For real that time. "No. I want to hold you."

"Well I want to hold you. So."

Phantom turned his face into Fenton's chest. He lost the sound of Fenton's heartbeat, but he had to hide his smile. The lovestruck grin would have given too much of his feelings away. Fenton might have guessed anyway. Phantom wasn't sure what else could have prompted Fenton to kiss his temple. Phantom felt that kiss down to his toes, and he made a tiny sound against Fenton's chest.

"I need to sleep," Fenton said, speaking more softly. "I'll prove how good a spoon I am tomorrow."

"Little spoon," Phantom whispered.

"No."

"We shall just have to cuddle like this until we find a solution then," Phantom suggested. "Face to face."

Fenton hummed.

Phantom rested his cheek on Fenton's chest, ear against his heart. "New tradition. I want to sleep with you every night."

"You don't sleep," Fenton mumbled. "You'll get bored."

Phantom listened to Fenton's heart, wondering if it was slowing already or if he was only imagining it. Phantom wasn't tired, he never felt tired anymore, but he felt a lassitude overtaking him, sweeping his thoughts aside. Tension that had haunted him all day--all week--felt like it was draining away. It was almost as if, laying there, soaking in Fenton's warmth, Phantom had found peace. Home. Somewhere he could rest.

He whispered, "I don't think I will..."

#Danny Phantom #Danny Fenton #Pitch Pearl #pitchpearl #the suave and the awkward #established relationship #writing trance #wrote a thing to help my friend feel better

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scriveyner · 3 years

Text

let it rest in peace 1/4

James always loved to watch Keith run.

The black wolf was a liquid shadow; compacted into a powerful ball of muscle and potential. It was poetry to watch slowed down, enormous paws dug into the ground for purchase and extending all the way out again, all four legs clearing the ground in a straight shot. Head down, laser-focused on his target, Keith moved so fast at that moment James felt like he was seeing an afterimage, the actual thing there and gone before he could even blink.

Keith ran every chance he got; up and down the long familiar stretch of beach, his slightly smaller frame shadow to Shiro’s enormously powerful white wolf. He ran through the woods, threaded the trees, circled their camps and the truck, and nearly made James dizzy with his exuberance and a seemingly endless wellspring of energy. He loved the most to run in the plains, though, when they went east and spent their nights in fields under an endless expanse of stars.

Run with me, Keith said, both hands on James’s wrists, eyes bright and skin bronzed by firelight.

He couldn’t deny Keith anything, not even this; futile exercise that it was. Before too long Keith would tire of lagging and would be on four legs, bounding back and forth and unstoppable. All the same, James humored him every time, jogged with him until Keith couldn’t bear it any longer, and bolted; across the clearing, across the sand, across the field—ears and tail high.

He loved to run.

He loved James, too.

James panted, hand pressed to the side of his neck, cheek in the dirt. He watched Keith run like this, powerhouse that he was, gone in a twinkling, fury and sound.

“I’ll protect you,” Keith said, calm and confident, sitting up in their motel bed, the covers kicked to the floor and his skin brushed blue by the cold light of the television.

It was an ancient song and dance between them now, months-weeks-years of it, Keith with his lazy certainty that he could take on anything and James with his world-weary amusement, knowing every beat to the conversation by heart. “You can’t, against everything.”

James brushed his knuckles along the outside of Keith’s thigh and Keith stirred, leaned over him and kissed him with a rakish grin. “You don’t know me very well then, do you, Griffin?”

I do know you, James thought, the words drowned in the blood squeezing between his fingers, the darkness starting to claw at the edge of his vision. He exhaled again and coughed wetly, closed his eyes and dreamed of running with his wolf.

Read the rest on AO3 or

let it rest in peace – 1

The sky was in his heart, an endless expanse of blue that reached horizon to horizon. The air was fresh, spring again, the sharp bite of winter’s chill melted in the calm, bright sun. The fields went on forever, lush green landscapes covered in wildflowers cornstalks barely to his hip, wheat swaying in the wind.

It was home, and yet.

“Griffin!” A voice, faint, familiar, carried on the wind of memories. “I found him, shit, shit, Shiro, hurry--!”

“Sing for me,” James said, brushed his fingers through Keith’s hair, the light of the dying embers caught in his raven locks. Keith leaned up on one elbow, smiling helplessly down at him, before rising smoothly on four legs.

James combed his fingers through dark fur, as Keith stepped away and out of reach the loss felt sudden, insurmountable—and he reached for Keith as the wolf raised his face to the sky, a dirge for the moon.

“James, no, no no no--” Keith’s voice, too distant. “Stay with me, please, please--”

The moon was in his blood, fat and heavy in the desert’s endless sky. The stars seemed to go on forever, past the point of the horizon, patterning down, under his feet until everything was night, washed out in the light of a full cold moon.

Everything hurt.

James squinted open gummy eyes, listening to the constant steady beep of the medical equipment beyond his line of sight. He couldn’t raise his arm to wipe his eyes, so he lolled his head on the pillow and immediately regretted the movement, paint shooting down his spine.

He let out a small involuntary grunt as he shifted, and that disturbed the dark head leaned against the hospital bed. James flexed his hand, and Keith lifted his head groggily, eyes red-rimmed and stubble so thick James knew it had been days, or longer. “Hey,” James croaked, lining up some kind of lumberjack crack but the single syllable was all he could manage. Keith’s eyes welled up immediately.

Keith pulled James’s hand up, both of his hands wrapped around it still, and pressed James’s hand to his mouth. “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” Keith’s voice sounded wrecked, worse than he’d ever heard.

It hurt to swallow, fuck, it hurt to breathe but James gathered himself and spoke. “Love you,” he murmured, squeezing Keith’s hands, and Keith let out a small little sob and didn’t raise his head. James smiled as much as he could manage, closed his eyes and dropped back off the cliff, into darkness.

When he woke again it was impossible to tell how much time had passed. The lights in the room were the same, although this time when he moved his head it didn’t immediately feel like it was going to come off his shoulders. There were no windows that he could see—just machines, off-white walls and a television up in the corner that was currently off.

Keith was sitting up in a chair beside the bed, looking better than he had. The stubble wasn’t as thick now, he’d shaved at least once; his hair was clean and he smelled like Keith, even with the competing antiseptic hospital smell attempting to overwhelm. He seemed to sense that James was looking at him and lifted his head, closing the folder he’d had open on his lap and smiling shakily for James. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

James lolled his head on the pillow, swallowed and then spoke hoarsely. “You ever seen Roger Rabbit?”

Keith’s brow furrowed, and James sighed, coughed a bit because the sigh hurt, goddammit. “Of course you haven’t.”

The door opened and they both looked at it—and it was Lance, leaning in the room clearly to get Keith. He looked tired, but lit up when he saw James awake. “Griffin, holy shit,” Lance said. “How’re you feeling, man? That was a fucking close call, if Shiro hadn’t--”

“Lance,” Keith said, his tone dagger-sharp. Lance stopped, gave Keith a look that James couldn’t really decipher, and then Keith said, “do you know what the fuck Roger Rabbit is?”

Nonplussed, Lance looked between them. Then he snapped his fingers, pointed at James and said, “you feel like you got squashed by the steamroller at the end!”

James chuckled, then groaned because that really fucking hurt.

Keith rolled his eyes, set the folder on a small table at his elbow, and got up. He put one hand on the mattress and leaned over, kissing James’s forehead gently. “I’ll be right back, I bet Shiro wants to see me,” he said. “Lance’ll keep you company, though.”

“Mm,” James was already feeling drowsy again, the interaction draining. “Keith?” Keith hesitated, looked down at him. James raised his arm slowly, touching the thick bandages around his throat, felt the ghost of fangs and claws nearly ripping his arm out of its socket, and asked, “how the fuck am I alive?”

There was a split-second flicker of something across Keith’s face he was too drugged up to catch. Keith took his hand away from his throat, patted it, and said, “please rest, James.”

His eyes felt too heavy, but he watched Keith say something in low tones to Lance, caught Shiro’s name but little else. Lance gave James a look and then shook his head, Keith clapped his shoulder and left the room. James closed his eyes and listened to Lance shuffle, pulling the other chair away from the wall to sit on his left side.

James swallowed, didn’t bother to open his eyes. “What did Keith do, Lance?”

The shuffling and scraping stopped abruptly. He heard the chair’s cushion complain slightly as Lance flopped into it, and he could almost see the way Lance tilted forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He definitely heard the aggrieved sigh.

“It wasn’t Keith’s call,” Lance said softly. “It was mine.”

James slept.

“You’ve barely eaten anything,” Keith said, the frown evident in his voice as he dropped into the chair he’d been living out of for the past week and a half—longer, James knew, since before he woke up even if he didn’t know how long that was.

James looked up from his phone, an equivalent frown on his face as he thrust the offending piece of technology in Keith’s direction. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I want my old phone back.”

Keith looked at the proffered phone. “Your old phone is in two pieces,” he said, and after a moment James sighed and retracted his arm, setting the phone on the tray extended over his lap on the bed.

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, what the fuck is wrong with this phone, it’s so…” he poked it. “I don’t trust the Blade not to be using some weird-ass shit magic on their technology, what if this thing achieves sentience? There’s a horror movie for you right there, fuck it.”

“Hasn’t technology run amuck been done to death by now anyway?”

“Probably. I was thinking more in the vein of the phone actually biting people, though.”

“Transformers,” Keith muttered, and James groaned and folded his arms. After a moment Keith tilted his head, gave James a fond grin, and they both laughed. James winced, touched the bandages around his neck, and then laughed again because laughing hurt, but it was a good hurt. He was alive, after all.

He looked at the door, still buoyant in his mood. “Shiro and Lance are here,” he said, a split-second before the knock came; and he caught the way Keith gave him a particular look out of the corner of his eye. “Come in!”

“Someone sounds better already,” Shiro said, opening the door with his left hand and holding it open as Lance pranced in behind him, a courier bag slung over his shoulder. The delicious smell of cheese and grease followed them in, wrapped around Lance like a living thing, and Lance beamed at James as he slipped the bag off his shoulder.

“We bring contraband!”

“Hey,” Keith said, sitting up as Lance pulled a fast food sack out of his bag, dropping an enormous burger on the tray in front of James. “He’s on a strict diet--”

“If you’re going to be Mr. Narc I’ll give James your burger too,” Lance threatened—and they both looked at James, who had immediately begun destroying the burger like he’d never eaten one before in his life.

“I’m not very hungry, anyway,” Keith said, clearly amused at the display, and James tucked into the second burger with relish.

James didn’t realize how off he’d felt until he had two burgers sitting heavy in his gut. Lance sat on the left side of his bed, elbow on the mattress and volleying barbs at Keith, who wasn’t taking them well. Shiro, on the other hand, didn’t get too close to the bed, and kept trying to fold his arms—which wasn’t happening, given that his prosthetic arm was, currently, disconnected.

Of course, that drew his attention because he’d hardly ever seen Shiro without it. “What happened with your arm?” James asked, balling up the wrapper from the second burger and tossing it into the sack Lance had left open on the tray.

“Tech department took it for maintenance,” Shiro said. He lifted his right arm and pointed to the stub. “Have you never seen it off?”

James shook his head, transitioned to a nod. “No, I have, it’s just unusual. Also, you keep trying to cross your arms and that’s, sorry, that’s hilarious.”

Shiro put his one hand on his hip and hung his head, sighing audibly. “Lance made fun of me in the elevator, too. Do I really cross my arms that much?”

“Yes,” James, Keith and Lance all said in emphatic unison.

“Frequently crossed arms is a sign someone is holding back something important,” James said, raising a finger knowledgeably, and Keith snorted, while Lance leaned on the armrest of the chair, in Shiro’s direction.

“So, what secrets are you hiding from me, Takashi?”

Shiro crossed over and put his hand on the back of Lance’s chair, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “Just how very much I love you.”

Lance caught the front of his shirt, turned his face up, and they kissed properly. “That’s no secret,” Lance snorted, clearly amused.

“No shit,” Keith said, leaned back in his chair and exchanging an amused glance with James.

“And speaking of secrets,” James said, “anyone feel like enlightening me as to how I’m still here right now? Because I really should be dead.”

The room immediately fell quiet.

James looked around at them. Keith folded his arms, met his eye for a quick second and looked away. Lance wouldn’t look at him at all, and Shiro had a pained expression on his face. “Yeah,” James said. “That’s what I figured.”

Shiro slipped his hand from the back of Lance’s chair to his shoulder and squeezed it. “We should go,” he said, and Keith stood.

“No,” James said. “I want to hear it from everyone.”

Shiro gave him an apologetic look, and Lance stood. “We’ll talk later,” Lance said, earnest and weirdly obedient, following Shiro to the door. James watched them go, Keith seeing them out—and his ears caught a few exchanged words, but nothing that made any kind of sense.

Keith closed the door behind them, held that pose for a moment before walking back to James’s hospital bed. He stopped and looked at James, as James tore the last of the bandages off his shoulder, the ones from his neck already strewn across the bed. “James,” Keith said, pained.

James bared his neck, lifted his chin, and said, “I had my fucking throat torn out, Keith, and there’s not a scratch on me. What did you do?”

Keith sat on the mattress, pushed the forgotten tray out of the way, and looked James in the eye. “You were bleeding out in the back of the Jeep,” he said. “We were too far away from everything, remember, Lance even fucking joked about it, before…” Keith sighed, looked away for a second before looking back at him. “You needed blood. Shiro gave you some.”

James exhaled once, pushed his hand back through his hair, and said, “holy shit, I thought you were gonna tell me you sold your soul in some kind of Faustian bargain or something, fucking hell.” He slid his hand down to his face, exhaled again shakily, and said, “he didn’t bite me? Just… a blood transfusion?”

“He would’ve, if I asked.” Keith looked down at his hands. “Maybe even if I didn’t, but it wasn’t the full moon.”

James rubbed his hand over his throat, the new skin raw and unmarred. “So...what. Am I a werewolf now? What does this mean?”

“I have no fucking idea.” Keith looked at him again, looked more tired than James had ever seen. “The full moon was a few nights ago, you didn’t change. Nothing changed, really. You just healed…really fast.”

“Is that why we’re still here, then? Am I under observation or something?”

“Yeah.”

James said, “yeah, okay, observation time is over.” He pulled at the IV for a second before Keith grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand away, leaning over him. “Let me go,” James snarled, and Keith didn’t release him, stared into his eyes and looked as remorseful as James had ever seen him.

“James,” Keith said softly. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t want this--”

“Yeah,” James said, tried to shake Keith’s grip but didn’t have the strength to break it. “Neither did I.”

#voltron #jeith #werewolf au #bg shance #you may recognize the prologue as a slightly rewritten prompt from months ago #bc this has been percolating since i first wrote that #not that it matter much but this is set a few years down the line from most of the other werewolf au #someday i'll make an official timeline but today is not that day #the original plan was to have a chapter posted each day leading up to my birthday since i like to post a fic on my birthday #and that would have worked if this fic decided to be THREE CHAPTERS like I INTENDED and instead of FOUR #oh well i'll post the last two together on monday anyway #so a chapter a day for a few days is a nice splurge methinks #now to move for the first time in eight hours

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