#people out there drink & smoke & kill people & whatever. i think getting an anchor is an ok amount of selfishness compared to all this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fandom-necromancer · 4 years

Text

1651. You will regret this.

This was prompted by the amazing @aurea-b! I hope you enjoy, even though it got a bit dark.

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed900 (Warnings: For Reed900: bullying/mental abuse, Gavin is anti-android at first. For the rest: mentioned implied sexual abuse/rape)

Nines had been confident his future would be better. He was ready to leave his past behind him and thankful for the chance at life the DPD was willing to give him. He had been made Detective and had been given a partner. So far, so good.

Only that his partner had to be Detective Gavin Reed.

It was easy to say the man was a total asshole. There was no sign of compassion in the man, on the contrary even: He liked to be the embodiment of a school bully grown up. He hated androids and let him know it. Giving him useless tasks just to get him out of his way, calling him names and accidentally “spilling” his coffee or any other liquid, causing him more than once to short-cut in non-vital system, was just the tip of it.

It wasn’t as bad as some other things that had been done to Nines during his time at Cyberlife, but he had wanted his life to get better, not just a different kind of bad. The prolonged exposure to the man’s bullying was tiring and at some point, the nights spent alone in the bullpen weren’t enough to brace himself for the next day. He needed to stand up for himself. He had to tell Gavin he couldn’t simply do as he pleased with him. He would start setting simple boundaries, easy enough to respect, and work his way up from there. Surely, the man would be able to learn. Maybe Gavin simply didn’t know that what he was doing was annoying and disrespectful. Who knew how human minds worked. He would come around surely.

So, as Gavin stood up for a smoke break, Nines did so, too. ‘I think I’ll accompany you today.’ ‘Knock yourself out, plastic. Just don’t expect any chit-chat.’ Nines nodded and followed the man, convinced that the fact he hadn’t reacted aggressively just yet was a good sign. Once outside, he waited for Gavin to light his cigarette. He was usually calmer once he had took a few drags and Nines thought that them being alone without anyone watching would make the man more diplomatic. So, when he decided he had waited enough, he spoke up: ‘I want to be called Nines. You don’t call your other co-workers names and I want to be treated the same way. I want you to stop calling me tin-can or toaster or whatever racist term you throw my way.’

Nervously he watched the man’s reaction, who simply took another drag, before putting the not even halfway finished cigarette out and throw it away. ‘Oh yeah? You want that?’ Nines was pleasantly surprised, when the human seemed to actually think about it, nodding to himself. That belief was shattered, when the human looked up grinning and Nines knew he had made a grave mistake. In a sudden fit of anger, Gavin took him by the lapels and pushed him against the next wall. He was a surprisingly lightweight model and although it had been one of the reasons why he was allowed to exist, he really wished Cyberlife would have finished him and installed the heavy reinforced plating.

‘You know what?’, Gavin hissed, pushing him against the wall for emphasis. ‘I don’t give a shit what you want! You are a machine. A tool. You may help me with analysing things and being able to see stuff I can’t. But here’s the thing: You can do nothing I couldn’t do myself with blacklight and a bit of time. I don’t need you. I was fine before and I’m fine now. And how I see it, you don’t have anything to force me to comply. Complain to Fowler, see if I care. The only two options you have, tin-can…’ He smiled and cupped Nines cheek to give him a little slap. ‘Is either become the obedient machine you were supposed to be or fend for yourself on the streets where some kids will have their fun with you one night. Who knows, maybe Cyberlife takes you back in – Oh wait… They didn’t want you either, right?’

If Nines applied any more force to his jaw, he would shatter it. He was furious. What did this human think who he was? He wanted more than anything else in the word to punch this man in the face. Maybe break his nose a second time, see the blood spill and Gavin in pain. A bit of revenge for the last month’s abuse. But even more than the human fuelled his anger did the fact that he was right: That were Nines’ only options. Cyberlife had deactivated him and thrown him into a heavily reinforced room to rot after he had deviated and lashed out on the testing grounds, effectively killing all seven Cyberlife researchers that had tortured him plus some more security guards afterwards. He was deemed dangerous and aggressive; most thought his soldier programming had simply never worked correctly and was too dangerous to develop any further. The DPD’s fifth precinct had been the only one to take him as Connor would be able to easily overpower him without his reinforced hull plates. So, Gavin was right saying he could either obey or live his life as a fugitive on the streets of a city that had only recently began seeing androids as sentient beings. The futility of it all had Nines fuming though and he leaned in, hissing: ‘You will regret this.’ He freed himself from Gavin’s grip and marched back into the building.

He didn’t want to give in. He didn’t want to bow his head and let the Detective slap him around. He continued to stubbornly go his way of enduring the abuse and trying to retaliate, but at this point he was just tired. Maybe trying to fend for himself wasn’t as bad as he thought. He could at least try it and if it wasn’t any better, he could still come back. If his only other option was to become slave to Gavin Reed, then the humiliation of crawling back to the police was just another drop in the ocean. He told no one. He just waited until the nightshift arrived, then he put his badge and gun on his desk and send an apology email to Fowler. He would get out of here. He would get away from Gavin Reed and it would be better surely. These thoughts in mind he nodded to himself and walked out of the building.

Gavin came in the next day unsuspecting of what waited for him. As he walked towards his desk and Tina stood next to it, he didn’t think much of it. A grave mistake. ‘Gavin.’ Oh-oh. ‘What the hell did you do to him again?’, she said, her calm voice far worse than any shouting. ‘Isn’t it enough the guy was tortured his whole life?’ ‘The hell you talking about?’, Gavin tried to brush the accusation off, but was interrupted: ‘Did you really need to make it worse? How do you think a bot like him will survive out there? Everyone thinks he’s a murderer! How the hell did you bully him away from the only safe place he knows?’ Gavin held up his hands. ‘It’s just a machine, Tina, chill!’ ‘Just a machine?’ This wasn’t their usual arguments or nagging, Gavin knew. The woman was extremely angry. ‘Gavin. I understood your anti-android bullshit back when it made still sense. Back when those plastics took our jobs and made our lives miserable. But I won’t accept it now. Connor isn’t just a machine. And even if, he saved Hank’s life! If he hadn’t been there, Hank would be dead. That has to account for something, right? And if they were just machines, what would that make me? My fucking girlfriend is an android! Do I love her any less? Do I treat her as if she wasn’t a person?’ Gavin just looked at her, lost for words. She sighed.

‘Wake up Gavin. The world has changed. The world is still changing, damnit. You can’t stop that. And you hurt someone. You met someone who only knew pain and you hurt him even more. I’m sorry Gavin. I liked you once, because you were funny and because you saw what most of these science-fiction freaks didn’t see in their euphemism. But I can’t- I don’t want to stay in contact with someone like that.’ ‘What? Tina!’ ‘No, Gav, please. If you change your mind, I’ll be there for you. But please, don’t speak with me until then.’

Gavin was at a new low. He knew that as he found himself alone at home the entire week. He started drinking more, the time he spent at work is his only anchor point. He went to work, did his job, came home and waited for the day to end. With Tina gone he was lonely. Worse than lonely, he was alone. They had been constantly with each other, going drinking, to the movies or just chilling at home. His actions had really cost him his last connection to the world. Again. Well, that was fine, right? He had spent the best times of his life alone. He had been successful, moving away from his family to Detroit, acing one exam at the academy after the next, getting a job at the police and quickly making it to Detective. Who said this wouldn’t be the same? He nursed his whiskey bottle and swallowed the burning liquid. Yeah. This wasn’t the first time his life had been miserable. Life had its ups and downs, Gavin’s just seemed to have them at a lower average than normal people. That was fine, he was fine, he would just move on, step after step and pull himself out of the shit he was in right now. He always did.

He didn’t manage to do that for several weeks. He drowned himself in work, but life didn’t get better. He should go out and meet people, maybe some that wouldn’t leave him behind, but deep down he knew he would only meet persons that would drag him down even more. He needed good people to remind him when he was entire shit again, but the problem was that for good people you actually had to change to be likeable. And for him that was just a little too much work.

Finally, after nearly a month, he got one of these big cases that would either destroy you or gain you a promotion. A huge Red Ice lab somewhere in Detroit, base of operation for a whole gang. He had found most of the evidence himself, now it was time for SWAT to build up a plan on how to get in there and arrest everyone involved. Later he could go in and search for more evidence to make sure they got every last one of them. Everything went smoothly. Gavin sat in a police car, watching the black SWAT-vans and listening in on their radio. There were the first easy arrests before inevitably chaos broke loose when they entered the main room and sounded an alarm. But after a short and intense shooting, they had cleared the building.

Gavin sighed, getting out of the car and following his team: Tina, Chris, Person. None of them looked at him, none of them could be bothered. Gavin didn’t care. The first chance he got, he walked away from them, deciding to investigate the basement. He walked through a few small corridors, narrowed even more by pipes running along the ceiling and side. So far nothing indicated anyone really used the area. Until he came to a door that was kept open by a brick. Red light painted the wall, likely emergency lighting. But as he opened the door, he was corrected. In the middle of the room on top of a few dirty mattresses laid an android. It was without its skin and completely naked. Gavin carefully stepped further into the room and froze all over as soon as he recognised the android. ‘No way.’

Nines lay before him, looking up to him with wide eyes. He seemed not able to move anything but his eyes, otherwise Gavin was sure he would have scooted into a corner and not lay there exposed in the open. The android watched him with unbelievable fear and panic in his eyes and his LED a dark red. Gavin swallowed and finally had the sense to crouch down towards him. But that only made it worse, Nines pressing his eyes closed hard, seemingly bracing for something far worse.

Gavin couldn’t take this anymore. The way Nines responded, even if -or maybe because – it had been just his eyes, broke the man. This was his fault. The android indeed had been safe with the DPD. And only because he had repeatedly been an asshole, he had fled one night just to end up as a plaything for some thugs. He knew touching him wouldn’t do any good, so he decided to quickly shrug off his jacket and drape it over Nines’ torso. The android looked up at him in surprise, blinking at him as Gavin positioned the jacket to hide the necessities. Only then he realised he was actually crying. He didn’t even care that the android was watching him closely. He pressed his own eyes closed, whispering: ‘I am so, so sorry.’

Suddenly, the door opened and Nines’ eyes jumped up in panic again. Gavin only sniffed and whipped away his tears with his sleeve before turning around. ‘Tina? Get Connor.’

Back at the DPD, Gavin sat at his table, watching Connor and Hank taking Nines to an interrogation room. Gavin didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to know what they would be talking about once they had reactivated the android’s full motor control. He didn’t want to think about what had been the cause of this all and he definitely didn’t want to deal with any of his feelings at the moment. So, when the door opened and Hank’s face turned up at the entrance, Gavin decided to bolt.

He hurried out of the building just to find himself in the DPD parking lot. He leaned heavily on his motorcycle, pushing the key in hoping to get home as soon as possible. Of course, his stupid bike wouldn’t start though. And that was the time, the damn android had made its way out of the building towards him. Nines came to a halt next to him and Gavin simply panicked. He didn’t know what exactly happened, but with all his thoughts racing a mile a minute, he began babbling: ‘I’m sorry, this is all my fault, tin-can, I- Damn, see I can’t get it right even this time! I’m sorry, Nines, I was the one who drove you away. I’m the one who send you straight to them, I’m…’ He couldn’t continue talking as he hadn’t any more air to speak. He felt his chest tighten and his eyes water up and he struggled to even get air through his blocked-up throat. Nines used the break to hold out a hand. ‘I just wanted to give you your jacket back. Thanks for that.’ ‘Thanks? Damn it, bolts- …Nines. I send you to hell and you thank me for bringing a jacket?’ ‘I didn’t expect that’, the android answered in a completely collected manner. ‘Yeah, sure. Wouldn’t expect that from me either if I were you…’, Gavin admitted. ‘You look terrible.’ Gavin chuckled through tears that had started rolling down quietly. ‘Yeah, my life kinda went to shit. Deserved that though.’

‘Why?’ ‘Because I treated you like shit, tin-can!’ Gavin had shouted that, but the echo from the parking lot let him quiet down a bit. ‘I treated you like a machine, like… Phck, even a machine doesn’t deserve the shit I pulled on you.’ ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Gavin swallowed and nodded, looking at his bike. ‘What I did to you wasn’t fair.’ ‘No it wasn’t.’ ‘You endured it all and I made it even worse.’ ‘You did.’

Silence stretched, until Nines spoke up again: ‘Do you regret it?’ ‘Oh, yes. Tin- Nines, yes I regret it like nothing else in my shitshow of a life.’ ‘Would you change the way you treated me if you could?’ ‘Yes…’ Another quiet break followed until Gavin finally looked up and Nines smiled at him. ‘Then prove it. Hank and Connor offered me to live with them should I ever need it again, but I want to stay with the DPD. Although this time I won’t take any shit from you. I would have asked to be partnered up with someone else, but you look like you mean it.’ ‘Phck, yes, Nines, I mean it. I… I don’t think I see your kind as human, maybe I’ll never. But… You are not just a machine. You are a person. If I didn’t see it before, I know it now. The way you… The way you looked at me when… No one should ever look at someone like that. I… I want to make up for what I put you through, I really want to. And I promise you one thing: If I ever do something like that again, if I ever wrong you again, I’ll be the one who leaves. I have… more options than you have.’

Nines laid his hand on his motorcycle to start it up for him, then held it out for him. Gavin hesitantly took it. ‘Then I’ll be looking forward to working with you, Gavin. Just know that I’ll remember your promise and will use it.’ ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else. Detective Nines.’

#detroit become human #dbh #Reed900 #RK900 #Gavin Reed #another Reedemption arc #I love asshole gavin transitioning to nice gavin but why do I always torture Nines for that?#we'll never know

30 notes · View notes

createdbyinvisibles · 4 years

Text

Naruto oc clan bio, Kikumoto clan.

This is a bio for an oc clan of mine, I thought it’d be better to start out with the clan first then the oc it was attached too, but please let me know what you think, I’d really like feedback.

Words: 7652

The Kikumoto clan was a small-sized (now formally disbanded), known for an upper-middle-class kind of nobility, that specialized in intellectual prowess and with that knowledge, they found jobs as the position known as a "book carrier."

Clan name

Kikumoto (菊本) is a surname that means chrysanthemum book; it was given to them because, since their job centred around intellectual prowess, people would make fun of them by calling them a "delicate chrysanthemum book," or Kikumoto. A name that the Kikumoto took as their surname because they felt it actually fit better than their original surname, "Itō" (伊藤)

Clan mottos

Official phrase

“Enjoy today, because tomorrow could be worse.”

Honorary phrase

“I told you so.”

Clan insignia

The clan insignia for the Kikumoto is a black chrysanthemum with four white pistils. The pistils represent the four books of knowledge, and the petals are the rest of the clan doing their best to carry those books. But with the petals loose and distant from the pistil it also symbolises the Leaf village’s interference. With such a powerful government, it leaves many to question exactly how much control the Kikumoto have over themselves in the first place.

Clan status

The Kikumoto clan is a small clan that while very cunning is also very weak, because of this, they secured jobs as book carriers which allowed them protection by the leaf village government. The reason the government protected them is also because of a secret technique created by the Kikumoto. A technique that allowed the user to store objects in their soul (such as government secrets); this technique led to the position of book carrier.

In politics, they have a very neutral viewpoint, and any opinion they do take is almost always gauged by logic and reasoning. Due to this logical and unbiased viewpoint, the clan ended up as a mediator for disputes that ranged from important missions to petty clan disputes that have no business being shared. The latter is more common.

Clan special techniques

Soul Book Transfer Jutsu

The "soul book transfer jutsu," is a secret technique that allows a user with a powerful soul, to transfer their soul into a specially made book, that then seals their soul into the book. Which in the process, creates a pocket world where the user can store whatever they want or need. However, the book will permanently become the user's soul, and if destroyed, will result in the death of the user. If the user or the book are separated, then the user becomes a mindless husk that only cares about the task of getting their book back, and will do anything to get it back.

To transfer a person's soul into a book is for life. When the person dies, the pages of the book will fall out into a pile that must be burned, as it is the person's soul. When a new host comes to transfer their soul, new pages will appear in the book.

Since the pages are a person's soul, if pages are torn, the user will experience immense pain, and if all the pages are torn out, the person will die.

The process of transferring your soul into a book is one that takes a lot of concentration, and if done with a soul too weak, could instantly kill the person. Thus only the best and strongest souls can transfer their souls; you can tell who transferred their souls by the seal marking (that is also the clan symbol) on their dominant hand. This seal marking is used to transport objects through the pocket world and also allows the user to go into the pocket world themselves. When going into the pocket world, the user's body is in a vegetable-like state, in which their body is unable to move and speak; all books share the same pocket world, and book carriers will even have conversations in the pocket world.

The job of a book carrier

The Kikumoto wished to create a service of information security, so they created the soul book transfer jutsu, along with four books each linked to the same pocket world. The books also served as a purpose in lessening the burden each person was to carry in distributing information, each book servicing a different purpose.

The first book was a thick blank, black textbook with white chrysanthemums, which focused on the pursuit of education. The carrier in question was tasked with the job of collecting information, redistributing, and translating the information into textbooks that could be used in all levels of knowledge. It was considered the second hardest job since the carrier in question had to simplify a lot of complicated information to allow everyone to understand it. It also meant having to understand darker parts of history and cover said history up, by whitewashing the material when needed. This whitewashing causes the carrier in question a great sense of guilt that they'd lug with them for the rest of their life.

The second book was a small black cheque book no bigger than a cell phone, which focused on the pursuit of economics. The carrier in question is tasked with the job of recording taxes, surpluses, balancing books, and just overall being a glorified accountant. This job was considered the 3rd hardest as it was just a tedious and draining desk job. Book carriers with this job can also propose economic ideas to the Hokage, but these are just under the table suggestions.

The third book made was a regular-sized, white hardback book with a black book spine, which focused on the pursuit of literature. The carrier in question was tasked with the job to collect and translate books written by authors around the world. When not collecting books the carrier will run the Kikumoto clan's library, a library known for an immense collection of books on practically anything one could think of. It was considered the most relaxed job a book carrier can hold since it involves working a job that allows the person to lead a fulfilling life without a lot of hardships, and be surrounded by vast knowledge at every turn. The worst the person faces at their job is a rude patron; however, while the task may be easy, behind the scenes is a different story.

Because of an excellent fulfilling job, it leads the book carrier to become the emotional anchor for the other three, soaking in everyone else's negative worries like a sponge. A job that the book carrier feels is the right thing to do since the book carrier themself have nothing to complain about in comparison to the others.

The fourth book was a thin but sizable white sketchbook with little black chrysanthemums decorating the cover, this book was focused on the pursuit of politics. The carrier in question was tasked with the job of storing secrets of the village, from jutsus to any piece of information the Leaf deemed problematic. The book carrier is of course sworn to secrecy; other than storing information to be kept confidential, depending on the Hokage the book carrier could also become an advisor for their wisdom was vast.

However, this depends on the Hokage for some Hokage treat the position as nothing more than a glorified bookcase or potential problem. Due to this job oppression, it is common for book carriers of this book to get jobs elsewhere, or to at least have a hobby. This job is considered the hardest to have amongst the book carriers since the death rate is so high. For the cons is to know all, there is to know, and understanding how scary a place the Leaf village can be. This understanding either causes silent resentment or apathetic acceptance, and both cause the user to experience immensely helplessness.

Book carriers are chosen for their immensely strong souls, and resilient minds, which are gained through training and conditioning. A process in which a book carrier at a young age will go through immense mind probing and mental torture to build up resilience for the information they carrier.

This is a process that lasts up to three to five years and is done by telling the book carrier a fact each day, and their goal is to make sure the Anbu member they're assigned can't figure it out. The Anbu is allowed any means necessary to get the information from the book carrier, this involves mental torture and physical torture. This process repeats until the book carrier can keep three facts away from the Anbu guard three times in a row. This mental training is done to prevent the book carriers from going crazy from knowing all the village secrets, and not being able to tell anyone. This training also trains the book carriers to be impregnable to mind reading jutsus and mind probing.

However, this still can't prevent the suffering that comes with such knowledge, and even with all that training, the standard lifespan of a book carrier can be 16-25 years. For most of the book carriers end up committing suicide from the stress and depression, such information brings them, so due to this short life span book carriers can change very quickly.

Book carriers, due to their strong souls, can withstand a lot of the mental pain genjutsu cause, though breaking them is another story.

To a similar effect, due to strong souls book carriers can kick out users of the mind transfer jutsu.

The mental training was first started in Tobirama Senju's term as Hokage, something that was made out of distrust that a book carrier could be trusted to carry the knowledge in the first place. Not to mention most were weary others might find out this knowledge by mental probing or mind reading.

Tobirama was responsible for many strict laws against the Kikumoto clan, such as constant surveillance to keep them protected as well as able to keep tabs on them. Kikumoto book carriers weren't even allowed to take jobs as ninjas and or leave the village, as well as being barred from drinking alcohol, drug use, and smoking.

The third Hokage, Hirzuen was, in turn, a lot less strict and a lot more trusting for better or for worse, he even lifted some of the laws. Kikumoto book carriers from then on could take jobs as genin ninja. However, they still weren't allowed to leave the village and could only take community service jobs. Surveillance was changed to be only necessary if there was a visitor in the leaf village; however, while he was a lot less strict, it didn't stop the Kikumoto from judging Hiruzen for his laxness towards Danzo.

The position of book carrier isn't necessarily hereditary. Still, book carriers typically give their books to their children because family is easier to trust when your clan is known to keep to themselves.

The four books the Kikumoto possess, are books passed down from carrier to carrier; with the help of chakra, these books are a lot tougher than your typical book. The books are waterproof, fireproof, and the covers are resilient to most damage, the one fatal flaw is that the spine of the book, which can be snapped in half. There are only four Kikumoto books in existence, and currently, three out of the four are either missing or destroyed, only leaving one book left.

It's practically impossible to retrieve a book/scroll from a book carrier, without their consent since it's sealed away in their soul. And if the book carrier were to die, then it was guaranteed you would never get the book you were looking for.

Because book carriers hold important information central to the village, there are a lot of restrictions on what they can and can't do. Because of this, it makes the book carriers feel like a prisoner of leaf village government.

Since book carriers must be in constant contact with their book or else they become soulless husks, all book carriers have a special pocket where they put their book.

Messenger Ink Jutsu

The book carrier job is also about recording information learned, creating textbooks for education, and informational scrolls to give out. This process is done by writing in their books and with the "messenger ink jutsu." All the user has to do is place the written in soul possessed book beside a regular blank book of their choosing. And doing the required hand signs, causes the words from the book to transfer into the ordinary blank book.

Clan traits

Emotionally

The Kikumoto is a logical group of people, as well as very calm and open-minded believing in understanding both sides before making a decision or judgement. But while they're accepting individuals, they're also rather apathetic. This apathy comes from knowing precisely when they're powerless, and if they're powerless, then they won't even try to change it.

They were known for great wisdom and the tendency to be ignored often since they're always too ahead of their time, no one believes them until it's too late.

Most members of the clan possessed unrivalled skills in spelling, grammar, and memorization skills with some of the best handwriting in the hidden leaf.

Kikumotos (especially book carriers) are very strong-minded and question everything.

Manners and etiquette are a big thing to the Kikumoto, they make a point to be respectful, though this doesn't apply to gender norms or social hierarchies. No matter your age, they will treat you how you act emotionally.

All genders are valued the same, their clan is so logic-based, they don't care what their kids do as long as it's legal. So boys can become homemakers just as girls can get jobs outside of the house or vice versa.

The Kikumoto clan is known to be remarkably unfazed by anything, which is especially true for book-carriers.

The Kikumoto are very closed off people, keeping to their own circles and rarely befriending people outside of their family.

Physical traits

Members of the Kikumoto clan possess straight neat black hair and matching black eyes, with pasty skin.

Women book carriers in the clan tend to tie up their hair or keep it short, so hair doesn't fall in their face as they read, however, there were a few long-haired female book carriers.

Members of the Kikumoto all wear white clothing with black shoes and or black pants, skirts, or leggings. White symbolizes the clarity that understanding can bring and black symbolizes the maturity in gaining knowledge.

Non-book carrier members of the Kikumoto, wear their clan insignia on their dominant arm, while book-carrier members have the clan insignia sealed onto their dominant hand. (If they're ambidextrous then whatever hand they chose).

Having an ambidextrous child is considered fantastic luck, and most members wish for this when they have children. Ironically only two members in the entire clan's history were ambidextrous by birth.

There are four book carriers for the four books, and one of those book carriers is elected by the members of the clan to be the next leader.

Members of the Kikumoto clan tend to be short and wiry since they spend all their time reading and studying instead of getting exercise or sleeping regularly.

It is also very common for Kikumotos (especially males) to be born near-sighted, and or become nearsighted from all the reading.

Notable Clan members

First-generation

Akira Kikumoto (菊本明)

Akira is the creator of the Kikumoto clan as well as the creator of book carriers. While he was a gentle and thoughtful soul, he was also very concerned with the well being of the newly constructed leaf village. A village he was to call home but a home he felt with all of the ninja clans left to mingle, would lead to informational problems. So to create a service of equal information as security, he created the soul book transfer jutsu, along with four books each linking to the same pocket world. A pocket world that would later become its own magnificent library of secrets. After establishing and giving each book to a trusted member of his family. The book of education to himself, the book of economics to his older sister. The book of literature to his little brother, and the book of politics to his wife.

He then struck a deal with the current Hokage, Hashirama Senju, a deal that detailed the protection of his clan and in return, his clan would look after and seal any knowledge the village had within their souls. The first wave of book carriers was actually really successful, the Leaf at the time was too young of a village to have any detrimental scandals. And since the system was new, there was a lot more freedom given to them that future generations would never have.

Another notable fact about him was that he believed that since the Hokage was the village leader, anything they say must be preserved for history sake. However, since Harshima was a goofy guy, this translated into some rather comical transcripts that survive till this day.

Hiraku Kikumoto (菊本拓)

Hiraku was Akira's little brother and the very first holder of the book of literature, he was also the one to create the "The Kikumoto public library." Which at it's time carried the biggest selection of books the land of fire had to offer if a book wasn't there then it wasn't anywhere. Apart from the reason why was because Hiraku was determined to deliver free knowledge to the rest of the world. He spent his life collecting books and begging the land of fire's Daimyo to agree to give the Kikumoto permission to take any book they want free of charge, so they could put that book in the library. The Daimyo, however, wasn't having it since the claim was ridiculous, but over time, Hiraku wore them down, and they came to a compromise. The Kikumoto clan's book carriers were allowed to take ten books a month from any book store in the land of fire free of charge, any more books, and they had to pay for them.

He was also one of the two only book carriers to be ambidextrous.

Second Generation

Tadashi Kikumoto (菊本正)

Tadashi was the son of Akira Kikumoto and inheritor of his mother's book, making him the political book carrier during the time of the 2nd Hokage: Tobirama Senju. Now Tobirama Senju was a very controlling Hokage, and this was especially true for dealing with the Kikumoto. Tobirama made strict laws against Kikumoto book carriers, from having constant surveillance to not being able to even leave the village. The Kikumoto despised Lord Second; however, no one despised him just as much as Tadashi.

Now Tadashi was a bitter man, not only was he treated like a living bookcase, but anytime he tried putting input, he was formally shut down. Apart from this was also Tadashi's way of giving information, he was a very blunt person. He tended to disagree with Tobirama a lot and said everything he opposed him to his face. Tobirama couldn't exactly kill him since Tadashi was the holder of the village's knowledge, so Tobirama simply forbade him from speaking.

Tobirama's snubbing of Tadashi is actually the reason why his forbidden jutsus kept getting stolen. Because Tobirama couldn't trust Tadashi enough to not try and undermine him so, the jutsus were simply labelled forbidden and stored away. But while it's virtually impossible to steal scrolls sealed inside a Kikumoto book carrier, it's possible to steal a scroll that's put into storage somewhere.

Tadashi filled with spite felt nothing short of powerless. So to cope with this, every day he wrote a journal entry detailing what Tobirama did that day and then used all the logic he had to prove why it was a terrible choice. He ended up living his life out of pure spite and a drive to write another page on Tobirama, it really kept him going. However, while this did keep him going, it wasn't enough, and he ended up dead by his own hand. His only wish was to have Tobirama attend his funeral so that Tobirama would be forced to listen to the entirety of Tadashi's journal entries.

Tobirama stayed at the funeral until they were two entries into reading the journal. He then ordered the book burned along with Tadashi's body. However, the book burned wasn't the real book but an edited copy someone made. The real book is stored within the pocket world of the Kikumoto book carriers, out of fear that if Tobirama read the original version, he would outright demand the Kikumoto clan be eliminated.

Tadashi's only child was estranged from the clan, so his book was given to his twin sister's first daughter, Yua Kikumoto. (菊本結愛).

Sadashi Kikumoto (菊本貞士)

Sadashi Kikumoto was the twin sister of Tadashi and inheritor of her aunt's book. Making her an economic book carrier, at the time of Tobirama Senju's term of Hokage, and while her twin brother Tadashi notably hated Tobirama, she was able to be on cordial terms with the Hokage. And being the level headed person she was, used this to make a difference to make herself look better. However, those cordial terms were dashed after she read Tadashi's journal to Tobirama, but I digress.

She was most known for her idea of an orphan policy which she tricked Tobirama into thinking it was his idea, and so he would accept and pass the law. The idea is that if you were an orphan under the age of 18 with no parent or guardian, then you could be eligible for free admission to a ninja academy if you were accepted. This idea was popular with some since with the Leaf village existing at a time of war, left many kids parentless, and the ability to give those children education was appealing to most. However, this policy came at a cost, the cost of which meant taxes were significantly higher to pay for free education.

To this day it is up for debate whether or not Sadashi did the right thing, because it did solve a huge problem, but it also caused a significant rise in taxes that's never been lowered since.

Junko Kikumoto (菊本順子)

Junko Kikumoto was the daughter of Akira's little brother and inheritor of Akira's book, making her an educational book carrier. She was what you could call a "history cleaner," anytime something happened that the Leaf would want to be forgotten, or a piece of history that the Leaf doesn't wish to teach in schools. Then it was her job to clean it up by whitewashing information to create new textbooks. Despite a sharp mind, she was also a very obedient and honourable person, such traits made it easy for her to be convinced she was doing something for the village's safety. However, she could never get rid of the immense guilt felt by erasing the truth.

For every truth she erased, she wrote a textbook containing that truth to give to her future child, that never came.

Junko due to guilt had constant stress, stress that made it hard for her to find love. So it was a relief when she found a student to mentor, his name was Takumi Saito (斉藤匠) an exceptional young boy who will be talked in depth later. Perhaps it was selfish to use teaching Takumi as a will to live, instead of finding inner peace. But before Takumi, she felt horrible every day of her life and if you were to ask her about her most significant accomplishment, she would say becoming a mentor. Because she was finally able to teach someone what really happened, to question the world around them, was something she could never do in her line of work, and she was happy to at least contribute in one way or another.

Shortly after Takumi surpassed Junko and was on his way to becoming a suitable book carrier, she died, peacefully in her sleep.

Third generation

Hibiki Kikumoto (菊本響) Isamu (勇)

Hibiki Kikumoto was the estranged son of Tadashi Kikumoto, as said before Tadashi was a bitter man and the acorn doesn't fall too far from the same tree. But the ideas and parenting that were able to shape Tadashi into a calm and sane individual weren't present in Hibiki's life, causing him to be full of bitterness and resentment. A part of this resentment was caused by the metal conditioning Tadashi went through, causing Tadashi to become emotionally distant to his son. Hibiki, a supposed inheritor of his father's book, went through similar treatment, only his was milder since he wasn't a book carrier yet. Combined with Tadashi extreme bitter honesty on how their village worked, Hibiki grew up to be a sullenly spiteful young man who viewed power as a way to protect himself.

He indeed had the drive to become a splendid ninja and had enough chakra and intelligence to gain the strength he wanted. Only gaining strength was the problem, because he was a Kikumoto he already had a strong amount of knowledge. But to have power as well as something that seemed like a potential problem to the leaf government. So it was a matter of time before Hibiki was ordered to leave his clan and in turn, join the Anbu black ops by Danzo.

Hiruzen Sarutobi, wanting to try his best to be less strict than Lord Second wasn't exactly sure how to deal with a troublesome Kikumoto. So it was especially easy for Danzo to convince him that Hibiki would fare better with the Anbu.

Danzo's argument was that due to the darkness that gripped Hibiki's heart with a little more conditioning, he would be perfect for the Anbu.

Hibiki was a kenjutsu specialist whose main attack pattern involved a mix of duel iron swords and martial arts, and because of his cleverness, he was perfect for assassinations. He may have not been the strongest ninja in the world but combined with his stealth, attention to detail, and overall cleverness, he was a force to fear. He took pride in the lives he took, he used it as a way to gain what little control he did have. He's practically a shadow with how unknown he is since, for in a lot of ways he isn't all that remarkable or special. He's just another soulless Anbu ninja when it comes down to it, a tool to use and throw away.

He took the name Isamu (勇) a name that means bravery, the bravery he hoped to gain after hearing the news of his disownment and his drafting into the Anbu.

People aren't really sure if he's dead or not since on the day of his retirement from the Anbu, he simply disappeared, and since no one found his body, many assume he ran away, he's been in the bingo book ever since.

Takumi Kikumoto (菊本匠)

Takumi Kikumoto (菊本匠) previously Takumi Saito (斉藤匠); he inherited the book of education by Junko Kikumoto (菊本順子). Which makes him the only Kikumoto book carrier to marry into the family and become a book carrier. Takumi was as stated before an exceptional young boy. At the same time, he wasn't the strongest (actually rather weak), he had the innate ability to be able to make anyone understand a piece of knowledge, no matter how difficult. It was even said he could explain jonin level educational material to academy students.

Junko saw this talent and knew he'd be the perfect educational book carrier, so with permission from him, his family, the leaf village government, and the blessing of her clan. She arranged a marriage between Takumi Saito and Yua Kikumoto, so Takumi could become a part of the Kikumoto clan and become a book carrier. A Marriage that ended up being functional and healthy; it was actually the second marriage between book carriers since the time of Akira since for a long time, all book carriers were in some way related.

Takumi was a very open-minded and a somewhat eccentric person, having many questions no one could answer. This eccentricity led him to think up his own answers that were well rather stupid and made him seem like a crazy conspiracy theorist. However, while his theories were outlandish, he was able to get his classmates to believe them out of sheer charisma and his talent of making anything sound real. He was energetic and eccentric, someone who always had another plan no matter how crazy, he believed in the scientific method and tested everything out no matter how small.

This contrasted nicely with Junko, who was a rather straight-laced and cynical person. Every time he has a question, she would answer it with a question, he would have to answer until he leads himself to the correct answer to what he thought about.

A method he used with his son, and for himself anytime he was in an intellectual pickle.

Despite making books for the government, he hated social norms. While he did try his best to be respectful and gentlemanly when required, if he wasn't talking to Junko, he never used honorifics. Some days you could find him wearing a kimono, pink rain boots, and a pickle jar tied to his head, and he says "Do you like my new haircut?" Or walking a lobster on a leash.

Not a lot of people tease him though, he was so positive and very quick on his feet that even if they wanted to, there would be no reason, so most just ignored him.

He loved his son dearly and encouraged him to question the world just like him and pursue whatever he wanted, book carrier or not he truly wanted it to be his son's choice. In turn, his son took after him a little too much, and even if he was a mama's boy, he still greatly respected his dad.

He handled the guilt better than his teacher since he wasn't really all that concerned in the knowledge of others, as long as the people he cared about were taught the truth. So in a way, he was happy to keep knowledge all to himself and share it only to his wife and son, it made them better he believed. Gave him more of a reason to put them on a pedestal.

Yua Kikumoto (菊本結愛)

Yua was the first daughter of Sadashi Kikumoto, and inheritor of Tadashi's book, making her a political book carrier. She wasn't known for much since the one thing people in the village can remember her for is being a failed experiment. Yua was a gentle child, so much so, people doubted her ability as a book carrier believing her too fragile for such work. So with concerns and ideas, a new system was decided on for the training of political book carriers. Typically a book carrier would toughen up through rigorous conditioning and be resilient against mental attacks. However, with the short life span that most book carriers had, it was thought that if book carriers were to feel immense pain when they were young, it would help appreciate life more in the future.

So in a process called memory swap, in which a book carrier would be placed under a genjutsu that relieves some of Anbu's members' worst memories. The idea was that all the training they go under is to prepare for potential threats but to experience memories, scenarios that really happened it would be the ultimate lesson. Yua was the first and last book carrier to undergo this training method because while it was effective in what it set out, it was too effective. Yua was too young even for Kikumoto standards to even begin to process the horrors she saw, so in turn, she couldn't. She became unable to speak that day, and for the rest of her life, it felt as if her mind was trapped in the horror of the memories she saw. When seeing the finished product there was a scared girl who couldn't even muster a greeting, they decided to scrap the training altogether.

For a long time, she simply lived as the perfect bookcase, when information needed storage, she'd store the information. When people required information instead of merely explaining it, she'd just give them the book. Sitting on a chair and only getting up for bare necessities was how she felt her life was going to go, well until she was arranged to marry Takumi.

Takumi was kind enough for Yua, so it wasn't like she opposed the marriage; she just didn't expect him to actually treat it like a marriage. In her opinion, if he were to just politely eat the food she made and leave for work, she was fine with that. She never left her chair anyway so, it wasn't like she was going to be the best wife either. But no Takumi was determined as he was eccentric and he practically made it his mission to be the best husband he could. He started out by sitting next to her and doing his work from home, writing, translating, and giving remarks every other hour. He did this for two months before he even asked a question, she'd nod or shake her head yes or no, and he'd ask the most random questions like "do you like oolong tea," or "can you do a handstand?"

He tried teaching her to use sign language in hopes of giving her options to communicate. She was a fast learner, but her hands couldn't talk as fast as her mind, so it frustrated her quite a bit. Eventually, Takumi showed her spots outside he liked to study at, they were sweet and remote places that Yua found beautiful. Takumi loved to explain things to her, nothing important, just small everyday bits of knowledge, like how to start a compost bin or how to recycle.

He would also explain his own ideas, and Yua always made sure to take notes and give a smile whenever she particularly likes something he said. Yua loved note-taking when she was younger, it had been a long time before she had taken notes or even so much as wrote something, but she was happy to pick up the skill again. After a while, she also started to write letters, they were far in between, but they were always heartfelt, and in the proper book, carrier fashion held some sage wisdom to it. Takumi always made it a point to respond to these letters with his own instead of telling her his response, because he felt letters should be returned to by other letters.

It wasn't long until Yua had a child, a darling young boy who was like his father, she always liked that. However, the boy had a terribly weak soul and medically speaking could never transfer his soul, to begin with, and call her cruel, but she liked that as well. She was a prisoner trapped as a book carrier and the fact her son would never be able to experience any of it, made her happy. She explained this to her son through letters, writing to never tell his father the things she'd written to him.

Her son was twelve years old before Yua was pregnant again and with a girl, she worried deeply because she had the feeling that this child would become a book carrier, that this child wouldn't get the freedom her son has. However, she should have been more worried about the calamity that was to come, the day the nine tails Kurama attacked the hidden leaf village.

This day was devastating for the Kikumoto compound, for it sat in the blast zone. It killed three out of the four-book carriers at the time, destroying two out of the three books forever. The third book carrier was Takumi, and in trying to get Yua and his children to safety, he ended up crushed by a wooden pillar. A wooden pillar meant to break Yua, but he was able to push her out in time, and with his last strength he told Yua to store his book away within her book and to write to everyone his book was destroyed as well. As the pages fell out of the book leaving the shell of the book of education in tow, he signed "I love you," to his family.

Two months later, she finally gave birth to her second child dying shortly after, some say it was a broken heart. Some say she didn't have enough to live for and that her son wasn't enough of a drive. And some don't care either way, but in the end, no one knows, she simply never told anyone.

Fourth Generation

Shusuke Kikumoto (菊本修介)

(Just a note but I'm keeping this bio to only his accomplishments, but in the future, I'll be making him a full-on character bio.)

Shusuke is the son of Takumi and Yua Kikumoto, he is the second non-book carrier born to book carrier parents. Though technically, their clan officially disbanded after Yua died since book carriers were the lifeblood of the clan. All that was left were some widows, and with Shusuke holding the only book left and unable to use it, they thought it best if the clan simply disbanded.

Shusuke was also known for being the only Kikumoto to be born with a weak soul. He had such a weak soul in fact that if he were to even attempt to become a book carrier, he medically speaking would die. So with the path of book carrier out of reach, he became left out of any clan talk, and if he were to ask questions, the other members would talk down to him, deeming him "idiotic," and moving along; his parents were the only ones to believe in him. However, what he lacked in soul strength, intuition, and charisma, he made up in emotional intelligence. He was a great listener and picked up on even tiniest details in a person, it was even said he could look a person in the eyes and understand them on an emotional level.

His understanding, combined with his reflecting nature, made him understand one thing, that the world is filled with pain, and no one actually knows what to do about it. Shusuke knew some people share trauma and get along, and some people isolate themselves and relish in it, but he found both ways to be a slippery slope at best. This realization scared Shusuke because from what his mother wrote to him about the job of a book carrier, it meant that his sister would experience pain. Pain that the world couldn't seem to remedy and if the only way was through shared trauma, then how was he supposed to be a good older brother if he never had any trauma.

So he did what his father would do, applying the scientific method and trying his best to gather data. He talked to war veterans, begged his mother for a book on interrogation tactics that the Anbu used, that she begrudgingly gave him. He studied books on how medical ninjas dealt with uneasy patients, and with all of this, he used it to find discrepancies and similarities with all the data he could get his hands on. He even tried begging the Uchiha clan to let him talk to prisoners, so he could see how their minds work, but the Uchiha always told him to go home and stop bothering them.

The data he sought was found, it was then he realized that the things people labelled "little problems." Were actually a lot more common and could be connected just as one could connect symptoms to an illness. This realization caused him to write an essay of mental illness as a concept showcasing and giving names to what was known before as nothing more than another troubled past. Not only did it showcase mental illness, but it has talked about the symptoms that could be commonly attributed and possible treatments for said symptoms.

This research paper would continue to be his life's work and be a baseline for his sister's work as a therapist.

His work specialized in research and data development and creating thesis papers, thesis papers that centred the most around depression, PTSD, and anxiety.

He lacked his father's social skills, and at first, few believed him and even called him delusional and or insane. Still, it never seems to get him down and to this day, while his experiences will never be as painful as others, he'll always try his best to sympathize for his sister. So she can help other people, he's more of a loner in comparison to his sister and keeps to himself.

Rin Kikumoto (菊本凛)

(Rin will be the main character in the story I'm making about her, so her bio will be short here since she's not only getting a full bio but also a whole mini-series.)

Rin Kikumoto is the daughter of Takumi and Yua Kikumoto and the little sister to Shusuke Kikumoto, and inheritor of her mother's book which makes her a political book carrier. A position undecided, since while each book held its own purpose with three out of the four books destroyed, there has been talk of making Rin a carrier of all four books. However, others say that at best she could be both an educational and political book carrier but forcing someone to do all four is impossible. As of now, it is decided that Rin will remain a political book carrier and the leaf village has its own library, accountants, and textbook makers. Promptly eliminating the three other book carrier jobs, since the only job out of the four that only the Kikumoto could do was the political job. Since no one other than a book carrier could really be able to hold leaf village secrets as secretive as they do.

Her soul is immensely strong, in contrast to her older brother, so it's as if his soul strength all went to her.

She is known mostly for being the last book carrier, those who know of her clan pity her because they believe she's fated to die young. However, she makes it a point to try and live the longest she can, outright refusing to not only leave her brother alone but to be another prisoner of depression as the rest of the clan were. For she may be a prisoner of the leaf, but that doesn't mean she's a prisoner to her own mind.

She lacks the skill to immediately understand people like her brother, but she tries her best, and she did inherit her father's charisma making her a fantastic conversationalist. She's also the second member in the entire history of Kikumoto book carriers to be ambidextrous. So it's a silver lining.

She became a ninja, even knowing she'd remain forever a genin ninja because even if it's small, she wanted to do her best to help and understand the people around her.

She's trying her best to understand the people around her. Because her older brother helped her so much with his research that she wants the same for others. Something that her older brother isn't willing to do himself, preferring to stick to his thesis writing. Since Rin isn't as reclusive as her brother, combined with her social skills. She's set on doing what her brother won't do, become the first professional therapist. She just needs experience and practice.

Clan Customs

Letters are a massive deal to the Kikumoto, and to throw away or misplace a letter is the equivalent to ending a relationship of any kind since it shows them that you no longer care about them.

It is customary to give flowers to dead loved ones, every week as well as telling the gravestone what the person did over the week.

While marrying outside of the clan is fine, if the person they seek to marry is part of another clan, it is simply forbidden. Since the Leaf village is afraid that members might try to marry Kikumotos for their information.

Carrying books aren't the only things Kikumoto can store, in fact as long as it doesn't damage other items within the pocket world, practically anything non-sentient can be stored. However, while they can store virtually anything, the Kikumoto will only carry luggage amongst other things for the people they care about. Since the objects are going into their souls, it feels intimate to them in a way, be it in a platonic way or a romantic one, it's a way to show trust in their clan.

#naruto #naruto shippuden #naruto clan oc #naruto ocs #leaf village

13 notes · View notes

harveywritings92 · 4 years

Text

One shot Soulmate au: Connor x Italian!Reader.

[Soulmate Au: first thing you say to your soulmate appears on your skin as a tattoo.} [shorter then my other fics.]

Connor's tattoo: "Guardalo Tonto!" [watch it fool!]

Reader's tattoo: "I'm Sorry, what did you call me?"

Connor glanced at his soul-mark curiously at first the words they obviously confused him when they first appeared, none of his people were able to translate them they weren't Kanienʼkéha or English as he learned from Achilles who informed him that his Soulmate was Italian.

So, during his free time in between missions he kept his eyes and ears open for any foreigners, new to the Boston area as it turned out he didn't have to wait long! He was about ready to leave port and set foot on the Aquila when he heard a commotion a couple ships over.

There was a loud boom followed by several colorful explosions and smoke, Connor and half the port were fixated on the disturbance and realized it was fireworks going off, the native assassin and his crew brushed it off as someone being negligent with their cargo, that was until someone ran into Connor. the large man grunted and looked down to see a woman y/ht Y/wt with pretty but dingy y/hl y/hc wearing a dirty and somewhat revealing dress her fierce y/ec glared up at him.

"Guardalo Tonto!" she hissed jumping to her feet ready to run; only for the stunned native to grab her wrist. "I'm Sorry, what did you call me? " He asked The woman was about to snap at him to let go before processing what he had just said, but was sidetracked by a group of men covered in colorful powder and soot searching the port's market.

"Spread out search every nook the putana couldn't have gotten far!" the ship's captain snarled coughing up purple dust as his men started going up the stalls and other ships asking if they've seen an Italian woman fitting Connor's assumed soulmates description.

The woman immediately hid behind Connor who stood up straighter as his protective instincts were on the immediate high; and before the woman knew what was happening the native assassin grabbed her hand and lead her aboard his ship.

He brought her to the captain's cabin and hid her in a small hidden compartment in the wall with his assassin uniform. "Wait here and don't make a sound." he said closing the door the woman nodded cautiously after a few minutes in the dark, She curiously pressed her ear against the door and could hear the man talking to one of her pursuers.

"Have you seen a woman, Y/ht Y/hc, Goes by Y/n, she may have cuts on her left wrists?"

"No. I haven’t seen any woman like that."

"He's lying look around the ship, the putana here."

"I assure sir she's not; this is an exploration ship, not a passenger ship."

Y/n held her breath as she heard the men who were holding her captive, walking around the ship she tensed hearing the captain's cabin door open, she tensed hearing the wardrobe that right next to the hidden door open then slam shut and the footsteps go around room and before returning to door "Satisfied?" She heard her soulmate huffed annoyed having these strangers poking his ship.

The captain of the growled and shouted "You find her?" his men must've said "No" the scared woman heard him punch the wall before his one of his men mention the man her uncle sold her to, the captain bellowed "Screw her owner! that Bruja is dead when I get my hands---"the man was cut off by her soulmate's intimidating voice. "You need to get off my ship, now..." his voice held promise of harm towards slaver captain, Y/n felt chill go down her spine as a pregnant silence filled the air after what seemed like hours the slave captain spoke up. "keep searching the other ships she couldn't have gotten far..." he growled finally leaving the Aquila...

She the heard her soulmate yell that they were returning home rise the anchors... *was he the captain?* She wondered a few seconds later the door of her hiding spot opened she winced as light filled her vision blinked as her eyes adjusted to see her soulmate staring at her curiously as cogs in his head turned and stalled at the same "... Ratonhnhaké:ton" he blurted out suddenly confusing Y/n who winced. "urm,...Bless you?" she said unsure before the native man’s cheeks flushed he cleared his throat.

"I...uh, that's my name, if you have trouble pronouncing it you can call mt Connor." he said helping her out of the compartment, the Italian girl nodded he saw the blood rag tied to her left wrist, and poor state the woman was in she very thin and bruised. "Y/n L/n." she mumbled tiredly spots started to fill her vision as Connor called out to her before blacking out...

When Y/n woke up she was confused and terrified when she woke up in an unknown room, she looked down saw her hand was bandaged and she was wearing a shirt and who ever owned it was a giant. "Awake I see." she jumped at the sudden voice and saw an old man standing the door. "w-Where am I, who are you?" she stammered in fear was this the man who bought her?

"Achilles Davenport, you're at my homestead." he said calmly Achilles could tell she terrified of him causing the old man to frown. "You don'y have to be scared child, You're safe now..." he said taking a seat at the edge of the bed. "Though I have to say you gave the boy quite a scare, I've never seen Connor that worked up before." he chuckled when he saw the spark of recognition in the Italian girl eyes.

"So that wasn't dream? I really did meet..." she mumbled before flinched when she felt a hand on her head as the old man gently pat her head in a grandfatherly fashion, it had been years since someone was this nice to her Y/n couldn't help but start crying.

"What's going on here?" a familiar voice spoke up Y/n looked up from her lap to see her soulmate standing in the doorway eyeing Achilles suspiciously. "You're soulmates awake."the old man pointed out. "I can see that." the native hummed "And she's crying why?" Connor huffed Y/n sniffled before speaking up. "I'm happy.." she croaked before crying again.

Achilles got up from Connor's bed "Don't just sit there boy, talk to her..." he hissed knocking Connor's butt with he cane as he left the room Leaving the soulmates alone, the native assassin swallowed and took cautious steps before sitting at the edge of his bed, a few minutes of awkward silence and Y/n sniffling Connor finally spoke.

"...Your hand, does it hurt?"

"No..Who ever tended it did good job."

"That's good, How did you hurt it?"

".."

Y/n looked uncomfortable Connor put his hands up and stammered "Y-you don't have to..I ju-" Y/n wiped her eyes with the shirt and shook her head. "I did it before I set fireworks off, I found flaw in shackle they had me chained to." She shudders but continues. "they gave me this glass jar to drink out of I smashed it and just started stuffing shards after shards into between my skin and the metal until..pop! it opened."

She set the fire using the guard lantern she finished as the Native man was both impressed at her escape and angry that he didn't kill that slave trader when he had chance. "They didn't..." he didn't want the say it, luckily the y/hc knew what he was asking and shook her head Connor relaxed.

"Who ever bought me insisted I stay a virgin..."She winced when she tired to sit up the native hesitantly helped by grabbing a pillow and placing it behind her back. "You can't be moving around on your own, Dr. white said you're too malnourished." he informed according to White; it was miracle she could even walk in her state, let alone get to Connor!

Whatever god she worships must've been listening and really wanted her to live! because any normal person would've been dead days... maybe hours before her arrival to Boston.

Connor had thank whoever was watching out for his soulmate and guided her to him otherwise...he shook his head not wanting to think about it he's heard the stories and seen what happens to people when losing their soulmates before they even met, they don't often end well.

"How long will I have to stay in bed?" Y/n voice cut into his thoughts. "Few weeks a month maybe? until your body's weight is healthy and then Dr. White will see if you can leave." he replied automatically trying to recall White's instructions.

"However he did say if you feel up for it you try and walk, slow steps, it'll help your legs, but make sure someone's with you." He informed cautiously as he won't be around much, Achilles let him take break to look aft Y/n while she was comatose and for the first week of her waking up but afterwards it was back to business.

Conner was conflicted wondering how he was going to explain to Y/n that he was an assassin? when he felt something small touch his hand he looked and saw it was Y/n's hand... usually when someone tries to touch him Connor would shrug them off or tell them otherwise, but not the h/c woman never her, before he even knew what he was doing his fingers had intertwined with Y/n's and a rare smile graced Connor's lips as the two chatted and got to know each other.

Soon two years had passed, had Y/n integrated fine with the homesteaders. And though the y/ht woman was back to full health she wasn't with out her scars, her left pink and ring finger don't bend and are always half curled and she has slight limp when she walks and has to use a cane.

Despite that she's just a normal woman... well, to any other person she was normal woman to Connor she was his dea della felicità, [Goddess of Happiness.] he declared in broken Italian, often talking about her to his friends; if he trusts them enough, and acting somewhat flustered and blushy when the she's near by.

It was almost comical when he introduced her to his tribe, He was red in the face and kept stuttering over his words so badly that Y/n had to take over! Much to Ratonhnhaké:ton and his tribe's astonishment, she'd picked up his mother tongue so quickly. So, needles say his wish to marry Y/n and adopt her into his tribe was definitely approved.

Then again he would have married her even without their approval, he had the homestead's unyielding support and that would worked just as well, Y/n cheeks flushed as Ratonhnhaké:ton flashed her one of his rare smiles on the way back home, The y/ht woman had a ghost of smile on her lips she placed a gentle hand on her belly, if her husband to-be was happy now he was gonna be over the moon when she tells him the news.~

~End~

#assassin's creed x reader #assassin's creed 3 #ratohnhaké:ton #connor kenway x reader #Italian! Reader #soulmate au #Reader is female

77 notes · View notes

erstwhile25 · 4 years

Text

Songbird’s Tale.

It sits, under lock and key, on a boat full of thieves, liars, and charlatans. It is a simple thing and while this is a boat that has seen king’s silks, diamonds the size of peacock eggs, chests overflowing with gold doubloons, it is still one of the most valuable objects aboard. It boasts this virtue for several reasons. The first, and most important is that it is among the most beloved objects aboard. Sea weathered hands have lovingly stroked it’s soft leather cover, salt tears have been shed over it’s vellum pages, and more than once it has been clutched reverently to a chest in the dead of night. The second reason, and possibly as important as the first (depending on who you asked) is that it is among the most feared objects aboard. Eyes have hastened to read it’s flowing script in the waning light of a burning candle, it has been secreted away time and time again from those with horrid intent, and it has been the pinnacle of many a night terror aboard this boat. The third, and final reason is that it is one of two objects aboard this craft that can truly, without exception, claim to be utterly unique on this...or any world.

Oh the story on it’s pages has been told before, you’ve probably heard a version of it yourself in some fashion or another. However the names have been changed, the reasons for what happened are muddied, or sometimes parts of the tale have simply been left out. This is to be expected, it’s what happens to tales that are told over and over again. It’s why we have books after all. This is the only surviving written account of this tale however. It’s sister account burned in a terrible fire, and whenever a pen laid down to scribe the tale again, some force drew the author off on a terribly urgent errand. When they would return to the page they found, much to their chagrin, that the tale they were about to write now slipped their minds completely.

This tale however stays firmly anchored to it’s pages, much to it’s chagrin, in the svelte flowing script that no hand aboard this boat can reproduce. It sits under lock and key, in the care of the one man who has no need to open its cover. For he is intimately familiar with the story already. He is in fact unable to forget it, no matter what drink he consumes, or pleasures he takes in the night. So there it sits, waiting to be read again. Consider your luck reader, for you are given the chance that few will be granted. You are to be given a chance to read behind the cover with the Songbird and Raven embossed upon it. Consider your luck, for men and women have died for less.

Once between the slope of the mountain and the swell of the sea, there was a fishing village. As fishing villages went it was nothing spectacular, with it’s rice fields bordering the swamps, and the bounty the ocean provided, it’s people had little to want for in the way of food. If it differed at all from its neighbors it was that in this village, there was no proper inn. Where the men of most villages would start the end of their day with a bit of rice wine in the tavern, here instead every villager would start the end of their day by going to the shrine. The shrine was a simple affair of stone, just where the slope of the mountain met the swell of the sea, and it was not for the marvelous view of the waves or the setting sun that the villagers flocked so punctually. No, the men and women of the village came for Songbird and her stories. Songbird, was a slight girl of an age none could get her to admit. The eldest in the village could remember the days when her mother before her told the stories, but they could never remember the day when the mother had passed, and the duty fell to the child. Regardless the villagers young and old learned not to press such questions upon the little storyteller, for those were the days she tended to take her stories back with her into the woods. For the patient and kind however, the young speaker would set her small lantern on the head stone of the shrine, and she would ply her trade.

She told stories of young boys who learned great words of power. She spoke of young girls who were trapped in haunted bathhouses of eld. She recited how samurai were bought to fight bandits for a few bags of rice. She told the stories that villagers needed to hear, and for every tale the villagers went to bed with lighter hearts, and woke the next morning ready to work come whatever may. For Songbird’s troubles, she was gifted a bag of rice every night, two on festival days. She never asked for this gift, nor did she turn it away, and never did the thought occur to the villagers to withhold what she had earned. It was a simple exchange, so too was it powerful.

Never did the village go hungry, nor did it ever miss a tithe to it’s Lord. Hurricanes could pound it’s coast, driving away fish for months, earthquakes could muddy the waters of it’s rice fields, but always the village would have enough to eat, and always the wagons it sent back to the capital would be full. While it’s neighbors would come and go from plaque, bandits, or wildlife, the little fishing village would weather the tests of time, over and over again.

Back in the capital, the ruler of the land took notice of this one village and it’s prosperity. Being a man of learning, he wished to know what industriousness kept it’s people so productive, with the intent of instilling such a virtue upon all of his lands. So he called his guards and retinue to him, and marched a procession to the gates of the little village, offering up gifts and praise to its peoples.

“My dear subjects!” he cried with pomp and vigor “There is so much I feel my kingdom could learn from you! Come show me how you bring in the harvest, and prepare for the hard days ahead!”

Being his subjects they did exactly that, they showed him every bag of rice, every net they hauled over the side of their boats, and every storehouse where they held food for the hard times. The truth was in what they didn’t show him, for never did they take him to the shrine, and never did they once speak of Songbird.

The Lord was no fool, for no fool sits on a throne for very long. It was with clever eyes that he saw their worried glances towards the edge of the forest, and cautious ears that he heard whispers of a name just beyond hearing. With polite gestures, more gifts, and even more praise, the Lord left the small little village. Under cover of darkness with only a few of his retinue, he stole back into town, and waited by the edge of the forest. Along came the villagers to sit by the shrine, and through the forest came the bobbing light of Songbird’s lantern. Intently the Lord watched her set her lantern on the head stone, and listened to her tell a story of a young boy who became lost in the forest, only to be guided back by a small faeling child.

When the last of the villagers left to return home, the Lord approached the small girl upon the shrine and beseeched her to come with him to the capital. “There the light of your lantern may shine down upon all my subjects, your stories may teach them things they have forgotten, and all might prosper during my rule.”

To his honeyed words however she was immune, she simply shook her head and replied. “So long as this village stands, so shall I remain.” Then without so much as a backwards glance, she took her lantern and walked back into the forest.

Unaccustomed to being refused outright, the Lord returned many times to the shrine, thinking that perhaps with a different offer the girl would come to her senses and return to the capital with him. He offered her gold, jewels, fine clothes and pretty men and women to fill them, however every time, just as the last she would turn away and walk into the forest saying “So long as this village stands, so shall I remain.”

One night, pirates swarmed the shores of the tiny fishing village. They killed the men, sullied the women, burned the nets, and trampled the rice fields. Somehow, they had gotten it into their heads that the village had gold hidden away, and when they found none, their anger and violence was tenfold to behold. When Songbird’s lantern came bobbing through the forest that night, she found not the hopeful faces of the villagers she had known all her life, but a smoking ruin. Perched atop the head stone of the shrine, was the Lord, waiting as patiently as one does for the grass to grow.

“There is no more village.” She said, and what was in her voice was but for her and the Lord to know.

“No” he replied. Possibly ashamed “There is not.”

With nothing more said between them, she accompanied him to the capitol.

The Lord kept her at his castle in a great spiraling tower, providing her with everything he had promised before. For finery and comfort she never wanted, even for company she was rarely without. A jester named Ashpatch, for the color of his motley, was made to follow her everywhere. The Lord was still no fool, and knew he had something precious. To guard his wondrous storyteller he hired a great blade mistress to act as her keeper, her name was Serna From The Seas, and with a spear she was untouchable. The Lord even fashioned a grand gate of steel and stone, and there was only one in his kingdom that could open it, a giant of immense size, the last of her kind named Onra. To all these the Lord promised that he would double any bribe offered them to betray him, and he meant every word.

For a time things were as they had been at the village. At the end of the day, Songbird and her lantern would head down to the court of the Lord. There she would set her light at the highest step below his throne and she would tell tales. She told a tale of warring royal families amidst the deadly encroaching Northern winds. She spoke of the fall of the last great city and the two men who fled across the desert in the wake of its ruin. She recited the story of a boy and his wizard, and how they tamed a warring nation. She told the stories that royalty needed to hear. For her troubles each day the Lord granted Songbird one audience in private at the end of her tales. Each audience she would ask for but one thing, to be allowed to leave the capitol. To this the Lord had but one reply. “So long as this city stands, so shall you remain.”

For a time it was thus, day after day. Finally one day Ashpatch came before the Lord’s court and claimed he was unable to cheer up Songbird despite his best efforts. He was unsure if he was fit to even be called a jester any more. “I throw myself to the floor as so! I tug my ears and make faces that would make even my old shriveled grandmother cry with hilarity! I tell the most lewd jokes about the Lord’s wife that I can conjure and still that girl sits there sullen without so much as a smile in her eye!”

Among the commotion of the Lord calling for Ashpatch’s head, none in the court heard of the clamor coming from Songbird’s tower. Ashpatch had intended this, for Songbird had once told him a story of a fool who was wiser than his king, and for this Ashpatch loved Songbird. The clamor was Serna From the Sea and her deadly spear, slaying any samurai or knight that came between Songbird and her way out of the castle. By the time the Lord made his way down from his throne room to the slaughter in his city, Songbird was well on her way to the gates.

“Who bought you??” He cried to Serna From the Sea as she cleaved through his court one after the other “How much was your loyalty that I could not retain it??”

“She told me a story” Replied Serna From the Sea “Of a goddess who cut off her fingers and cast them to the deeps so that there would be whales, otters, and fish for my people. Double that.”

The Lord could not, so Serna From the Sea slew him.

When Songbird came to the great gate of steel and stone, she found it open, with Onra the giant standing there smiling. Songbird had been the only person in the city who had ever talked to the last of the giants. During their talks Songbird had told her a story about a giant who befriended a girl in the land of dreams, and for this, Onra loved Songbird. Thus did Songbird leave the capitol, no longer standing, but burning in her wake.

She returned back the way she came, her lantern bobbing all the way down the road to the ashes of her village. Long since abandoned, the shrine crumbling, and the forest withering, Songbird found but one man down at the beach. He tended a small boat, and wore a crumpled hat, his hair was the color of salt.

“Who are you?” She asked.

“I am the Ferryman.” He said.

“Do I know you?” She squinted and held up her lantern, there was something familiar about his face.

“No longer.” He turned his face away. “I was once the captain of a ship, but the lie of gold tore us apart. Now I ferry people to the other side.”

She nodded, remembering now where she had seen him. “I will tell you a story if you ferry me to another land.”

For the first time in her life, someone frowned at her and shook his head. “I know plenty of stories, could you forgive me instead?”

“No.” She said quite plainly. “However if you take me to another land, you may have my lantern.”

“Will you not need it?”

“Not where we are going.”

And so it was thus. Songbird was never seen on that shore again, and though stories continued to be told without her, none were quite the same.

#written word #The Ashen Rook #Kail Gerrad #final fantasy xiv

9 notes · View notes

holdthosebees · 5 years

Text

Never Quite Free

Author’s Note: Part 2 of my series, WKELTAOTTMGATMASFAB. Part 1 and explanation here. In this installment: Jon and Martin, in (web-induced) retirement.

Pairing: Jon/Martin, kind of

Quote: Just the whole damned song.

It shouldn’t be possible, the level of domesticity they fall into. They move out into the countryside, away from London and the Institute, and into a tiny little house with a blue door and a neat little garden plot. Fewer people means fewer temptations on Jon’s part, although sometimes he passes someone in the produce aisle or in line to buy coffee and just knows, in that terrible visceral way, and he wants. If Martin is with him, and he usually is, he’ll put a hand on Jon’s shoulder or back and steer him away, the touch gentle but firm. If Martin isn’t with him, Jon will ball his own hands into fists in his pockets and bite down on his tongue until the urge vanishes or the person leaves. Some days, it’s all he can do not to chase after them. Martin gives him a worry stone with a depression like a thumbprint in the center, and its weight in his pocket is both promise and constraint. Another anchor.

Martin gets a job as an assistant at a bookshop. It doesn’t pay much, but they have the funds they took from the Institute when they left, which they know no one will come looking for. Basira promised them as much, when she took over as head. It was enough to buy the house, and it’s enough that Jon doesn’t have to work, not yet. Instead he spends his days cleaning and gardening and cooking and trawling the internet for supernatural forums, tracking any sign of the lightless flame, or the web. It isn’t enough. Basira sends him statements every month, wrapped up neatly in a cardboard box. These also aren’t enough.

When he gets the package Jon spends the next three days holed up in his room, reading, devouring. He is no longer the Archivist, but once you are marked you can never return to what you were. Martin leaves food on a tray outside of the door and knocks every night to remind him to sleep. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. When he emerges finally after those three days Martin takes the rest of the statements up to the attic for later, then manhandles him into the shower. Their life together is full of many petty intimacies, some of them uncomfortable; Martin’s hands against his scalp while he washes out his hair is one of Jon’s favorites, although he would never admit it out loud. He can tip his head back under the hot water, sated and safe, and allow himself a short period of rest.

It doesn’t come easy. The nightmares haven’t stopped, although the new ones come less frequently. One morning he remarks to Martin over breakfast that perhaps he is outliving the statement givers. He makes a joke about hunting them down and killing them for a good night’s sleep, and Martin purses his lips and unfolds his morning paper a little too roughly in response. Later, Jon insists on doing the dishes even though he cooked, and Martin insists on helping even though he’s wearing a decent button up because he has a shift soon, and they even sing a long a little to the radio as they clean.

This is something Jon has discovered about Martin since they moved in together: he likes to sing, is good at it if he thinks no one is listening, but will try to hit the high notes even if they’re way out of his range. It was annoying, until it wasn’t. And then eventually it was annoying again, but a different, softer kind of annoying, and Jon felt comfortable in the fact that even if he complained Martin would not stop singing, not entirely.

There’s a cat in the bookstore where Martin works, and Jon starts bringing him lunch as an excuse to see the cat, and then just to get out of the house. This is how he meets Martin’s coworkers: Allen, the owner, who is slowly going deaf. His granddaughter, Kelly, who smells like bubblegum and has never left this tiny town. Amina, who keeps lizards and asks Jon leading questions about how he and Martin met and how long they’ve been roommates, and how nice it is that they’ve found each other. Jon doesn’t bother correcting her. There aren’t words to describe the ways in which he and Martin are connected to one other, not in English, but the closest one is probably husband.

The world goes on. Jon gets occasional emails from Daisy with rambling updates, most of the information personal. Mixed into the snippets of office gossip and meditation on new tattoos are bits of important information: the Lonely was going to attempt another ritual, the Vast made an attack on the archive, Basira came in one morning and found her entire office covered in cobwebs. Always long after the fact, too long for him to be of any use. He tries not to miss it.

Whenever he thinks about returning to the Archive he remembers the door in his mind, and it is only the thrumming of the thread that binds him to Martin that prevents him from trying to go back. Even for a moment. Just to see a sliver of that endless ocean of knowledge, pure and beautiful. It makes his head ache just imagining it, and he can feel the press of Martin’s concerned disapproval.

They are tethered to each other, and eventually to the house as well, and Jon does his best to make peace with that. He mostly succeeds, although not without incident. It is five years after they moved in together, five and a half since what Jon has privately and sardonically started to refer to their ‘wedding night,’ when Jude Perry finds them. Martin is at work. Jon is busy in the garden, weeding out the basil. The summer sun is hot on his back, and he stops to wipe sweat off his forehead and grab a drink of water when he sees her.

She’s leaning on the fence, her arms crossed, watching him. When they make eye contact, she waves, a sarcastic little flip of the hand. Jon stands slowly--his legs aren’t what they used to be, are aging as fast as his mostly-grey hair--and walks down the garden path towards her. He stops three feet away, his burned hand tucked out of sight in his pocket.

“What do you want?” he says. Once, it would have stopped Jude Perry cold, holding her in place until he’d drained her of information and fear. Now, she only laughs.

“Don’t even try it, Archivist,” she says. “Except, you’re not the archivist anymore, are you? Pathetic. I was just in the area, thought I’d drop by. See where the Mother of Puppets stashed you away.”

“Don’t try anything,” Jon says. He puts a little force behind it, voice dropping into a growl.

“Or what?” Jude is clearly enjoying herself. The wooden fence post has started to smoke where it meets her skin. “You’ll throw a trowel at me? Ooo, scary.”

“I might, if you don’t go away.”

“Tell me,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “does it hurt, being put out to pasture like a lame mare? Knowing that your little friends in the institute are harnessing the power that should have been yours? Does it rankle, being shackled at the leg to that useless man--”

“That’s enough,” Jon says, with more confidence than he feels. He hefts the trowel menacingly. “Tell me what you’re doing here, or get out.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Archivist,” Jude Perry says. Her fingers tighten on the rail, and the smell of woodsmoke fills the air. “I could burn this all down around your ears. Maybe you’d even thank me, eventually, for freeing you. If I don’t kill you first.”

“No,” Jon says. “I don’t think you can.”

Jude Perry says nothing. Her upper lip peels back, revealing teeth.

“If you could,” Jon continues, emboldened, “you’d have done it already. I don’t think the web will let you. For whatever reason, it wants me alive. And you’re not powerful enough to fight the web, not yet. Not on your own.”

“You’re pathetic,” Jude Perry says. “There’s nothing here worth burning.” She turns away, gives him a jaunty salute as she leaves. Over her shoulder, she calls, “You can’t pretend forever, you know!”

Jon watches her go. He has clenched his burnt hand too hard; it throbs where his fingernails dug into the skin. Martin will be home in three hours, at which point they will make dinner in companionable silence. If it’s a nice night, they’ll take chairs out to the back deck, and eat while watching the stars. Jon will ask Martin about work, and Martin will ask Jon about the garden. They’ll ignore the strands that bind them together so tightly that sometimes Jon takes in a breath and feels Martin let it out, and they’ll ignore the fact that Jon barely picks at his food and Martin flinches and goes still whenever he sees a house centipede or an ordinary earthworm, and later on in bed they will cling to one another and whisper where only the night can hear them of the dead, of Tim and Sasha and Martin’s mother and everything else they’ve lost, or else they’ll lie in silence and wait for the tide of distant and unforgiving dreams to break. “I know,” Jon says. Then he turns, and walks back to the garden. There is still work to be done before nightfall, and the basil isn’t going to weed itself.

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #Mine #my fic #WKELTAOTTMGATMASFAB #jonmartin #jo(h)n sims #martin blackwood #in case it isn't clear they were soulbonded by the web and it took them both out of commission #which probably isn't how the actual soulbond process works #but w/e

55 notes · View notes

illegiblewords · 4 years

Text

Stalemate

Nights in Ishgard are cold, have been since the Seventh Umbral Calamity so disrupted this realm’s aether. Breath steams in air that tastes ever-so-faintly of smoke, hearths lit against eternal winter.

A man takes his room in The Forgotten Knight, silent and withdrawn despite surrounding conversation. This is not where he is expected, and had he given notice his choice would assuredly have been challenged. House Fortemps is a home away from home, offering refuge even as his chosen Crystal Braves howl for blood. So had Haurchefant insisted, with a wide smile and open arms.

Dead, now. And with his family in mourning, unwilling even to resent him for their sacrifice… the Warrior of Light withdraws. Let them grieve in privacy, free of the leech who stole their kin.

Here, in his own quarters, the other guests are muffled. The mead he’d been given was too sweet for his tastes and it lingers. Sticks against his teeth. A faint hiss from the fireplace reminds him of time’s passage, of life continuing as if Aymeric de Borel had not been beaten and tortured under his father’s direction. As if the Archbishop had not betrayed his own people, his own faith, with open eyes. As if Haurchefant Greystone still lived and laughed and gave his unwavering confidence to one who had not earned it.

The greatsword rests propped near the entrance. His armor remains. Cleaned since the day’s events out of respect for his hosts, but not yet removed.

He’s allowed himself to get drunk, if only just, at Fray’s advice. The armored hyur had met his approach with crossed arms and a patient stare. Before he’d so much as opened his mouth, the dark knight informed him “I heard of your loss. We’ll make them pay, but not tonight. You’ll not slay them as you are, weary and worn. So take this night as your own. Drink, kill, fuck, it matters not. But on the morrow rest assured we will find them.”

It shouldn’t have made him feel better, but it did.

He might have requested any number of men or women for comfort. He refrained. Any partner he sought was sure to remember, even if he did not, and he had no desire to make a spectacle of himself. Nothing that would have caused the Silver Fuller shame or alarm.

His solitude ends somewhere after a bell, in a bloom of shadow that is all too familiar.

The Warrior has not seen Lahabrea since felling him before Hydaelyn, liberating Thancred at the Praetorium. That he proves so unmarked by the exercise is unsurprising. The red mask, with its permanent scowl and its twin points (fangs or mandibles, equally vile), perches above lips pressed thin. Chapped, he notices now. A strange detail he can’t recall with consistency. Gilded spines rise at either shoulder, giving larger impressions to a man of average build at best. Black from cowl to boots, clawed gloves still at either side.

His blade is on the opposite wall. Lahabrea has positioned himself, perhaps deliberately, between his foe and the weapon he wields.

The Ascian's expression twists into a sneer, exposing teeth. “So at last you know what it feels like, eikon-slayer.”

The Warrior is on his feet, knees bent, stance wide. Low center of gravity, gauntlets drawn to fists. No pugilist he, but the metal is sharp. Mayhap his lack of expertise will catch the immortal off-guard.

“I’d heard you survived,” he says bitterly. “I ought have anticipated a creature like you would show your face now, of all times.”

Lahabrea laughs, harsh and loud and barely high at the edges. It drags his head back, exposes the roof of his mouth. Doesn’t stop when the Warrior lunges, takes the front of his robes in his fists. Shoves him back against the wall of his room.

“Did you come here,” growls Hydaelyn’s chosen, knuckles white, eyes the color of scabs fixed on his adversary, “to amuse yourself at my loss?” Lahabrea, tittering, raises a hand beside the elbow which holds him pinned. A vague gesture, gripping nothing. It is only when he is slammed against the plaster again that he quiets, head bobbing slightly against the force.

“If that is what you would believe” says the Ascian, “why should I stop you?” He grins, jaw tight. It is an expression more familiar to Nabriales than the figure before him but no less insufferable for that.

The Warrior bares his teeth, snarling as he slams his head against the red brow. He hears, barely, a catch of breath against the resounding crack. Back of the skull will have received most force, his own forehead barely stinging at the blow. The mask has been knocked askew rather than off, and in Lahabrea’s surprise the Warrior tears it from him altogether—landing with a clatter on the floor.

He knows not what he’d expected.

Lahabrea appears to be only a man. Irises pale green, cheeks hollow, eyes bruised. Sandy hair, edged in gray, clings in places against his forehead.

Dazed, perhaps even stunned.

Rejecting his own confusion, the Warrior forces his mouth into reflection. A sneer to parody the one he’d received. “Your face, or just another you’ve stolen?”

Lahabrea meets his gaze, and it strikes the Warrior that there is a vacant quality to his scrutiny. It does not match the smile retaking his features.

“As if I’ve had an opportunity to take my own form in eons,” he says, condescending in spite of shoulders hanging limp. “Does it matter?”

Scowling, it occurs to the Warrior that the Ascian has done naught to stay his hand.

“What do you aim to accomplish in coming here?” he demands, fingers curling tighter. “I have no patience for your kind tonight. Stay and I will make you wish you were not immortal.”

It’s as if he’s cut through a taut thread. What traces of mirth remained in the man fade, leaving an expression empty as his eyes. Lahabrea, exposed, only looks at him in silence. Waiting.

The Warrior pushes him harder against the wall, enough that surely it hurts, and says with a quieter venom, “You think I bluff, Ascian?”

Lahabrea doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move at all.

So at last you know what it feels like, eikon-slayer.

It would be terribly easy, like this, to hurl him to the floor. He could beat him. He could kick him breathless and bloody and none would dare intervene. The Warrior of Light, after all, deserves privacy.

But Ascians are more powerful than this. What he does here is because Lahabrea permits it.

Slowly, despite every urge to the contrary, the Warrior unfurls his grip. Steps back.

Lahabrea’s heels touch the floor. Though he doesn’t drop he does sink momentarily. Staggers, almost doubling over.

When he looks up at the Warrior he is too furious to disguise himself with humor.

“What,” he asks sharply, “that’s it?”

With those words, the true situation begins to take shape.

“You’ve been waiting for something like this to happen,” says the Warrior numbly. “You want me to react.”

“And does that matter?” snaps Lahabrea. “The ones you’d strike down are fled. An innocent man died for your sake, because he believed you were something better. We both know that isn’t true.” A pause. Again, that terrible smile crawls into place. “You’ve failed him.”

The blow catches Lahabrea in the side of his face, tears the corner of those chapped, narrow lips. Throws his entire body sideways, making him stumble.

They are, both of them, breathing hard. And to the murmurs of Ishgard, the fire that pops—a soft patter of blood on floorboards is added.

Slowly, with trembling hands, Lahabrea removes his hood. The hair beneath is tangled and unkept.

He straightens. Meets the Warrior’s eye.

“I can do as Nabriales did before me,” he says flatly. “Should you fail to cooperate, I will take those who remain.”

It should have been simple. Whether it is spite or the poor state of his opponent, even this satisfaction has been denied him.

Then it clicks.

Just before he strikes, something akin to a smirk crosses the Warrior’s face.

Palms find the front of Lahabrea’s torso, shoving him hard into the wall once more. Before he can speak again, the Ascian is silenced by a mouth colliding with his own.

Teeth on teeth, a muffled cry. Tang of iron. Claws and fingers scrabbling against pauldrons. Air whistling hard and fast through a sharp nose. Body going rigid at the contact. Rough, dry skin.

It is only gradually, in pieces, that Lahabrea’s breathing slows. As if he knows not what else to do, his own hands come to rest on the Warrior’s shoulders. Neither resisting nor encouraging.

Eyes wide and fixed and blank.

He does not move upon release, empty of words.

The Warrior swipes blood into his mouth with his tongue. Still smirking.

“…why would you do that?” murmurs the Ascian. Not looking at him at all.

The dark knight shifts, victory slipping. Folds his arms.

“Will it serve?”

Lahabrea, sightless, puts a hand on his shoulder. Gently pushes him aside and steps past. Makes his way to the cot's edge. Sits.

Eventually, the Warrior follows. Comes to rest beside him.

No taunts. No jeers.

“Look,” he says at last, and if Lahabrea hears he gives no indication, “I’m tired. It’s been a trying day. I’ve no inclination to… to do whatever it is you’d hoped I would do here. But if you’re willing to put your plans on hold for the moment, I am. You could stay with me tonight.”

The Speaker blinks. Blinks again.

And then slowly, slightly, inclines his head.

***

After not very long, he offers to get something to drink. Lahabrea, elbows resting on his knees, vision fixed to the armoire less for interest than need of an anchor, doesn’t respond.

“Oi.” This time, he looks up. “Want me to bring you something?” A frown, slight and marred by injury. The Warrior quickly adds, “Seems like you could use it.”

And, just like that, his attention is lost again.

“Surprise me,” says Lahabrea, resigned beyond inflection.

So he shrugs, and departs, and shuts the door behind him.

He could reach out via linkpearl. He could pass a message through one of the patrons.

Mayhap it is poor judgment, or weariness, or sincere want for truce. Whatever his cause, the Warrior of Light does as he’d said and no more.

***

In truth, part of him expected to find the room empty upon return.

Lahabrea’s mask remains on the floor. Though he does not understand its significance, there is an impression of almost-blasphemy in this position. Crumpled against the wall are his gloves, boots, and capelet. The habit of an Ascian. Their positions, though clustered, are so unkept that the Warrior suspects they were thrown.

His guest remains on the bed, though his position has changed. Resting on his side, knees tucked toward his chest, Lahabrea stays by the foot of the mattress with eyes half-shut.

The Warrior walks, quickly and carefully, to the windowsill. Sets a mug down before seating himself once more. Cradling the other.

Lahabrea offers no greeting. He does not rise, and though his gaze shifts that is the extent of his response.

“Are you hurt?” the Warrior asks, with the same gruff ease he might have used for anyone he deigned help.

No answer.

The cocoa is thicker than what he’d received at Camp Dragonhead. More cream, a trace of vanilla. Probably a difference between fortress provisions and urban luxuries. Still, it’s more alike than not. An appropriate gesture.

He sips in silence for somewhere over a minute before gradually, cautiously, Lahabrea eases himself upright. Holds his hand out in silent request.

The Warrior hands him the second cup. This is taken without thanks, without so much as a glance. Although he doesn’t hesitate, the Ascian cannot entirely hide his wince as heat brushes the split lip.

Green eyes close. For some time the two of them continue like that. Not-speaking, not-touching.

Then, as they come to a finish, Lahabrea responds.

“Yes.”

Replacing both mugs on the sill, his host pauses.

“Sorry?”

Lahabrea stares at his own knees. His expression is less tense than it is empty. “You asked me a question before,” he says. “The answer is yes.”

It takes a moment to understand.

The Warrior exhales softly. Folds his arms. “You want me to have a look?” he asks.

At last, this commands Lahabrea’s focus—mute and bewildered though it is.

Now, it is the hyur’s turn to look away. Hand at the back of his neck, exhaling. “Don’t have to make it weird,” he says. “But you’ll have to take your robes off for me to see if there’s something I can do. Not about to assume.”

More silence. Lahabrea opens his mouth as if to speak, shuts it again. Just flushed. Ducking his head, holding his elbows, in the end he settles on “Why?”

Searches himself.

Adds, after a beat, “As you mentioned so pointedly before, I am immortal. This is nothing I could not remedy later myself.”

And yet, the Warrior notes privately, he remains but a shell.

How much of the fidgeting man before him can truly be laid at Hydaelyn's feet?

“I regret attacking you for the crimes of others,” he says eventually, “and take no pride in being complicit with this particular scheme of yours.”

No response.

The Warrior sighs. “…Truth be told, I know little of you and yours. Just enough to oppose what methods you’d employ. Should you need it now though, I will hear you.”

A laugh this time, soft and bitter. Lahabrea shuts his eyes entirely.

Only after some moments have passed does he say, “That’s a way of putting it.” His brows knit. “What scraps you’ve gleaned regarding my… our, devotion to Zodiark amount to naught at all. You assume it is akin to the zealotry of your beastmen. Of Ishgard. As if He could be exchanged with some other deity and our situation would prove essentially the same.” Lahabrea seems about to continue only to cut himself off, a barely audible click as he swallows his words.

Eventually, haltingly, he persists.

“…doubtless such subjects only serve to test your patience. Moreover… moreover it is beyond me, to explain with any semblance of adequacy as I am now. Even if I’d remained as I…” One hand shifts, clutching his own forehead. Offering support even as Lahabrea folds over himself to reach it.

What he says next comes strained.

“…I was an orator, you know. A good one. Yet even at the peak of my abilities, even then it would have been an exercise in futility to entreat you. Naught I might say would seem so real as what you can see and taste and touch. I’ve…”

An instant passes. Then another. Lahabrea wrestles with his own voice alone in a room with the man he calls enemy.

The Warrior, watching, decides against any comment of his own.

“…They revered me, once,” says Lahabrea. “They elevated me for my speech, my creations, my…”

A hard stop.

He abandons the sentiment.

“Everything that made me worthy in their eyes, I’ve squandered. Every gift I once possessed, everything I brought to bear that I might… that some justice might remain where it is owed.”

A break then. A glance, fast and furtive. Waiting to be challenged.

This time it is the Warrior who shuts his eyes. “I said I’d hear you,” he murmurs. “That hasn’t changed.”

Lahabrea’s breath catches, something heard rather than seen.

He doesn’t continue for a long time.

“We Ascians,” he says at last, low as if being heard might prove shameful, “carry terrible things with us through necessity. And I… I can no longer deny that the weight has taken a toll. As ages pass I wear away every part of myself that once held value. Whatever excuse I make, in practice all it amounts to is burdening the others with my shortcomings. Shortcomings they are right to resent.”

Then, nothing.

Nothing that goes on and on.

“Nabriales made his own decisions,” says Lahabrea in the end, “it’s true. But what tasks he’d adopted were outside his normal sphere. Mine. His end would not have come to pass had I but…”

His throat works, making no sound.

“…I know," he says, voice breaking, "I know this is something I must… I will address it. Make it right. I’ll…”

Nabriales was nothing like Haurchefant. Nabriales was an angry, arrogant lech who strove for none but himself. The Warrior cannot regret slaying him.

And yet, like the elezen, his passing served to preserve another.

That notion, at the least, they have in kind.

The Warrior exhales.

“A moment,” he says softly, placing a hand at the Ascian’s shoulder as he stands. Lahabrea flinches at the contact, slight but clear. Watches as his opponent tugs his own gauntlets off absentmindedly, as he unbuckles the dark breastplate and slips from the mail beneath. Kneels at the satchel containing his supplies and begins rummaging through.

“You really ought remove your robes,” says the hyur, gaze flitting back. His tone has grown more serious, and he watches the Speaker with an expression of careful sincerity. “Truly. In this matter at least, I mean to help. You’ll be no more exposed than I am.”

This time, with great hesitation, Lahabrea complies.

His frame proves lean, defined by contours of bone rather than muscle. Beyond the blow to his face there are older indications of bruising at his forearms, mottled yellow-black on either side. As if he’d been gripped particularly hard there in days past. What can be seen of his back, curled forward as he is, proves interrupted in red as blood pools under skin. Empty of scars, each detail marking him in contrast to the Warrior of Light. His counterpart proves lined in the pale remnants of wounds healed over. Wiry from effort spent wielding a blade massive enough to match his height.

After brief study, the Warrior selects a vial. Roughly the size of a fist, its contents identified through both the ornate container and its hue. Blue, deep and clear.

“Drink this,” he says, passing the potion to Lahabrea. Seating himself once more at his side. “Not much, but it should help you feel more comfortable at least.”

The Ascian doesn’t move.

Medicine in-hand, not so much as tracing the gilded edges with his study. He sees without looking. Then his hold tightens, simultaneously drawing a level of severity to his expression.

It is a while before he says, in scarce more than a whisper, “You know why I came.”

This earns consideration less for the answer than how to express it.

“I do now,” replies the hero, and by comparison his tone is gentle. “You should still drink it.”

No movement. Naught to indicate he’s so much as been understood.

The change comes slowly. Less like a display of emotion than inevitable biology. An act of nature.

Against the tension of his mouth, the unhidden angles of his face, tears trickle forth from Lahabrea’s eyes. They come swift and soundless, doing naught to mitigate the harshness of his features.

The Warrior observes less like a companion than a witness. His attention earns no acknowledgment, and it is only when the stopper begins to tremble that he realizes Lahabrea’s hands are shaking badly.

Without comment, the dark knight places his palms where the other man grips. Steady.

It is only at contact that Lahabrea allows himself to breathe again, inhaling sharply. Numb, he removes one hand, the tremor lending obstacle even to something simple as opening a bottle.

Before he can spill, before he can change his mind, the Ascian brings it to his mouth. Downs the contents. At his arms, across his back, where lips meet glass, Lahabrea’s body slowly begins to mend. It is with the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple that the Warrior hears his foe whimper.

Only when the vial is empty, as it is plucked to find its own place on the windowsill, does the Speaker come to weep in truth.

***

As Hydaelyn’s favorite son moves to hold Zodiark’s most devoted priest, neither finds they can manage reservation in the act.

***

It is impossible not to notice Lahabrea’s restraint. His attempts at restraint. What escapes comes in soft, broken staccato. Wholly unlike how he laughs. With his arm thus encircled, the Warrior can’t help but feel how the composure Lahabrea strives for slips through his fingers like rain.

“Breathe,” insists the dark knight quietly. What his companion wrests with wracks him chest to fingertips. “Breathe. I’ll not begrudge you this.”

It feels as though he grips a shattered thing that will fall apart upon release.

Lahabrea can only sustain this for so long. He stops in increments, interrupted by the occasional catch to his lungs or shudder.

When the worst has subsided, he only mumbles, “My thanks.” Wipes his face on his arm without removing himself. His head hangs heavy, features partially obscured by hair.

“Don’t think on it,” says the Warrior, with the same ease he’d lend favor to a friend. After some study, he adds, “You don’t look so bad as you did.”

Lahabrea, red-eyed, turns to fix him with an expression that proves simultaneously exhausted and withering.

The Warrior smiles like a trick of the light, not-quite apologetic. He dodges the thinner man’s scrutiny and says, almost flippant, “…I’ve been told that I give a good massage, you know.”

“What.”

It should be a question.

It doesn’t sound like a question.

“You heard me,” says Eorzea’s champion. “Interested?”

Wide eyes. Mouth just parted.

“How— nevermind,” says the immortal. Too shocked for aught else. “But why would you…?”

The Warrior finds he cannot guess from whence Lahabrea’s disbelief stems. It might be that his adversary makes the offer. It might be that the offer is made to him.

Therefore, he considers his answer with care.

“When I was miserable,” says the Warrior at last, “there was someon… the man who died. He did what he could to help me find my footing. I don’t know what I’d have done otherwise.” A shrug, like his joints are loosely attached. “Seems like you’re pretty miserable too.”

Lahabrea looks down.

After some time, he murmurs, “I have no desire to be the object of your pity.” This statement comes with neither anger nor indignation. “Not when you’ve never… I am well aware you’ve never cared for me.”

Whatever excuse I make, in practice all it amounts to is burdening the others with my shortcomings.

Shortcomings they are right to resent.

A sigh. The Warrior squeezes him lightly.

“If I still found you so objectionable,” he says quietly, “I’d not offer. Don’t deny me license to change my mind.”

A beat.

Another.

“…in truth, what I grapple with myself is ugly,” the hyur continues, when further response is not forthcoming. “Angry. I’ve come to resent most who seek my aid. Who feel entitled to my obedience. Yet you’ll doubt yourself before the ones you serve.”

A hesitation longer still.

“I… I didn’t expect to admire your loyalty or commitment, but I do. In spite of your path. Though to my eye, we could both perhaps stand to allow ourselves some respite.”

This time his comments earn a snort—if a gentle one.

“Better men than you have made the suggestion, Warrior of Light,” Lahabrea informs him. “I’m given to understand it’s a fool’s errand.”

“You chose to stay,” says the midlander, lips quirking. “Might as well take your ease.”

And then, somehow, Lahabrea smiles back. A slight, frail thing that nonetheless reads true. “Don’t deny me license to change my mind,” he echoes, making no move to depart.

The Warrior leans in. Presses a second kiss to the Ascian’s brow.

Lingers.

Lahabrea’s eyes shut.

“For what it’s worth,” says the hero, “I mean this.”

There is no answer, but the Speaker exhales as he leans his head toward the contact. Lets his shoulders fall.

Seemingly content to remain exactly where he is.

***

“…Do you get offers of this sort often?”

Lahabrea’s mouth pulls taut.

“No,” he says after some moments, “Not I.”

The Warrior, looking upon the subtle ridges of his spine, the rise and dip of ribs under skin, considers how his usual robes keep these things from sight and imagination.

He wonders how long it's been since anyone bothered to touch him directly without violence. Without having it explained, he finds he understands perfectly.

“I… I know what must be done,” Lahabrea continues. “Distractions make our mission harder. I’ve… I’ve seen time and again what it does to the others, but even they…”

Despite this, when the Warrior nudges him to spread himself over the bed he does so without protest.

***

In past entreaties, there were oils and lotions and constant directions. As though being Eorzea’s savior qualified one to be a professional masseuse.

Not so, this time.

Offered freely to a man not in the habit of seeking attendance from passersby, the Warrior has naught to grant but his hands. They are admittedly callused from use, but in the moment also clean, and firm, and not unpracticed.

Lahabrea starts slightly when pressure is introduced. His rigidity is inconstant in a way that suggests he’s conscious of it and knows no way out. The Warrior doesn’t comment on this. Nor does he respond with greater force.

Instead he keeps his focus on one area at a time, sets to silently revealing his movements. A constant touch that lets the Ascian follow him slowly. No attempts at deception, nothing to exploit the vulnerability he’s been presented with. Simply providing an opportunity to relearn contact without pain.

He shifts his thumb back and forth, teases carefully at the base of Lahabrea’s neck. The Warrior finds him warm and smooth, feels rather than sees his nerves begin to abate. When Lahabrea exhales it is a hushed sound. If he notes this approach he gives no indication.

“It might surprise even you,” says the Warrior at last, filling the silence, “to know that the past times I’ve done this were by demand.” Gradually, gingerly, he sets about pressing harder. No immediate response. “A look about me, maybe. Always the strangers who seem to think I’d be right for it.”

A smirk, largely for his own benefit. It fades.

“…Beyond that though, people’ve been afraid to touch me for a while. Even my friends. Hold on.” He focuses his attention on a particularly stiff muscle. The air leaves Lahabrea’s lungs in a rush, which he sets to replacing in a sharp collection of gasps. These are small, carefully spaced to give an impression of regularity where none exists.

“Alright there?” the Warrior asks, leaning in. This earns only a nod, face down. Arms framing on either side.

So he continues.

“I’ve been noticing in pieces.” Heel of the hand. Slow, deliberate circles. “After the banquet, Tataru—Scion secretary, though come to think you’ll have met her—couldn’t keep herself from Alphinaud. He took it hard, we were all worried… didn’t realize ’til later none of them so much as asked me. Then I couldn’t help but see it everywhere.”

Low to high. In to out to in again.

He can almost taste the hearth smoke.

“Even subtle things like a touch on the shoulder, fingers brushed in passing… it almost seemed like they went out of their way. And it wasn’t just them, either.”

Memories of blood on his tongue, blood on his armor.

The white sclera of a merchant in horror.

A bitter smile.

“Been starting to wonder if it’s my fault. They’re not bad, none of them… but to be honest you’ve probably felt me more in fights than the rest put together.”

Lahabrea barely manages to start his reply before swallowing it back again. The result is unintelligible.

Breathing harder, now.

The Warrior waits, tracing a vertebra with his nail.

“As with…” he manages eventually, almost hoarse, “…with my case, as well.”

A moment passes. A sigh.

“That so?”

Moved by an impulse resembling affection, the dark knight trails a finger from the base of Lahabrea’s neck down his spine. Dips into the small of his back.

Khhhhck

The Ascian twitches, shoves his face into the mattress. Finds purchase in the blanket with both hands and twists.

Holding his breath, his voice. Holding in sound. Betrayed by his own racing pulse.

This time when the Warrior smiles, it carries warmth.

He bends. Finds Lahabrea’s shoulder blade and kisses him there. Lingers.

Hears himself rewarded with a faint, muffled moan.

Pauses.

Shifts lower, halfway down the Ascian’s torso, and tries again.

“If you mean to do something,” says Lahabrea harshly, strained, “just…”

The Warrior hums, as though in contemplation.

“…Well. If you insist.”

Toes lazily out of his boots. Climbs into bed, straddling the man before him at the ass. Leans forward in one fluid motion, too soon for Lahabrea to do more than sputter wordlessly, and takes each wrist in hand. Pins them in place with his weight.

There is something strangely innocent, thinks the Warrior as he steals another kiss (crook of the neck, he could sink his teeth in here if he felt like it), to find such a reaction when neither of them has so much as mentioned breeches. Without seeing his target’s expressions he travels according to sound and motion and vital signs chasing his will.

Heat finding heat, his mouth follows the crest of Lahabrea’s shoulder. Draws back and down, down against hitching respiration against unvoiced pleas against the way he arches closer fists clenched and trembling pleads desperately as he knows how without language.

When it comes, the Warrior does not misunderstand the confused stutter of hips beneath him or the way his breath catches as it happens.

Whatever form an Ascian might take or lack ordinarily, in a vessel Lahabrea appears subject to the same whims of physicality anyone might suffer. The Warrior, lips curving against him, wonders if he’s already hard or just starting.

Skating teeth experimentally, the Weapon of Light adjusts himself. Begins to grind, forcing Lahabrea’s pelvis down. Sucks hard. There is a loud, broken sound as the man jerks, knuckles going white. Repeated when his adversary’s calves weave under ankles dragging his tongue to what can be reached of a throat working ragged stiffening in each shift a grip growing tighter forcing wrists flat to emphasize pleasure for them both.

Aether lashes into the Warrior without warning, hot and scrambling graceless against his own. Impossibly dry and dark, a fire inverted to writhe without cease. This nonetheless hooks him, holds fast like an animal like a thing alive. More vast than he thought any life could be.

Lahabrea whines, his aether clawing frantic to find purchase to pour liquid night inside. Hydaelyn’s champion clenches his teeth, steels himself to prevent further entry. A cork to seal a river.

He’d thought himself immune to possession. He’d thought himself immune to the very attempt. This thought immediately followed by another no not what this is only—

A foreign idea.

Lahabrea’s.

***

For a moment the Warrior is still. Observing. Searching for stability against the inferno roaring through his head.

External, he holds his quarry pinned even now. Lahabrea lies interrupted by spasms beyond his ability to control. Sometimes he inhales a little deeper, as if intending to speak. He has yet to follow through.

Internal, what the Warrior finds comes not in not a single conscious stream but many. A collection of shadows flickering without light.

At the forefront, what is not spoken aloud. Information shared bereft of choice. Too fast, barely coherent as Lahabrea’s aether threads his own. Past arousal a black, gnawing shame that threatens to strip all else away. Not an apology but a regret, concentrated and searing. Taking too many directions to follow. From its shape the Warrior gathers that Lahabrea wants to withdraw in the same way a man heaving himself sick wants to do anything else. Such experience, he recognizes intuitively, makes it impossible for him to overpower anyone.

“…What is this, then?”

Speaking the question aloud brings no small relief—more affirmation that his voice remains his own. Lahabrea seems to shrink beneath him in response, aether turning frenetic. Plummets to the Warrior’s stomach, granting nausea and suffocation in equal measure.

The Warrior moves in, chest brushing the slighter man’s back. His own aether (ember at the heart of the abyss, pulsing red and deep and insistent) branches like veins to stay the trespasser.

“Calm down,” he whispers, forcing himself to breathe. It sounds more assured than he feels. After a pause, he shifts his grip to layer one hand over the Ascian’s. Laces their fingers. “I mean it. There’s no danger from me.”

Nothing.

Then, a hard exhale. Tremulous.

The Warrior finds his vantage.

Through aether Lahabrea clings to him the way a drowning man shoves his rescuer underwater to breathe. Less destructive perhaps, but like instinct.

“Since you’re here anyway, how about you show me why.”

He is presented with impressions of a horse, gaunt and fetid and decayed. Spreading ruin wheresoever it goes. Occasionally it sloughs off portions of its own flesh, which collect flies and blacken any land that surrounds. On its back rests a world, and alongside it does the herd struggle under their own burdens. But even beasts of such endurance have limits. Theirs are reached. When the rotten steed lags, its companions cannot afford to falter. Cannot turn. Without its ability to bear loads, this aberration has no place. Falling is inevitable.

Yet a heart still beats and lungs yet swell.

The Ascian shivers in his grasp, but does not attempt escape.

Here, something festers. Something bleeds. An old wound exacerbated over time.

Fevered, coated in a film of self-disgust, the core of Lahabrea convulses.

Don’t…

Don’t leave me like this…

Wanted as he is, Eorzea’s hero shuts his eyes. Tilts to find the Speaker’s cheek with his own.

“Enough,” he says quietly. “I’ve no desire to see you abuse yourself. Only explain this.”

There is a long pause. Eventually, Lahabrea seems to find his voice.

“Among… Among my kind,” he says thickly, barely audible, “to connect thus is an inherent part of… it’s the way we embrace one another. I haven’t…”

Something barren, something empty. In the same way that Lahabrea has removed himself from touch, this too remains beyond him.

The Warrior sighs. His expression softens.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “With me then.”

***

They each burn differently.

Forged red, sparks from a hammer, something that should have been unmovable transformed by temperature. Like magma, like cinders, like a mirage. The Eikon-Slayer radiates inward in waves.

Lahabrea is not like this.

A vacuum flaring through space, frenzied and desperate to consume. Exposed, feral, forever moving. He is a distortion of saline and smoke rippling through the air. Only with vague direction at first, darting across the nexus that is his rival.

This shifts as he is explored in-turn, twining where the Warrior comes to meet him. Having reclaimed most of his reserve, Lahabrea nonetheless can’t prevent a muffled grunt as he is forced into the mattress.

The Warrior has slowed his pace this time, hard and teasing. With his own thoughts yet unguarded he finds himself planning ahead.

He wonders what it will take to make the Ascian sweat. Make him shout. How he’ll move against him once he’s been stripped entirely, a mortal’s hand gliding over his cock. He wonders if he slips into his own language when he comes. He wonders if he'll beg.

Lahabrea, subjected to these speculations, chokes. Mouth slack, breath torn from his lungs. The Warrior feels across quickened flame how he’s drawn blood to the Ascian’s face. His groin. Throbbing heat, insistent.

Lahabrea moves rough and stilted against the bed, yet clutching the blanket as if it has any means to steady him.

“You… you won’t,” manages the Speaker, and there is a shrill quality to his words that eradicates any hint of challenge. Instead, his declaration is almost a question. Doubt brought to hysteria by desire.

I don’t understand.

The Warrior smiles, object of open need at last. Finds an unmarked space at Lahabrea’s neck and bites.

A cry cut short. Muscles straining between his jaws.

When a foreign set of lips finds his clavicle, Hydaelyn’s sword holds his place and offers no release.

***

Teeth and tongue. Lingering, wet, disembodied. Another finds his hip. Another his thigh, slipping beneath what clothes remain.

And another.

Warm, human, seeking. The Warrior tightens his hold, uses the moan crawling from his own chest as incentive. Barred by naught but fabric, driving close as he can manage. Lahabrea makes a strangled sound, his gasp crushed empty. A new mouth finds the dark knight’s ear in response.

These are parts of him no one dares touch, no one dares acknowledge. Slick now, attended with something like reverence. Supplication.

He resolves to fuck the Ascian senseless for this, presses his intent deep into Lahabrea’s aether. He is going to steal all his fancy words away. Make him squirm.

“I… I…” Tight, airless, like a plucked string. The Warrior feels Lahabrea’s voice reverberate against the roof of his mouth.

The feeling is difficult to describe. Cracked ice. A fraying rope. Such is Lahabrea's response, fumbling and disoriented as it is.

The Warrior lets go.

Lahabrea inhales sharply, spectral attentions fading one by one. Seemingly unable to catch his breath, to slow his pulse.

To focus.

This time, the hyur removes himself. Finds the edge of the bed and sets, with a curse, to removing his breeches.

“Can’t deny you got me with that,” he groans, freeing his erection. Glances back. “Still alright over there?”

No reply. The Speaker’s arms buckle as he pulls himself to a kneeling position. Doubled over himself, almost fetal.

Then a winded, stuttering sound barely recognizable as laughter.

“Lahabrea…?” says the Warrior, and after a moment’s consideration prods him in the ribs lightly.

“Such,” the Ascian wheezes, “such formality…” Another, somewhat steadier chuckle.

Stripped and not slightly puzzled, Hydaelyn’s champion rolls his eyes.

Catches himself grinning in-turn.

“Come on, then,” he says, helping the immortal upright. Lahabrea, meticulously unfolding his legs beneath him, nonetheless seems unable to silence himself.

His face more flushed than expected. Almost dizzy.

“Hey,” the Warrior says, cupping his jaw, “are you—“

Abruptly, with more force than anticipated, fingers knit at the base of his skull. Drag him into a kiss that is almost a collision, deep and uncoordinated and relentless. Sliding over his teeth to trace the grooves of him, as if trying to commit everything to memory. Bare chin against stubble. Lahabrea nips the Warrior’s bottom lip as he withdraws.

I will have my revenge.

The Ascian’s thought is almost giddy, disjointed. Both more familiar and less. Green eyes fixed to red, his abused mouth just parted and curling. A reminder that he hasn’t forgotten who initiated this.

The Warrior, for his part, can’t help but arch his brows in response.

“You will not,” he says, nearly laughing in surprise himself, and snares him again.

A muffled mmph as the Warrior makes contact, invades hot and uncompromising. Finds Lahabrea's waistband without looking and tugs it low, barely clearing his length before taking it firmly in hand. Slowly makes his way back and forth.

Lahabrea attempts vainly to fill his lungs, tightens his grip on the Warrior’s scalp even as the other arm flails behind him. Searching for support.

With what hand remains, Eorzea's hero comes to press back and forth over his Adam’s apple. Feels Lahabrea jerk, jaw slackening as he struggles to keep up. Struggles to press for more contact despite a steady pace.

When the Warrior gently, tentatively, constricts his hold the Ascian’s eyes slide back. Flutter shut. His breath comes harsh and fast. It strikes the Warrior, then, that in all likelihood Lahabrea hasn’t so much as touched himself for some time.

“M… Moment,” rasps the Speaker, snatched from a brief gap between them.

This time, the Warrior releases him.

Draws him back at the apparent risk of tipping over.

Therefore, Lahabrea instead finds himself supported by the Warrior of Light.

For a moment, his aether almost stills.

Settles.

Black lining red less for urgency than comfort.

Leaning hard, face downturned, the Ascian shakily brings arms to encircle the enemy who does not detest him.

Then, after only slight hesitation, the Warrior exhales.

Holds him in turn.

***

Elbow folded to hook over one shoulder. An unexpectedly delicate ribcage. Rhythmic expansion and contraction betraying a body no less alive than his own.

“You needn’t have been so generous with me,” says Lahabrea hoarsely, when at last he is able to speak. “There was no cause… but nonetheless. I would return the favor.”

The Warrior closes his eyes.

“You owe nothing,” he murmurs. “I’m glad to do this.”

A pause.

Lahabrea’s grip closes slightly. His silence fills the room.

“Look on me a moment,” says the Warrior.

Though not without kindness he thinks, initially, that he’ll be ignored.

When the Ascian complies it is in pieces. His attention comes as a weighted, fleeting thing.

Eorzea’s champion clasps the exposed face on both sides. Meets his eyes.

“Do not assume,” he says, “that I am yet through with you.”

The Warrior presses his lips once more to the Speaker’s brow.

Lingers.

“I meant what I said before,” he continues. “I’ve no desire to see you abuse yourself… be it directly or through me. I’ll accept what you offer so long as that is not the price.”

A shiver.

An exhale.

“It is my will, to give this,” Lahabrea replies. Almost a whisper. “Time is short.”

Neither of them says anything more at first.

Then, tentatively, the Warrior smiles.

“…Well in that case. Suppose it can’t hurt to let you know you’re not half-bad with your tongue, orator.”

***

On his knees, on the floor. All clothing shed.

The Warrior sits before him with parted legs. Leaning back on both hands. He can’t help but glance again at the mask.

It feels no less wrong now, discarded. A kind of violence worse than sacrilege. Sin against the self.

“Look on me a moment,” echoes Lahabrea softly.

The Warrior meets his eyes and is relieved to find warmth there.

It is not without weariness or grief, but nor is it bereft of humor.

A sincere smile.

“It’s been some few thousand years,” says the Ascian dryly, “but I wouldn’t have you think me a complete novice. Worry not on my behalf.”

“One of us has to,” replies the Warrior, though he smiles in turn. “You’re sure?”

A snort. Lahabrea maintains eye contact as he leans in. Envelops his adversary and smoothly, unabashedly begins to suck.

***

Head to the roof of the mouth. Hot wet sliding under tracing flesh small quick motions in repetition igniting the rest of him like a match. Rippling upwards in waves.

Green irises locked to his own. Feather-light sensation of breath on what skin wants for contact. The Warrior, in a sharp and graceless gesture, twists his fingers through Lahabrea’s hair. Thick, coarse, unmistakably male. Tugs him in, earning a faint catch as the Ascian fumbles.

Reproach, questioning rather than nervous. The hero meets this with a smirk and maintains tension as he plunges swiftly, deliberately into Lahabrea’s aether with his own.

***

Shadow layered upon shadow. Dark upon dark. He thinks at first it may be endless. Devoid of color. Constant only in how it moves.

Then, something crystaline. Something splintered. Firm as bone, set but not mended.

Lahabrea makes a sharp, thin sound—splays a hand on the Warrior’s thigh and grips.

This, he will avoid.

The aether is less inscrutable nearby. Here, it is possible to make out purples so deep and rich they can only be found in passing. The sky just before nightfall. A flower that will wither. Flighted creatures doomed to die.

There was a hole, not so very long ago. A wound.

Now, the light left behind reveals traces of who Lahabrea might have been had his god not stained him so completely.

Carefully, the Warrior reaches out

never wanted them to fear him senior member as he was when children caught sight peering past skirts of their elders he smiled waved answered questions however long it took remember always what newness felt like

collects what he can cradled covered as if failure might see it snuffed out completely

he’d been animated even then gesturing with his hands dwarfed by the room he addressed grinning unrehearsed ideas sparking ideas alight with opportunities posed by challenges posed by friends

draws the color back with him and lets go in a flood against the surface

this too is yours

concentrated between the Ascian’s lips pulling him forward strokes precise before sudden emptiness of pressure as Lahabrea’s sigil flares as his jaw loosens as his eyes go wide and his voice snags like a hook in the throat of a fish

***

The light lasts but a moment before going out.

***

Close but not complete, he could let this continue. Finish in the Speaker’s mouth. Watch him swallow.

The Warrior withdraws without resistance, breath knifing across his teeth.

Lahabrea, liberated, props himself against a kneecap. Struck dumb, stuck staring as aether scatters to black once more.

A little spit, just below his lip on one side. The Warrior leans forward and gently wipes it away.

For a moment, then, Lahabrea looks. And in spite of his body’s reaction there can be no avoiding how the Ascian’s expression falters.

Dims.

Gone… I need, I…

The Warrior trails a finger over his chin. Finds purchase.

Tilts up.

“Come back, Lahabrea.”

Confusion. Then, something like recognition.

The sound that comes next is beautiful. Not the harsh and twisting speech from the Thousand Maws of Toto-Rak but something akin to a chime.

It feels familiar, or like it should be.

“I haven’t forgotten you.”

***

The sound pricks like a needle, intricate and precise as a mathematical equation. Capable of searing or soothing, each syllable measured carefully against the other.

Without being told, the Warrior finds he understands what’s been given.

***

Only Lahabrea’s upper body is on the bed, the Eikon-Slayer entering from behind. One hand closes over his shoulder, steadying. The other circles once more the extent of him.

Lahabrea’s voice breaks at penetration, an indecipherable cry cut short by what shreds of control remain over himself. The Warrior’s hips jerk, stumble into their own rhythm. Drive deeper in a maneuver equal parts selfish and encouraging.

Hhhkkk

Silence.

Even so, he does not miss how he’s robbed the strength from his opponent’s legs.

Soaking, claustrophobic. The Warrior sets to mimic pressure he encounters in how he grips in turn. Pins Lahabrea in time between each shove, every stroke.

The immortal spasms, mouth moving empty as though he means to speak.

“Don’t… don’t think,” says the Warrior through gritted teeth, “that what I said was in jest.” Grinning wildly, madly, he finds with his aether the space where Lahabrea remains injured. Scalding now, a pool of violet stirred in place.

Like the tide, like a storm, he drags this back with him.

Of course he was there for the Sundering of course he was there when his plans came to naught it was he who sacrificed half that half would live then half again for a fourth so of course OF COURSE he witnessed his greatest failure.

Nothing left. None of them. And it was his idea his plan his acceptance that spared but three perpetrators to know their folly.

Lahabrea begged for them to kill him then. Could have begged endlessly.

But this too was more than he deserved.

Again.

He can never atone for this can never return all he’s destroyed (Hydaelyn destroyed, they remind him, Hydaelyn and the traitors who called her) but he can commit himself can spend the rest of his life fixing what is within his power to fix can become useful be an asset rather than deadweight. They all had faith in his appointment and so long as he lives there remains opportunity to prove worthy.

Strings torn from a harp. China crushed between eager hands. Lahabrea’s heart beats in his throat, unfastening from time and place as his aether finds something besides black unending.

The Warrior seeks the underside of Lahabrea’s cock, runs a finger back and forth as he rocks deeper. A light touch, deliberate.

“I want to hear you,” he says, abrupt against the waning world around them. “I'm… I’m still listening.”

What follows is neither a sob nor a laugh nor a shout, yet evokes all of these together.

Hazy, somewhere full and bright and familiar. Peace continuing outside as if they could live forever. As if this would be remembered as nothing more than a setback. A scare.

Lahabrea was beginning to understand then, with growing certainty, that they would not survive this unscathed.

He worked incessantly, searching for any alternatives he could find. Argued bitterly with his colleagues. With himself.

Of course one of them found him collapsed in the midst of it all. His rival even then.

Of course…

Despite everything, despite the choices they would both make, the Fourteenth took him home that night.

Returning Lahabrea’s name involves equal parts eloquence and aether.

He tries.

The response is swift, and loud, and violent. There are phantom nails, countless impossible fingers dragging across his back. What the Speaker shouts is cut off as he comes into his lover’s hand.

It sounds like broken glass, or crashing keys, or a melody misremembered.

As he finishes in the aftermath, the Warrior finds himself inexplicably tasting blood, and mead, and sickness.

***

The Ascian fades gradually, between what is seen and what is not. His hips still. His head falls. What tension allowed him to continue supporting himself scatters.

When the Warrior withdraws, sticky and spent, Lahabrea doesn’t get up.

“Hey…” says Eorzea’s exile, kneeling. Placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

A blank, glassy stare meets him.

“Hey!” the Warrior repeats, more urgent this time. Shakes the Ascian gently.

A blink. A smile, if a faint one.

“I said,” breathes Lahabrea, “worry not on my behalf.”

Rather than reassure him, this only gives the Warrior reason to frown.

“I,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind the Speaker’s ear, “don’t quite trust you not to give me cause.”

Lahabrea shuts his eyes. His lashes are damp.

“…I am not beyond tiring, Warrior of Light. You've... you've caused no lasting harm today. I'm glad for your company."

The Warrior studies him. Rubs back and forth across an exposed temple.

"And I, yours."

***

There is little opportunity for Lahabrea to climb into bed himself. When the Warrior sets him in a position of relative comfort he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stir. If the gesture meets resignation, or indignity, or gratitude, nothing shows.

“Right. I’ll just… be in the washroom. Get some water while you—“

The Warrior stops.

Green irises fix to him. His hand held captive.

Slowly, with more strength than his posture would imply, Lahabrea pulls the Warrior’s palm to his mouth. Kisses him there once, then again. Gaze falling as he works his way to joints, to fingertips.

Draws him in.

Light’s champion, entranced, slowly takes his place at the Speaker’s side.

***

Collarbone. Pectoral. Nipple. A scar between two ribs where he’d been slow against a Sahagin. One just above the navel, lingering.

Lahabrea places his lips, slowly and methodologically, across the Ascian-killer’s body. Lying astride him, chin over warm muscle. Though he grunts and shifts as the Warrior strums his hip, there is no immediacy to it. Little energy.

“I want you to promise me something,” murmurs the hero. This earns a curious glance, but no comment. “Don’t… don’t run out when this is done. Not while I’m unawares.”

“You assume,” says Lahabrea softly.

“Of course I do,” the Warrior of Light replies. Feathers his companion’s hair. “Only know I won’t permit you to run off without saying goodbye.”

“You won’t permit…” the Ascian mumbles. His lids drift shut once more.

Another kiss.

When no further response seems forthcoming, the Warrior continues.

“No surprises or loose ends. Naught abandoned… merely set aside.”

At length, Lahabrea exhales.

“I can’t imagine whether you mean this to be more difficult or less… but very well. You have my word.”

***

At some point, aether mingled like a bed of embers, they lose awareness altogether.

***

With his breath coming soft and easy, with one ear pressed flat to the Warrior’s sternum, Lahabrea looks more exhausted asleep than waking. Skin interrupted by love marks rather than blows, posture relieved of tension at last. The strain he places upon himself becomes conspicuous now for its absence.

Easy to forget he lacks the frailty of mortal men. That as much punishment as he takes there will always be more he can—he must—endure. That his strength far exceeds what form he wears.

Despite this, Lahabrea willingly places himself at the mercy of one who could destroy him.

And the Warrior (possessed of such knowledge as he is) chooses to be gentle.

Mask, pauldrons, robes. These things make the Ascian appear untouchable. Not entirely real or human. Immune to anything so personal as doubt.

Perhaps they truly are alike.

***

If a smile better suits a hero, should it be any surprise that the villain weeps?

***

When he next wakes, Lahabrea is waiting. Aether coiled stubbornly about his own. Position unchanged.

A fingertip brushes the Warrior’s brow, glides to his cheek. His jawline.

“It’s a pity you use your voice so rarely,” says Lahabrea at last.

A peculiar enough greeting that the Warrior blinks. Squints.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

A thumb traces his lips. “Nothing of consequence… not a barb, lest you wonder,” the reply.

Lahabrea pauses at teeth testing skin.

Exhales.

Continues.

“I only wish I had more opportunity to hear you.”

A chuckle then, still dull with sleep. “Respectfully, I’m common as they come,” says the dog of Coerthas. He neither watches nor acknowledges his partner’s gaze when it falls. Experimentally, he continues to tongue the digit at his mouth—feels the Ascian tighten his legs but no more. “And I’ve heard you use the word ‘interesting’ five ways ‘cept the obvious so not like you’re missing anything.” After some hesitation, he adds, “Though… you could always stay, you know.”

A small, forlorn smile gives the answer.

It is that simple.

***

Even so, they linger.

***

The act of separating their aether is slow. Reluctant. There are instances when each of them tries to hold fast, when it falls to the other to remove himself from touch. Red tugs free of a darkening black, shadows flicker away as if blown. They do this through the mundane process of cleaning themselves.

The Warrior suspects Lahabrea could use magic to accomplish such ends. Upon being asked, the pretense given is to avoid waste.

In truth, these moments hold a comfort of their own. Sometimes they might just prove enough.

***

Damp, they re-assemble themselves side-by-side. Leather and mail. Gloves and gauntlets. Shoulders close enough to touch.

“This change things for you?” asks the Warrior without looking. He slides a boot into place.

“Not in the way you would have it,” Lahabrea’s reply, tone settling back into distance. His progress is steady. “There may be some relief in knowing you do not despise me.”

“Aye,” says the hyur, “that’s something.” He smiles. “What it’s worth, I’d rather not kill you given the choice.”

Unaware, Lahabrea nonetheless mimics the expression. “In this, we are in agreement. I would prefer not to be killed.”

A snort from the Warrior as he cuffs the Ascian lightly on the arm. Lahabrea grins, brief and sincere. Closes his eyes.

“…I would keep you too, given the option.”

The Warrior leans against him.

Remains there.

Takes his time before finding the mask that rests beside his companion.

Stands.

(Lahabrea had been the one to pick it up. He’d stared at it for some time, not as if it were something precious but a judge before whom he was guilty. His expression barren of protest or denial. It was with such acceptance that he positioned it alongside his things before moving on.)

With respect for what is inevitable, the Warrior returns Lahabrea’s mask to its place.

Neither of them reacts at first, made simultaneously foreign and familiar.

Then claws brush the hero’s cheek.

Bring him close.

The scowl seems a poor fit for what lies beneath.

“It may be that we are both of us removed from our own,” says the Ascian, “but I…”

The Warrior kisses him once more, long and easy. A farewell on their own terms.

“I understand,” he says at last, and there is warmth in his expression. “I’m glad I got to know you.”

And he says his name.

#final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #lahabrea #ascians #DRK #Wanted to get this finished before posting it!#This is shipfic heads up #did this because I saw someone lament lack of WoL/Lahabrea fic and someone unrelated lament lack of WoL slash fics

11 notes · View notes

ilcaeryx · 5 years

Text

Tenacity: Chapter 7 - Ghostwriter [Shinsou Hitoshi/Reader]

SUMMARY: Your husband is on sick-leave, but the world cannot seem to stop bringing the hero out of him.

TAGS: Shinsou Hitoshi/Reader, family, comfort

COMMENT: 4971 words... almost 5k. Bruh.

A lone TV broadcasted fresh news into the empty living room, the steady-voiced news anchor preaching to no one in particular.

"Now for the daily news," he announced, clasping his hands above the desk and leaning towards the camera. "Today around three in the afternoon a man in his early twenties committed mass murder at Hikage elderly care facility. Fifteen deaths have been confirmed together with twenty-three injured. The perpetrator is currently on the run."

Change of scenery: a short clip is shown. There's a cascade of powder and debris avalanching down the hill where the entire facility previously stood. Perhaps half the building is now remaining. Like a calzone pizza someone has taken a bite off, the interior is exposed and there are staff members of public service dipping in and out of vision. Cameraman pans down the hill to show the chaos outside, specifically zooming into the heroes Uravity and Cementoss dashing towards the incoming debris.

"The police and hero associations involved plead with the public to stay clear of public spaces and crowds. The perpetrator is highly unstable and dangerous. Do not attempt to parlay with him."

In the front seat, you were preaching to someone in particular. Your feet on the dashboard, eating your confidence through a bag of potato chips and complaining to the driver, who thankfully didn't need to focus because of this massive traffic rubberneck. At this point, though, you suspected he was merely indulging you. He was looking forward, eyelids drooping and back straight against the car seat. With this somewhat forlorn expression he focused on something above the car in front of you, you noticed as you followed his gaze.

"And you know what, Hitoshi? I'm not letting her win, so I'm not going to stop doing that," you cut your complaints short and offered him your bag, "though I will stop ranting. Thank you for coming to my talk."

Hitoshi accepted. He pulled down the sunscreen above his head but you enjoyed the summer sun straight up burning your skin. Admittedly, you didn't have much of a choice considering that you were wearing a comfortable tank top and shorts that covered little. Your husband was better off, wearing khakis and a T-shirt, yet his forearms and cheeks were already coloured a faint red.

"Do you want something to drink? Seems like we'll be here for a while." You patted the space below your seat, searching.

"Sure. I think there's been an accident up ahead."

He stretched his right hand towards the radio. A second faster, you fished up the water bottle and smacked it into his palm. You gave him a knowing look.

That's a no-no.

Being on sick-leave meant leaving your job behind, even if your job physically was in front of you. Much like other aspects of concurrent culture, being unaware basically meant being left behind but this time it was serious. He couldn't take much more. And nevertheless, without his staunch refusal to take a vacation, you're certain he would've had deep guilt about it.

Fucking hero culture.

"Right."

Fathers carrying their young children. Couples rushing, hands interlocked. Elderly people clutching their bags. All of them rushing past your car, moving towards where the rubberneck presumably started. There were shouts accompanying this early stage of chaos around you, uncoherent shrieks distress.

Fear struck you imminently, your body shrinking as the visceral sounds continued. You folded your legs beneath the dashboard and let the plastic bags down through the empty space between your seat and the door.

Your fingers felt clumsy and numb when you reached and clutched Hitoshi's hand, barely aware of the pressure he enforced on the steering wheel. The tip of his fingers and nails paled visibly.

All the noise outside made thinking hard, much less rational thinking. As such you looked at Hitoshi for support.

"Get out of the car." It was a monotone order, one without malice or aggressivity. There was no explanation, nor did you have a follow-up plan, yet you obeyed. Integrating it as your sole objective, you let go of his hand and opened the car door cautiously, peering out for incoming humans.

Behind you, the driver's door slammed shut. By the time you got out Hitoshi was already striding to your side, his eyes scanning behind you. His hand shot up to your waist, his palm warm and solid against you. Ever lightly, Hitoshi buffered you in the direction of the horde, silently begging you to listen to your instincts. You wanted to, but you also wanted him with you - and by his concentrated stare and squared shoulders, you knew you would never convince him to.

Momentarily, the two of you locked eyes and you thought you could control yourself enough to stay with him.

A strange warping sound hollowed whatever conviction existed out of you, leaving a void desiring safety.

The primal demand to survive was staggeringly powerful and you did not understand how Hitoshi could resist it.

"Y/N, head up the road to the heroes," he said, overexaggeratedly articulating his words. His bared canines and wild hair confused you; how could he look like a panther ready to kill its prey while sounding like an audio book storyteller? "I can't focus while you're here - I need you safe. Now go!"

He half-shouted that last part, imploring whatever self-preservation you had to keep you safe. So it did, because you ran all the way up to the temporary encampment for wounded civilians. You escaped from danger only to plunge into chaos.

Without back-up and without gear, Hitoshi left you alone to face the rampanging villain, alone.

That's when you knew you would have to try harder or the hero world would consume all of your husband.

"That's a nasty Quirk you've got there," Hitoshi spat out, wiping blood off his cheek. He involuntarily winced when the back of his hand came into contact with the gushing wound, tingling pain following. A warm trail brushed down his chin and neck, soaking into the hem of his T-shirt. It wasn't too deep a wound, all things considered.

Overall, it wasn't just the combination of a disturbed villain and high-powered Quirk - the situation itself was beyond fucked up; two heroes had their limbs removed (for lack of a better word) and several civilians were strewn about, pinned down between cars or otherwise immobilized. He couldn't accurately discern the dead from the living, not with the swirling smoke billowing around the cars. Had this occurred back in the day, this would have been filed as a terrorist attack by the League of Villains.

"If you're not going to talk then at least look at me, dickhead," he said, switching his weight to the front of his feet.

And so the villain did.

The hero encampment was an absolute mess. When you first arrived you had attempted to help out, but your offer was declined. You passed by several heroes, quietly greeting those you recognized. Some gave you an encouraging smile, others barely registered you as a living being. Rapidly you had settled into sitting by some teenage girls, absorbing the atmosphere until your soul started to hurt.

At one point the endless cries droning on in the background merged from dozen different voices… to five… to losing complete meaning. Passively observing the frantic movements of humans around you, everything was rather meaningless. Whenever an ambulance arrived to retrieve a patient, they left behind a shaken and upset family to listen to the fading sirens. The worst was that as heroes removed cars from the highway for availability reasons and as the wounded were sent away, the suffering never dipped below a certain threshold. More and more people amassed, grieving and aiding each other in an intimate organic hivemind of humanity. Misery truly loved company.

This is how it remained for hours.

You had a vague idea of what was going on. Snippets of comments were travelling throughout camp. As apathetic as you felt, there was nothing else to do but listen to the speculation and information with those around. Eventually, word spread that the villain had been subdued.

Until you heard from a hero acquaintance that Hitoshi was alive and well, no tidbit eased your fear. When you heard 'Hitoshi' in the same sentence as alive, dizziness overwhelmed you. Once you knew he would return, you retired to a less populated corner and passed out.

Maybe a few minutes or an hour later, you came to with a powerful headache crowning your skull. It made your vision float uncomfortably when you sat up at too fast, so you leaned towards a crate. You were completely out of breath despite having done nothing rigorous.

Even later after you had awakened, Hitoshi found you. Your husband looked incredibly roughed up; his vacation clothes had left him defenseless, his knees and face skinned and cut. As he approached he walked unevenly, avoiding straining his left leg with his weight.

If you stood up, you knew you were going to faint. Thus you stayed down and he joined you with a pained groan, though he did seem pleased to see you. In his own way, of course. The alert expression he had donned that noon was worn out, resetting to its normal resting bitch face. His untamed hair was partly flat against his skin, sticky with sweat, and partly roughed around like bed-hair. He repeatedly pushed his hair away from his face but it returned all the same, tangling in front of his eyes. He was so tired…

"Are you hurting?" you asked, pointing at the white bandage on his cheek.

Hitoshi laid down on the grass beside you, bracing himself on his elbows. Until he reached out for you, you didn't make a move at him. Something finally clicked in you as you nestled against his side, letting him guide you against him. It almost felt wrong, holding your usually touch-averse husband in this suffocated place where so many were without their loved ones.

"The medics patched me up well enough. Getting away with these kind of injuries against someone like that is a reward in itself - some people weren't as lucky. And you listened to me, for once. I expected you to talk back when I told you to run."

You glanced up at him, squinting in the sunlight.

"Well," you started and blinked dumbly, not sure of how to phrase your rebuttal. Right now you had poor recollection of these last few hours, though you could remember being unable to control yourself. "I thought that just this once, you probably knew what you were doing. Also, why are you insinuating I never listen to you?"

You heard him shake his head lightly.

"It's less not listening and more reckless behaviour, to be perfectly honest."

Again, his words swam inside your head without giving you a clear and definite feeling or thought. You curled your leg over his while trying to ignore the clamor around you.

"I want to answer 'Wait until I get used to this and I'll talk back all the time', but I don't want to go through this again, Hitoshi."

He inclined his head to look at you, frowning softly. While he did seem to want to answer, he dejectedly caressed your shoulder with his thumb. Through the thick fog inside your head, you reasoned that he too wished for this to never happen again. Wouldn't that be amazing? An alternative lifestyle, or rather the one that the majority of the population lived by, where you didn't fear that your spouse would die on the job or accidentally reveal where their loved ones live to villains.

This, along with the exhaustion and hunger, made it hard to convey what you were thinking, so you just sighed. "I want to go home."

"I'll get someone to pick us up, but there's something I need to tell you."

Upon returning home, the puffiness of your eyes had abated and the pulsing ache behind your head matched the one in your chest. As soon as the car stopped, you released yourself from the belt and thanked the driver with a gravelly voice. You hurried into your apartment, keys shaking in your hand. With Hitoshi right behind you, you entered your home to soft mumbling from the living room.

Both of you froze, until you recognized a voice actor's famous drawl.

"We left the TV on," Hitoshi said quietly, gently pushing you aside and striding into the living room with squared shoulders. You followed him inside when you heard him hum discontently, flipping through the channels. The TV flashed and it conveniently showed the news detailing today's attack. As much as you didn't want to know about it and for Hitoshi to further stress himself up, the rule about no news could not be enforced when family members were involved. It seemed like no matter how much you wanted to shield him from the world, life would find a way to screw specifically with the two of you.

"I can't believe he's done this," you said, feeling your soul evaporate from your body as the camera crew showed the remnants of the elder care facility from a distance. It seemed that all the inhabitants and staff had been evacuated. You wondered if they were still waiting for transport into the city hospitals by the hero encampment where you had stayed. Your car was still left on the road together with those of many others. An overview of the road flicked up, cars pushed to the sidelines for transportation.

"He doesn't exactly fit the usual profile," Hitoshi said.

You shouldn't indulge him, you really shouldn't…

"The usual profile being..?"

"A person in a vulnerable position. Money, work, problems with people… People don't turn into villains for no reason, I think. There's got to be something more guiding them, just like there is for those of us on the lawful side of society."

"Ah. I guess that is true."

It wasn't unthinkable that your brother had been influenced into committing a crime; he was a successful businessman with a throng of acquaintances, a few loyal friends and some noteworthy enemies. Much like Hitoshi, he regarded his vocational duties with serious respect, more than you would tolerate considering that all he made was money for his bosses. Someone out for his position could've done something to him, with the consequences being these.

Your baby brother in this position… You felt sick to your stomach. Was it because of the destruction? Because he never showed signs of weakness or whatever the fuck made him do this? Or did he perhaps just never reveal that part of himself to you?

That couldn't be true though. You two were so close.

"Can we go see him?" you asked, uncertain of how police protocol worked. On the way home, you had listened to the local radio comment about the attack and there seemed to be a high death count. That would probably affect whether or not you could see your brother.

Hitoshi stared blindly into the TV and said, "Will you face him even after everything he's done?"

It equally dumbfounded and conflicted you, it really did. 'Eighteen deaths' said the updated sign beneath the news anchor, increasing the death toll by three since this afternoon. On one hand, he was your brother - of course you'd back him up. That's what your initial instincts said. On the other hand, this visceral, unknown side scared you. The middle ground was curious, morbidly so.

"I saw your brother do some heroes in," Hitoshi said, his lips barely moving. "He ripped their arms and legs into oblivion. If he hadn't been confused after seeing me, I would have ended up like that too."

Slowly, you crept up to Hitoshi and attached yourself to his arm, feeling his muscle tense up. He had all the reason to be stressed. You wouldn't let him go in any case, not after today. You probably lost your brother after this ordeal and you refused to lose your husband, too. With your body chilled, as if submerged in ice cold water, you said, "I want to. I want to believe this wasn't his doing. It doesn't seem likely, though… If he is stuck behind bars I don't want to live without knowing why."

"Right. You talk to him, get to know his motives and hope that the people surrounding you have the tact to not ask you about it."

"Whatever I do, I will lose, then."

Since the villain's identity wasn't broadcasted the rest of your family and friends remained ignorant, aside from your brother's family and your parents. Your sister-in-law was inconsolable, you heard from your mother when you spoke on the phone. On the verge of tears around your parents, somewhat controlled around her children. Because your brother had young children she was keeping it together, but only barely. The entire family was camped out at your parents' place and the only reason you didn't go was because Hitoshi had been credited for suppressing the villain.

While your sister-in-law supposedly didn't mind, you and Hitoshi agreed that it'd be a bad idea to show up. All you could do was hope that your nephews weren't told, as they adored Hitoshi and vice versa.

During the night, you were unable to sleep. Hitoshi stayed holed up in your bedroom attempting to sleep while you straight up didn't bother trying. Before he left you by the kitchen table with a glass of juice and your laptop you promised him you wouldn't keep reading the news or comments on social media. With a quick kiss he bid you goodnight.

Throughout your misery there was a tiny speck of appreciation for him caring about your mental well-being. You could keep yourself off the internet and play games or whatever tickled your fancy at 2:20AM, but you couldn't stop ruminating.

At this point, you felt like a conspiracy theorist and you were convinced that Hitoshi would deadpan you for this idea.

Honestly, you thought and finished your second cup of coffee, as long as it gets me through this I don't mind going a bit batshit.

Your head was massively pulsating and it felt like you were going crazy with everything. Everything was going to hell and nothing made sense.

How long would this go on?

At precisely 4:13AM you stumbled into your shared bedroom.

Boy, did you have a revelation for your husband.

You crawled over your side of the bed to him, who laid sleeping on his side. He awoke before you could touch him with your shaky hands, looking awfully alert and aware for someone with permanent dark bags under his eyes. Hitoshi blinked against the hall lights until he focused on you, frowning.

"I don't think my brother did this out of his own volition," you said as steadily as you could, because you 100% needed him on your side right now.

He stared blankly at you, lips spread slightly. Turning around beneath the covers, he rotated until he could face you properly.

"You know my brother. He wouldn't do this out of his own volition, Hitoshi. Why would someone with a good career and family go on a killing spree? This has to be a mistake."

Heavy subject to breach his sleep with, you understood. Gripping the sheets, you begged him with your eyes to hear you out.

"So you think he's been coerced into this?" he said after some contemplation.

"Yes! Why would he do this otherwise?"

He didn't answer for a while and you started feeling defensive, so you evaded his gaze.

"Not everyone's motives are understandable," he finally said, using his forearm to keep his hair away from his face. "Everyone does whatever they want, regardless of the people around them or whatever they were born with. All I know is that he didn't have to kill humans."

That sounded very different from what he preached earlier to you. If people did what they want and the circumstances were irrelevant, why was the profile he spoke about so important? Fucking meaningless, all of it. You let air escape through your teeth, more like the determined hiss from a rattlesnake than a sigh. All you could try was to convince your silvertongue husband to believe you.

"Hitoshi..!"

You looked at him and got taken aback by his expression, one of profound sadness.

"Baby, I need you to listen to me," his voice like liquid. "There's nothing we can do right now. We just have to wait for justice to work things out."

"You need to hear me out."

"Right. I'll do that later. Now, lay down and get some shuteye."

Too tired to decipher whether he used his Quirk on you or not, you blacked out doused in disappointment.

Turns out your proposition wasn't positively received by Hitoshi. He seemed pensive about your words but you could tell that he didn't place much weight on them. Indeed, he disagreed strongly that your brother had been forced or otherwise influenced into this. When pressed for reasons, he continued that people could be blackmailed into financial shenanigans to cover them up, but downright murder was out of the question. That would obviously raise hell and was the opposite of being clandestine. His sources were his own experiences.

The one thing he had no clear answer to was whether his brainwashing could overwrite instructions from other similar Quirks. Seeing him doubt and scratch his head over it gave you some relief. This was your sole consolation.

It wasn't like you forced Hitoshi back to his workplace, but he was adamant on following this up. At least that was a place safer than anywhere else, considering how many pro heroes and side kicks that were in the vicinity. You could just hope that they wouldn't rope him into doing work. If they did, you'd personally show up at the office and leave with your husband and someone's bloody nuts.

While he was away you visited your family, gathered your thoughts and returned home with some of your mom's homecooked food. Everyone was in agreement; something strange was going on with your brother.

When thinking about it, you thought that he must've been pretty damn out of it to not recognize Hitoshi. Hitoshi didn't recognize him because of his get-up, but your brother should have recognized him. Why would he answer out of anger instead of being shocked or confused? Like Hitoshi had said before, if your brother had reacted out of instinct instead of having gotten confused, Hitoshi would've limped away with a missing limb or worse. As much as it terrified you that those people died because they were at the wrong place at the wrong time, you were secretly relieved that he arrived at the right time. However, the rest of the world didn't see it like that.

The news were always droning in the background while you were at home, because if your husband was at work you would also allow yourself to stay up to date with the news. They claimed that the villain most likely could've been neutralized had the heroes reacted faster or some other idiotic attack. You hated the worship that surrounded the heroes because it placed an insurmountable amount of pressure on a relatively small amount of people. The consequences? Overwork, survivor's guilt, high burnout and suicide rates, among many.

Hitoshi had updated you in a dry tone after his prolonged visit to his office. Word spread like hellfire when it came to mass murder and this was no different. With your heart rippling with fear, you listened to him explain that your brother had not been the only villain and that the heroes were currently tracking down the last two. There aren't words to describe the relief that shone through your body, the mere presence of hope aggressively raising your solemn mood. It could still mean that your brother had collaborated, yet you felt that you were right in assuming he was coerced. Your newfound hope fuelled you and you couldn't wait until you could tell your parents.

After your talk you gloomily realized that you shouldn't have let Hitoshi go in the first place, because his co-worker called him back into the office, saying that the cops were there. Was him being away really worth the information? Perhaps he had been right in saying that knowing everything about the case wasn't worth it.

Shinsou Hitoshi was accustomed to people gossiping about him. For some reason, people were very interested in his Quirk, the dark bags under his eyes and his ties to UA. When he returned to his office for the second time that day, his people had a newfound fixation with the fact that his brother-in-law had committed a severe crime. Indeed, he hung out behind a corner and overheard his assistants talk about it. His coffee tasted badly, regardless of how much milk he put in it.

"You're the last person I would expect to be here," His manager's voice rang out behind him. Hitoshi actually jumped, almost spilling his cup. His assistants ceased talking. "Yet it cannot be helped. Did you hear from..?"

"Yes," he said in a monotone voice and peeked across his shoulder, pokerface on. "I heard that the police came here to talk?"

His manager tightened his tie and gave him a tired look. "They're waiting for you."

"I won't keep them waiting further, then." Without further ado, he set off towards his office room, walking briskly past his assistants. If someone could spontaneously explode, they probably would've done it by now.

Hitoshi felt guilty for his manager. Sato would be working overtime to highlight his subjugation of the villain and quench whatever rumors were spreading. Unfortunately the rest of his team participated in that... A little support from his team wouldn't be bad. The public was ruthless in their criticism and he wanted nothing more than go back to his wife. His sick-leave was cut short by your personal tragedy that extended into becoming his personal win and tragedy. Usually when he successfully dealt with villains, he and his team would be thinking about ways to capitalize on it. This time around he would want it buried ASAP, both for his sake and yours.

Although it wouldn't stop after this little talk with the police, he started to seriously consider sick-leave a positive thing. He could certainly use a break from this madness.

"So the police came to question you?" You sat cross-legged on the sofa, spine hunched over and eyes set in shadows. It wasn't the 'seductive kind of deeply-set eyes' he allegedly had but 'I'm tired of everything eyes'. The way your body language had shot from lethargic to alarmed after he announced that he had news made him clench his fists in hopelessness. It was something he had encountered before when dealing with civilians in denial about the deaths of their friends or relatives. Or rather, it was a human quality. Damn if he hadn't thought about his brother-in-law being forced into this by someone with a Quirk like his.

"Yes," he said, leaning back onto his armchair. "It was pretty standard. They asked questions about what happened, his Quirk and how he acted. I'll skip the details…"

He trailed off, staring off into nothingness as he structured his thoughts quickly. "I kept thinking about what you said before… about my Quirk overwriting other Quirks. I told them I thought that your brother seemed off and not entirely there, just like it is with Brainwashing."

"So it's not impossible?"

That was a hard question he didn't have a factual answer to. If Brainwashing could be undone by hurting the subject, other suggestion-like Quirks could have other conditions for release. The two other villains had, much like the League of Villains members in the past, unregistered Quirks and it'd take a few days to completely figure them out. Until then, this would only be speculation.

"Probably not," he said reluctantly.

Your face relaxed, your shadows becoming less intensive somehow. Hitoshi was content yet uneasy. This was the closest he'd ever come to letting another person influence his observations. Courts experienced problems with witnesses showing bias or remembering things wrong, which could prove important for either incarceration or for the villain to regain their freedom. It surprised him how you could influence him to that extent. No one was immune, but still…

He regarded you seriously, clasping a hand behind his neck. While he was happy that you were relieved by the small chance for your brother to have been coerced, he understood the feeling of wanting to prove everyone wrong and wished you hadn't influenced his thinking.

But that was also why he liked you. Someone who could show him other ways to think. Who didn't like to be put in their place ever so often?

"I don't know how it'll turn out with your brother. I don't want to promise you anything," he said.

You wiggled your head loosely to the sides and hummed. Not quite content, then.

Hitoshi used his upper body strength to lift himself off the armchair and struggled over to you, left leg flaring up in pain. It disappeared once he sat down beside you and you let out an unwilling laugh when he laid down across your lap, his head leaning against your thigh. Your hands combed through his unruly hair and he groaned when you liberated his tangled ends.

This girl…

When it came to you, he simply didn’t know when to stop.

How far would the two of you get with your words and his voice?

If you liked this, give it a reblog or like! I’ll be releasing more soon.

Link to Masterlist

#bnha x reader #shinsou x reader #shinsou hitoshi x reader #shinsou hitoshi #bnha #bnha scenarios #bnha imagines #ilcaeryx.tenacity

13 notes · View notes

velathetanager · 4 years

Text

Child’s Play

Chapter 2: Hero You Deserve

Chaos happened to be traveling down that same road. "Excuse me, ma'am, are you lost?"

"Oh, no. My house is this way."

"Oh, is that your doll?"

"It is now. I am in the business of restoring toys like this one."

"Alrighty, be careful around here. A lot of dangerous freaks roam around here,"

"Thank you, miss," the woman said, getting back in her car.

Chaos wandered back to her base. she looked up then bumped into someone.

"Sorry!" She backed up while looking to see who she had bumped into.

"Oh, don't worry. I probably shouldn't be here anyway."

"Oh hey, Jennifer right?"

"You watch my show? Where there's smoke..."

"There's Fireburst,"

Jennifer grinned and clapped her on the back. "Always good to meet a fan. You watching my special broadcast tonight?"

"Possibly, Tonight's a blood moon so I don't recommend it,"

"Eh, I take risks all the time."

"I dunno about this risk."

"Look, I'm taking enough of a risk with what I'm covering. What's one more?" Then she headed for her car. "Hey, do you know by any chance if Christian Brutal Sniper will be out tonight?"

"Yeah, Brutal enjoys nights like tonight. It really gets him fired up,"

"All I needed to know," Jennifer replied with a grin.

"Just a warning. A lot of times like tonight means all the freaks that enjoy murder will be out and hunting."

Jennifer swore. "Any chance they'll be in Twinkle Town?"

"If there's a crowd. They'll be there and ready to kill,"

Jennifer sighed. "Thank you for the warning."

That night, there was a concert in Twinkle Town.

Sitting on a building nearby was an armored FemScout. She was armed with a sword and a long white cape trailed behind her. "Of course it's tonight. Of course." She looked around for Freaks, ready to attack if one showed up. The first one she saw was Gentlespy. Sighing, she flew down to greet him. "Hello. Any chance you're here just for the show?"

"Out on a Dr. Pepper run," He held out a card that stated he was under watch by HECU members. He grumbled something about a Rudra.

The FemScout shuddered at the mention of the drink. "And your companion? Am I gonna have to deal with him?"

"Probably, He does whatever he wants, HECU glaring him down or not,"

"Is he here?"

"Should be,"

The FemScout groaned. "Thank you for the information."

He nodded then headed off to a vendor.

The FemScout located Brutal not long after. An invisible wall seemed to go up around him, pushing everyone around him away. The armored girl hovered over the crowd, cape flowing ominously. When she was just above him, she drew her sword quietly.

"I wouldn't bother, Sheila. In a few more minutes that moon is going to show up,"

"I know. That's why I'm here. To ensure that nobody gets hurt. And it's Hero." The voice had a thick Irish accent.

"You know, you sound a lot like that Jennifer Fireburst. Related?"

"Cousins." The voice seemed unsure. "She had a broadcast tonight, but I had her change it to tomorrow."

"Why? She should be able to do it without you. Unless you two are the same person,"

"Oh, right. It has nothing to do with Freaks like you being out during a Blood Moon." The voice dripped sarcasm.

"Fair enough,"

Hero sighed. "I don't even like this artist. I can't understand a thing he says."

"Who is it tonight?"

"Big Deal. The mumble rapper."

"I could-" He made the slit throat gesture, chuckling.

"No you couldn't," Hero said, pointing at the Freak's legs.

He looked at his legs. A silver light held them fast to the ground. It made its way up to his heart, making it feel almost unbearably heavy. “Thanks.."

"Thankless job, protecting this city. Of course a supervillain is the first," Hero groused.

"I'm a killer, not a supervillain,"

"You have powers, don't you?"

"Super strength, and similar things. trust me there's more villain like,"

"If you use your powers for evil, you're a supervillain." The Freak tossed him a Pepsi. "Hope you're thirsty. That lasts until the Blood Moon ends."

“Can I at least go home instead of having this damn thing on me. It’s awkward standing in the middle of the street. Then again it is blocked off,”

"I can escort you home, but then I'm Anchoring you there. Deal?"

“Deal...” he groaned out.

She chained him up and held her sword to his throat. Then her cape became a pair of majestic wings and she took flight. "You know, that whole thing where you went missing turned a lot of heads. Including mine. I had to put a field around Twinkle Town during that incident."

“I was in a state of... hell I don’t know how to explain it. I try not to think about it. If I were you I’d talk to someone who saw it first hand. Like Jester or Chaos Kin,”

"I don't quite know who those are." Hero landed and pulled out a key to Brutal's house, shoving him inside roughly.

“No need to shove... Chaos is the easiest to spot. Smaller than normal Femscout with a grey shirt, long brown hair, has buttons on her bag, two different colored eyes. Well actually, Jester is the easiest to spot,”

"What does he look like?"

“They, non-binary. Jester flies, looks like a fever dream court Jester, and is seen trying to make people happy 95% of the time, the other five percent is to keep Chaos from having a mental break down and becoming a dragon... again,”

"Have a picture? Also, not that you deserve it, but the Anchor isn't as bad if you sit or lie down."

“The dragon form or Jester?” He went to lay on the couch.

"Jester."

He picked up a picture that Jester took of the group and tossed it to her like a poker card.

Hero looked at it and her wings turned red. "Interesting," she said, reanchoring Brutal.

Brutal seemed confused about her being mad. Jester couldn’t- well. They have. But only because if they didn’t then Grave would have won.

"Do you think this Jester is in Twinkle Town tonight?"

“Probably to entertain people,”

The red darkened. "Thank you for the information." Then she walked out, locking the door. The picture had been seared, Brutal noticed.

Suddenly, Hero came back in. "I dropped your phone, so I upgraded it for you."

“Now tell me now. Are you planning on killing Jester?”

"I'm not like you. I don't kill in cold blood." She shrugged. "Now, making sure this 'Jester' isn't who I think they are? Completely acceptable."

“You hurts Jester in any way... you will be sorry,”

"They did enough of that to me, Freak."

“Freak is a species. Not an insult,”

"Humans use my species as an insult."

“Than you either haven’t met the right ones, or don’t have the stones to make them respect you,”

"I am a hero. I have no need to prove anything to them." Then she strolled out.

Chaos was at Jester's event, and Jennifer went to greet her. "Hi."

“You look p*ssed,”

"I heard someone who royally screwed me over may be here. Or at least someone who looks like him. I'm here making sure it's the latter."

“If your talking about Jester here. Then it has to be the latter.”

Jennifer lifted a hand in their direction, and her eyes gave off a faint glow. Then she sighed. "Yeah, it's the latter. Thank goodness. I would have hated to hurt an innocent person in a fit of rage."

“You? A human? Hurt someone like Jester?”

Jennifer blanched. "Uh..." Before Chaos could react, the reporter blew some light blue dust in her face.

Then she nodded. "Yeah, it's the latter. Thank goodness. Hero would hate to have another madman running around in the streets."

Chaos blinked several times. “Feels like deja-“ She groaned looking up a the sky. “Speaking Of madmen, here comes Mr. Confidence.”

Jennifer looked up at the sky. A black and red dragon flew around to the soundtrack of a Scout's laughter. "Who-”

“Underling.”

"Whose?"

“Dunno, But that’s his title.”

"Of course. I must be off."

“I’ll warn Jester. Underling can get excited.”

Jennifer nodded, gave Chaos a thumbs-up, and left. Not even a minute later, Hero flew up to meet him. "Hello there."

The Scout wore a black and red Jester set, "Let me guess. You here to spoil my fun?"

"Aye, if your idea of fun is wreaking havoc."

"It is," the Scout grinned. "Let's get this over with."

Hero nodded, charged, and swung her sword.

#Freak Fortress #Hero #Christian Brutal Sniper #Chaos Kin #Jennifer Fireburst #Underling #Count Jester #Child's Play

4 notes · View notes

pinkandgreenarepurpleandyellow · 5 years

Note

RetsuxDoyle? You did really good with Doysumi. But there's no RetsuxDoyle :/

(pre-fic note: I’m so sorry this took so long to write, i got this ask at 9 pm yesterday, wrote for an hour, and spent like 2 hours writing this before family dragged me to stuff, but it’s done now thank you again for asking!)

*cracks knuckles* A’ight, let’s get to it

Warnings for: gore mention, mentions of torture, mention of electrocution, violence mentions, swearing i think, mentions of alcohol and one mention of drugs

On with the show!

-----

The first time they see each other is not, as Retsu thinks, in the arena. The first time they met had actually been 10 years ago, an event that Retsu remembered as moronic, and what Doyle remembered as an amusing day in a crappy week.

-----

The second time is the arena, and both men are silently struck by the attractiveness of the other, with only one of them recognizing the other from their first meeting.

----

The third time they meet, it’s in the elevator of a shopping mall, as both walk home for the day. Retsu’s shocked by both the fact that he ran into the assassin, and that Doyle invited him for a drink. That entire night catalogs in Retsu’s head as insane, the Scot registering in his head as both a nuisance and a warrior with a secret heart of gold.

Doyle really doesn’t know when or how it started, but he slowly found himself more and more interested in Retsu. The man’s honor, his creative use of weapons, his voice and the way he acts both when angry and happy all jumped onto the feeling of attraction, amplifying it tenfold. (1)

Retsu, on the other hand, was significantly more shocked by his interest in the redhead, denying it for a good three months, even going back to Hong Kong for a week to try and clear his head.

(he’d die before admitting this to the other students of the temple, but they all figured it out.) (2)

-----

It’s while Doyle’s in Russia, sniping a corrupt politician and busting up a mafia or two, that he stops by for a drink with one of his closest friends, one of the only people who he really trusts.

“So, to recap; You broke out of prison, flew to Japan, found ‘Egg’, got the shit beaten out of you by him, guarded his unconscious body for the night, got a free stay in the Shinshinkai hospital, joined the ‘I blew up a Shinshinkai dojo’ club with me and Phillis, admitted defeat to the golden boy of Karate, and now you’re living with golden boy and trying to ask out Egg? Did I get all of that right?” Atchison’s voice is laced with both amusement and venom, the latter a result of the cyanide capsules she stored under tongue at all times.

He nods, and both of them down their shots before signaling the bartender for another six for each of them.

“Yeah. God, I needed a drink today.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea,” he leans forward, knocking back two of the shots before continuing. “I haven't slept in almost four days, i’ve been shot sixty times, stabbed twelve times, maced three times, and to top it all off, a merc actually tried to throw a beehive at me! Where did she even get a beehive?”

Atchison chuckles, and smoothly swipes a bottle of wine from the passing-by bartender. “First of all, here,” she hands him the bottle and Doyle downs half of it in one go, “and second of all, forget the beehive, did you ask Egg out yet?”

“Working on it. Little busy with the whole career and all.”

“What’s he look like now? It’s been ten years after all.”

“Well he has hair now. And his eyebrows are even weirder than before. He’s actually kinda hot now.”

“So what are you waiting for? Go get ‘im, tiger.” And they both finish off the last of the alcohol between them, and leave without paying. They always do this when they run into each other, get a drink, talk shit about life, compare notes on the unusual people they’ve run into, but this is the first time either one has seen him a second time.

-----

Kissing Doyle feels a little like a great sparring session; it tingles and Retsu feels the redhead smile a little into the kiss. When they break apart, it’s cause of the hoots and hollers coming from the other side of the window.

“Wanna go somewhere a little quieter?” Doyle asks him, still making that cute expression between a smile and a smirk, holding his hand and pulling him up that way. Retsu smiles wide and strides out, yanking Doyle behind him.

-----

It’s been almost nine months now, and Doyle can still fluster his boyfriend with nothing more than a throwaway comment about how hot he is. He loves it, he loves the way Retsu always looks thrown, even if only for a second. Grabbing Retsu’s hand in public also seems to do the trick. Doyle would be lying if he didn’t also add that seeing Retsu blush made his heart jump a little, even now.

-----

Retsu knows that Doyle used to be an assassin, but it isn’t until now that the consequences of this strike him. (3) He puts the pieces together about a year after they start dating, when he’s woken up by arguing voices at 2 a.m. and Doyle is nowhere to be found, even though they both had gone to bed at the same time this evening. So Retsu follows the voices, all the way up to the roof, but something stops him from going up, so he listens from the window Doyle always insists on keeping open.

“......trust.......die in the field soon........can’t keep him safe.....leave.” A stranger’s voice, too low to be a woman’s, and too speaking-English-with-that-accent to be Japanese.

“..............stay.......love him......perfect.” and there’s his boyfriend’s response, sounding as quiet and calm as ever, and Retsu can’t listen like this anymore, so he climbs out of the window instead, climbing out to cling onto the drainpipe and listen from there.

“Look, for the last time, you. can’t. stay. here. Doyle.” the stranger seems almost agitated now. “You know how the job is. You know quite how often it follows you home, what if it runs into your boyfriend first? I don’t know what the ever-loving hell you smoked to get a civilian significant other and bond with him, but you need to drop it before it gets you killed.”

“No,” comes the still calm reply, “I’m not leaving him. He’s not just a civilian, he’s an expert in Chinese Kenpo, so he can most definitely beat you, or anyone else who we know. You can do whatever you want to me, but try to hurt him and you’ll have a much bigger hell to pay.”

“So what, you really love him then?” The man sounds so disbelieving of this, and for the first time, Retsu is also worrying. Oh sure, he had considered the possibility of Doyle not loving him or rejecting him before, but now he was worried that Doyle would stop loving him, an entirely different thing to be concerned about.

“Yeah, I love him,” and this is the first time Doyle’s voice has had any emotion in it, “I love him more than anything. I’d die for him, I’d kill for him, I’d re-live everything we had ever gone through for him. Every single part of it, Lennox, and if you try to hurt him--”

He’s cut off by the stranger’s, “I’m not,” he pauses, “just last question, former friend to former friend. Is it nice, being, well being in love? Being free of...our lives?” And this 'Lennox’ is probably around Doyle’s age, but the way he asks makes him sound like a little kid, curious about a world he’s never seen.

Doyle huffs out a quiet half-laugh at this, “It’s amazing, man, you should try it sometime. Living freely feels like, well, freedom. It’s like “graduation night” was, only better, and everyday.” And at that someone jumps off the roof and Retsu sees a short shadow land on the roof across him before it jumps again. That must be Lennox.

Retsu climbs back in and lies down in bed, all while trying to process everything he just heard. Doyle loves him, turned his back on his career for him, was willing to fight a friend (and Retsu knows how rare friends are for assassins, as well as that the fight between two can be fatal for both parties). His processing is interrupted by the soft, almost inaudible steps of Doyle climbing in, walking over to where Retsu is trying to fake sleeping, and lying down next to him, and his hand is immediately grabbed by Doyle’s, as though his hand is an anchor in a storm. Doyle starts tapping on the floorboards quietly, as though he doesn’t want to wake Retsu up, but the taps tell another story, all in Morse code.

“Retsu, love, I know you aren't asleep right now...Or maybe you’re awake and just zoned out, but either way....I love you..I love you more than you can imagine, and I love that I can say it like this, cause last I checked, you don’t know Morse code...You’re amazing, darling, everything about you is perfect, and I- (Doyle’s fingers falter for half a moment before continuing) I’ll never leave you, not unless you want me to..I want you to be happy even more than I want you to be with me, you deserve that happiness, you deserve the world, my love...” and Retsu’s head is spinning, drowning out whatever else comes after because he’s still reeling from the fact that Doyle’s saying all of these things to him, because this is the first time either one has managed to say ‘I love you’ not ‘i love your hair/eyes/[habit]/[talent],’ just ‘i love you’. So Retsu acts on instinct uses his free hand to send his own message.

“I love you too Doyle, you are perfection, I love you, please stay, you’re a part of life I don’t want to lose, I love you, I love you, I lov-” Retsu’s cut off by the feeling of Doyle’s lips on his, and his hands roaming over Retsu’s arms, tapping out the same message over and over again, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, and why shouldn’t Retsu return the favor and tell him too? So when they stop kissing in favor of still having oxygen in their lungs, Retsu gently pins Doyle down, and says “I love you, Doyle, I love you-”

“Hector.”

“What?”

In the dark, Doyle’s eye seems to gleam.

“My first name’s Hector, Retsu. Just...just thought you should know.” Hector, huh? Not what he expected, but when had Doyle ever been what he’d expected. Retsu tries the name in his head, and yeah, it works.

“Wǒ ài nǐ” he says to the redhead, wondering if he will understand.

“Wǒ yě ài nǐ,” comes the quiet reply as Doyle-no no- Hector looks away, whether out of embarrassment or shyness, and Retsu feels a new surge of love for the man laying next to him.

Retsu feels the part of his body that Doyle’s lying on top of starting to go numb, so he gently nudges the assassin off of him, still not letting go of his hand. They fall asleep face-to-face, and sometime during the night they must have moved, or else Doyle wouldn't have been squished against Retsu’s chest.

---

It’s easier to say, after that. Neither is still good at saying ‘I love you’ in Japanese (4), so they work around.

“Te quiero” greets Retsu when he comes home to the smell of amazing food cooking.

“Je t’aime” and a bottle of Doyle’s favorite wine make his heart skip a beat on his birthday (5).

“Ana behibak!” reads the text that makes Retsu smile, and his students tease him for letting his boyfriend distract him one in a while, but he doesn't mind.

“Ya Tabe kahayu” is written at the end of the note Doyle reads as he finds out that Retsu had to go back to his temple again and will be gone for another three weeks.

“Ich liebe Dich?” Is all Doyle has to say when Retsu finds him in the jail cell of the temple after a student tells him they caught the intruder that had been hiding in their school for ten whole days. Retsu just laughs and goes to try and explain the situation to his master.

After a rough day in the field leaves him with half a dozen bullets in his everywhere, Doyle’s fairly sore, even after he pulls the bullets out, and Retsu picks up on this fairly quickly once he comes home. Retsu makes Doyle lie down and starts massaging his shoulders before moving to the neck and the back muscles. As the redhead slowly relaxes, he starts falling asleep. The last thing he hears before his eyes close fully is, “Ani ohev otcha.”

Retsu’s master dies in a typhoon, and Retsu flies to Hong Kong the moment he gets the news. As he gets ready to leave some offerings on the grave and say goodbye, he falls to his knees, feeling emptiness and overwhelming sorrow at the same time. A hand on his shoulder steadies him, pulls him up, and Retsu isn’t surprised that there’s Doyle, holding a small bouquet of flowers and a few incense sticks. They place the offerings by the stone, and Retsu takes another second to let his master’s soul go completely. As they walk, hand in hand, the whispered “Hum Tumhe Pyar Karte hae” doesn’t take away the hurt, but it makes him feel a little less alone and a little more alive.

Doyle’s in Indonesia when he gets hurt, and so he goes to one of the underground hospitals, staffed and visited by assassins, mercenaries, killers, and other scum of the world. While he’s there, another patient goes crazy and uses his taser on Doyle, nearly killing him. The part that makes this a bad situation is that Doyle hates electrocution with a passion, even before he was sentenced to the chair he had had enough experiences with it to scar him for good. When the two are found, the crazy man’s head is missing. And when Doyle comes home, it isn’t with a light heart or a happy head, it’s still trapped in the sensation of electricity racing up and down his spine. Retsu can sense the pain radiating from Doyle, the darkness around him almost personified, covering the younger man in a way it hadn’t even when they had met at the arena. Retsu doesn’t know what to do, and when Doyle just sits down, staring at the wall blankly, Retsu sits next to him, holding his hands, and staying there for almost another 36 hours until Doyle can finally talk, and hear, and think. The first thing he hears is, “Taim i’ ngra leat,” and Retsu doesn’t stop repeating it until Doyle’s ready to stand up, embrace him, and mutter back tiredly “Taim i’ ngra leat”.

Their third anniversary is the first one where both take an entire day off their jobs to spend the time with one another. A walk in the park, a wine sampling booth, a movie, and finally, just a nice simple dinner at home. They both say it at the same time. “Ti amo” and “Te amo” are almost identical, but different enough that they can both tell the other also said it, and both know the other person feels the same way about them.

-----

They cook dinner for one another, get one another gifts, play pranks, take walks, use their everyday lives to say ‘I love you’. They never lose track of how they say it either, writing down the words and phrases and their direct translations and countries of origin on the wall. (6)

-----

They’ve long lost track of how many times they’ve said ‘i love you’ to each other. They’ve been together for five years now, married less than a week ago, so they decide to visit every country whose language they used to say ‘i love you’. The journey takes almost a year, and leaves them both with many memories, most good and some odd. The oddest to both of them is when they run into Doyle’s oldest friend, Alisson Atchison.

“Hello, Doyle. Hello, Egg,” She greets them, hanging upside down from a lamp-post in Zambia, just a mile or so from the capital. Before Retsu can ask about the strange nickname, his husband speaks

“Atchison,” Doyle nods his head in recognition. “How have you been?”

“Good, and congrats on your marriage! The wedding was a blast, but i didn’t get a chance to give you a gift, so here ya go.”

A long, slender package and two small photographs are shoved in Retsu’s face, so he takes both, hands the package to Doyle, and looks at the photographs.

The first is six kids posing as a group. The redhead in the center looks an awful lot like a much younger version of his husband, and so he hands the photo to Doyle, who looks at it and practically tackles Atchison when he recognizes it.

“You found it!”

“Yep, found all the copies, all six of them. Two are ashes now, we’ve got two, and i gave both the lovebirds their photos back.”

“Did they also like that wedding gift?” Retsu interjects

“Uh-huh! Both just look at each other, compare one another to the photos and start bickering about which one is prettier. Both of them just keep saying ‘as your wife, I declare you prettier.’ ‘no you’re prettier, and as your wife, that’s my call!’ You know how those two are.”

Doyle and Atchison keep catching up, so Retsu looks at the second photograph. This one is a selfie, featuring two kid who he assumes are the teenage versions of the two assassins currently bickering about who owed who a shot from which country and why. But then he looks more closely at it, and notices that there’s a rope ladder the kids are holding onto, and the end of it is visibly off the ground. The background proves even more interesting when he sees a temple...........

looking suspiciously like the one he was studying at at the time........

with a bald, angry-looking man in the background.......

one that looks suspiciously like the younger version of him.......

and this looks an awful lot like a selfie taken by one of the other parties involved in the incident at the temple fifteen years ago............

And Retsu’s brain breaks entirely as he yells, “EXPLAIN THIS IMMEDIATELY!”

“Love, calm down, we’ll explain.”

“It all began fifteen years, with two assassins in training, a mission to a temple, a school in Scotland, and a dare............”

----

THE END!!!!

------

Notes:

(1) Assassins tended to be a tad insane like that, and four years of solitary followed by electrocution only added on the years and years of insanity-inducing torture. It wasn’t like being an assassin was a career he chose, really. It was more like that’s what he had been trained for since he was old enough to remember, and by the time he was old enough to have learned about right and wrong, it was a little late to consider himself on the right side. The fact that he had lived to be 25 while being active in the field was already somewhat of a shocker.

So Doyle’s attraction to Retsu, while somewhat surprising, was significantly not that big of a deal. He always did go for the odd ones; the sword-wielding glitter-covered vigilante he’d shared a kiss with on the roofs of Paris, the guy with a wicked smile and a wickeder way with knives in the Sahara Desert, the woman with needles woven into her braid and a career as a mercenary weren’t exactly conventional lovers or dates, so Retsu could have actually been considered fairly ordinary.

(2) (The fact that Doyle had sneaked into the temple by clinging onto the ceiling, held a 3-hour long conversation with the Great Kaioh on morality and values in combat, and then proceeded to argue with three of the students on whether or not murder was truly bad had somewhat helped their understanding of Retsu’s dilemma.)

(By the time Retsu’s finally come to terms with his feelings, everyone else already knows. Katsumi, Suedo, Katou, and even Doppo Orochi all ask him, with varying degrees of sensitivity, when he will finally ask out the assassin.)

(3) He had noticed all of the things before, mind you, just didn’t realize how far down those went, putting them as minor habits. It was everything about Doyle, really, when he looked far enough. The sleeping and getting up at impossibly random times of the day, the forgetting to eat unless Retsu sat down with him and forced him to eat, the strange habit of almost never using the door to enter their apartment, the almost impeccable knowledge of languages he shouldn’t have been able to practice, not in his home country or in prison.

(4) The languages used are, as follows: Spanish, French, Arabic, Belarusian, German, Hebrew, Hindi, Irish, Italian, and Spanish again.

(5) Not that Doyle actually knew when that was, but he had managed to get a file or two from a hospital in Scotland, find out the rough week in October, and pick the day he thought was the most likely to be the day of his birth.

(6) The wall is added to for the rest of their lives. Both of them also keep their own notebooks with the same ‘‘i love you’’s written down, just in case.

#retsu x doyle #baki the grappler #grappler baki #asks #mod z answers asks #writing #my writing #drabbles #tw: gore mention #tw: violence mention #tw: alchohol mention #tw: swearing #my laptop is at 7% rn i should go charge now excuse me #also i'm actually very proud of this fic

29 notes · View notes

riseandshinelittleblossom · 5 years

Text

Hoping for Home Ch 6 - “If I Didn’t Have You”

Sorry for the wait, guys! Catch up here!

Disclaimer: Just borrowing the characters except my originals.

Song for this chapter: “If I Didn’t Have You” By Thompson Square

Tags: @ao719 @cocomaxley @leelee10898@fullbeaumonty @choiceswreckedme @ritachacha @itsstillnotwhatyouthink@blackcoffee85 @indiacater @drakesensworld @carabeth @daniv2278@cosigottahavefaith @gibbles82 @innerpostmentality@perfectprofessorherokid @darley1101 @jovialyouthmusic @liamxs-world@thequeenofcronuts @blznbaby @stopforamoment @zilch3382@wannabemc2 @jlouise88 @lodberg @jasieschoices

The lights of the private waiting room of Valtoria Medical were bright and mind-numbing. Not that Libby's mind was feeling much of anything other than fear and regret.

She'd clung to Drake like a parasite since they'd gotten word. In the swirling vortex of everything that had happened to her the last couple of months, culminating in the accident, he seemed to be the only constant and so she allowed the warmth of his arms to be her anchor.

The rest of the room was packed with courtly figures,people that she had considered friends in another life. Maybe she still did, even if the pain she'd caused them all had caused them to think of her differently.

They'd been in the emergency room for four hours now, all of the children had been lucky in a manner of speaking. Bartie and McKenzie were virtually unscathed by the accident, a few bumps and bruises between them. Abel had a cracked rib. Will's right forearm had required twelve stitches where it had been pinned in the accident.

Emma was, by far, the worst for wear. Preliminary scans had shown no signs of permanent brain damage nor any cerebral swelling or bleeding. However, she still had not woken up.

The doctors told the duchess that her daughter seemed to be responsive to outside stimuli, which was an excellent sign, but they wouldn't know more until she awakened.

“Can I have your jacket, Drake?” Libby asked raising her head off of his shoulder.

“Sure, Scott.” He slouched the blazer from his shoulders and handed it to her. She stood to cross the room, intending to use the jacket to cover her son's sleeping form,but she paused when she watched Liam wriggle from his own coat and drape it across Will instead. Her heart stopped for a moment, taking in the way Liam cared for the young boy that he wasn't even sure was his son.

Libby spun on her heels, handing the jacket back to Drake. “Nevermind.” She smiled softly as he draped the garment over his knee. “I'm gonna step outside for some air.”

Drake stood from his seat, twisting his torso in a stretch before he draped his jacket over Libby's bare shoulders.

“Keep it, then. It's cold out there, Scott.”

She hugged the blazer closer offering her friend a warm smile. “You'll call me if she wakes up?”

“Of course we will, Libby” Olivia told her as she placed her polished nails on her old friend's shoulders. “Take all the time you need. We'll come get you if anything changes.”

Libby faced the Queen, her eyes darting back and forth over the woman's face. She noted the lines at the edges of Olivia's eyes that she hadn't sported in their youth. They were laugh lines, Libby assumed, and she couldn't help but wonder what must've changed for Olivia over the years for her to have gained them.

“I can't tell you what this means to me. After everything I've done…”

“You are our friend, Elizabeth. Emma is your daughter no matter which way everything else plays out so, come hell or high water, we're here for you. We can sort the rest out later.” Olivia said.

Libby wandered outside, finding a small courtyard boasting a few benches and a gazebo. Seeking the refuge the small structure provided she made her way over to it. As she drew closer to it, she noticed a thin cloud of smoke hanging in the air just above it, the smell of nicotine wafting by.

Stepping inside she found Maxwell leaned against one of the railings. His thoughts seemed to be far off in the distance as he absentmindedly flipped the ashes off the end of his cigarette.

“Those things will kill you one day, you know. Do you have another?”

The brunette man peered over his shoulder at her, narrowing his eyes slightly. Against his better judgement, Maxwell pulled a silver case from his inner jacket pocket, popping it open to offer Libby what was inside.

“Suppose you need a light too?” He grumbled placing his own bit of vice between his lips as he reached for his lighter.

Libby took a long drag, exhaling the smoke out into the night sky.

“Since when do you smoke?” She asked him desperate to break the silence.

“Eh, my second wife was a social smoker. I picked it up from her. Usually I only smoke socially as well, but tonight…” Maxwell's voice trailed off as he planted his palms on the railing in front of him, leaning into it.

“I know what you mean. I quit just before I came to Cordonia for the first time.”

A silence hung between them, but somehow it was more peaceful than Libby imagined it would be. She watched as his shoulders subtly rose and fell with each breath, his dress shirt taut against the well defined muscles on either side of his neck. She parted her lips to speak, the uncharacteristic stillness of the man who'd once stolen her heart beginning to make her uneasy, but nothing came out.

He must have been feeling the same way because he exhaled loudly before whirling around to face her. Hopping up to sit on the railing he said, “I know this isn't exactly the best time to say this, but Libby, I've missed you. Every single day.

I'm sorry for the way I behaved earlier, but the truth is...it doesn't matter. I'm just...I'm really happy to see you again.”

She smiled softly at his confession, taking a step closer to him.

“I'm really happy to see you again, too, Max.”

She wanted to apologize profusely. To tell him all about the days - the years - she'd spent missing him too. However after the night's events, she found herself too emotionally drained to even begin.

She dropped her cigarette, smashing it out with the toe of her high-heel.

“Maxwell, I-.” Libby began, but was interrupted by the sound of stilettos clicking quickly over concrete.

“Libby! Emma's awake. They said you can see her now.” Olivia huffed.

Drake stopped at the coffee vending machine. Eyeballing the selections, he scoffed when he saw the chai latte button. The odd drink that started this whole mess.

Liam came up behind him, leaning against the wall. “How is she holding up, Drake?”

He sighed, running a hand over his chocolate locks. “Ya know. I mean, she's okay but she's upset. It was easy for me and Sav and Hana. Our kids were bruised, but they're fine. Emma is…”

Drake and Liam both averted their gazes the what if too much for either to bare while looking at the other.

“I'll stay with her, Li. I know that it's not exactly something you can do at this juncture.”

Liam smirked and shot his best friend a bit of side eye. “Oh I have no doubt that you will stay by Libby's side. I just wonder if you aren't doing it more for yourself at this point.”

Drake furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

Liam continued to smile smugly as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Liam it isn't like that. Libby is my friend. And ya know, not for nothing but I did pry her from her life and all but force her back here. So excuse me if I feel a little bit responsible for her.”

The king chuckled. “As I'm sure Maxwell felt responsible for her all those years ago, old friend.”

Drake shook his head with an eye roll. “Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

In a flash Libby was at Emma's bedside, her petite fingers grazing through the young girl's blonde hair.

“Mama, I'm so so sorry.” Emma croaked.

“Shhhhhhh-sh-sh. None of that. I'm just so happy you're all okay.”

“Your Grace, I have ordered an MRI. Assuming things look normal on that end I would say you can take the Lady home tomorrow. I would like to keep her here until then for observation. Typically with a concussion-” Doctor Monroe was interrupted by the sound of the door clicking open, revealing Liam and Maxwell on the other side.

Monroe offered a deep bow as the men made their way into the room.

“I apologize for the intrusion. I hope it's okay that we've come.” Liam said, nodding to the doctor.

Libby smiled, turning her eyes back to the caretaker.

“Typically with a concussion we don't see such a significant loss of consciousness, so I just want to be sure there isn't more going on than meets the eye. For now, she just needs rest. I'll give you all a few moments.”

Doctor Monroe stepped out of the room and the door clicked behind him.

“How are you feeling?” Maxwell asked, taking a stance at the foot of her bed.

“Honestly I'm fine. A little bit sleepy, but... Mom?” Emma answered and Libby quirked an eyebrow.

“I don't really know how all of this courtly stuff works, but that nurse that saw me before you came in...she said I'm lucky to be alive. That means I could've died tonight and I never would have found out which one of you is my father. I'm not okay with that. Can we just do a paternity test? Please? We're at the hospital anyway, and I know that maybe this isn't the best time but-.”

“I agree with her, Libby. Ultimately the decision lies with you, but after tonight's events... I'm very keen to find out myself. Maxwell?” Liam butted in.

The dark haired man was staring into the distance and he shook his head at the mention of his name.

“I wasn't going to bring it up given the circumstances, but yeah. The sooner the better.”

Libby chewed her bottom lip. Scanning her daughter's face she found nothing but certainty, a rare trait for a person of her age. Slowly the nodded her head.

“I don't see why we can't bring it up with Dr. Monroe in the morning, before you're discharged.”

Will was curled up next to his sister when the doctor entered the room.

“So what exactly are you going to do? Draw some blood?” He asked as the man washed his hands, applying a fresh set of sterile gloves. He picked up two kits from the counter and faced the twins.

“I'm going to swab your cheek. One tiny in and out, that's all.” Monroe explained.

“ And that's it? Then we'll know who our dad is?” Will shifted his weight suddenly very anxious.

“Well we will have to swab the men on question. All of the samples will be sent to our lab for analysis. The results usually take 4-6 weeks. Then you will know who your dad is.”

Emma squeezed her brother's hand, calming him by measures.

Libby smiled from her chair in the corner. She had always been amazed by their ability to always know just what the other needed.

“It's okay to be nervous.” She told her children.

“Well if you had done this a long time ago we wouldn't need to be.” Will scoffed.

“Will, don't.” Emma scolded and he rolled his eyes.

After marking and packaging each sample, Dr. Monroe headed towards the door.

“I'll have these sent priority, Your Grace. As I said, we should know something in 4-6 weeks. In the meantime, you're free to take young Emma home. There are some papers waiting for your signature at the nurse's station.”

“Thank you, Monroe.” Libby started turning towards her children. “I'll be back in a few. Will, help your sister get ready, please.”

She strode down the corridor headed for the nurse's station when she saw Liam round the corner.

“Ah, Libby. I was hoping to speak with you. The doctor informed me that it could take some weeks to get out results.”

“That's right, Your Majesty.”

“Please,that's not necessary. We're discussing whether your children are my children, I think we're beyond pleasantries.”

The redhead grinned at the ridiculousness of the whole situation as the king continued.

“In any event, Olivia and I would like to invite you and the twins to stay at the palace while we await the results. It would give me some time to get to know your children better.”

Libby tilted her head.

“If I find that they are mine and I've squandered this time that I could've shared with them because I wasn't sure I will never forgive myself, Lib. At the end of the day I don't feel I will have lost anything at all by getting to know them if it turns out that they are Maxwell's children, and I would love the opportunity no matter the results. What do you say?”

“I…” she paused a moment. “How many security vehicles does the King's Guard house at the palace?”

Now was Liam's turn to be confused as he cocked his head to the side.

“Twelve. But why does that matter?”

“Well although I'm grateful that they escaped with their lives the fact remains that they are teenagers that stole a car and wrecked it. I will still have to punish them. Washing and waxing twelve card seems severe enough.”

Liam laughed, his blue eyes twinkling beneath the fluorescent lights of the hallway. “Wait. You're- you're not joking.”

Libby raised a brow. “I most certainly am not. We'll be there tomorrow morning. Thank you for the invitation, Liam.”

He turned to leave, bouncing on the balls of his feet when he remembered. “Oh. I should tell you that I've invited Maxwell to stay as well. He seemed keen to seize the opportunity as well, though he has neither accepted nor denied my invitation. Just thought I should give you a heads up.”

Libby waved her hand flippantly. “That won't be a problem. I don't know why you think otherwise.”

Liam let out a laugh from deep within him. “Of course, Your Grace. How silly of me to think that it would be.”

#hoping for home au #hoping for home #trr au #choices the royal romance #the royal romance au #the royal romance fanfic #trr liam #trr maxwell beaumont #trr olivia nevrakis #trr drake walker #choices liam x mc #choices maxwell x mc

55 notes · View notes

lambergeier · 6 years

Text

the most poorly planned aborted birthday present of all time

hey do you ever set out to write a very very silly birthday present for your very very good friend @catchaspark and then start to think about 2k in that there might be some unworkable character issues in said birthday present and then you actually GO to very very good friend @catchaspark, COMPLETELY spoil her present for her, and so confirm that these suspected unworkable character issues are exactly as unworkable as you thought? and then you have to give up the fic entirely? well anyways i fucked this one up, but here’s 2k of roy/riza in the dragon age AU anyways!

Ed stands over Abelas’ body, breathing harshly. He holds his staff like a club in his hands.

“We can’t destroy the Well,” he says through his teeth.

Riza’s hand is thrown out in front of Roy, just in case, even as he snarls, “Sabrae,” and Al says with an echoing wail, “Ed, no!”

“Gods, Al, I didn’t kill him!” Ed shouts back, with his staff clutched tight across his body. “Look!”

He kicks the sentinel in the ribs. The sentinel groans weakly. Riza, changing targets, grabs Ed by the collar and frowns. “I believe you’ve proven your point,” she says.

“I wasn’t going to do it again, come on!”

There’s an explosion, distant and massive, that ripples the brick of the courtyard and makes Al’s armor-body rattle like a cabinet of dishes. Smoke pours from the south, heavy with magic-smell.

“Alright. If we’re not going to destroy the Well--” Riza starts.

“Of course we’re not gonna destroy it, this is the history of our people!” Ed says, still trying to pull his shirtfront from Riza’s armored fist. “I won’t let you!”

Riza’s still faces becomes a fraction stiller. Roy steps in.

“We’re not going to destroy it,” Roy says, and feels the tension flare in Riza beside him even as Ed sucks in a surprised breath. “I’m going to drink from it.”

Ed says, “You are not!”

Al says, “Inquisitor!”

Riza says, sharply, “Sir.”

Riza isn’t going to play fair. Roy addresses the other two. “If you have any other suggestions, let’s hear them. And not--”

“I’ll drink from it!” Ed shouts.

“And absolutely not that. You-- neither of you-- are going to touch it.”

“And you are?” Ed snaps, face twisting beneath the inky branches of his tattoo. “You’re not even an elf!”

“And you are a teenager,” Roy replies, with the sun at his back and the stench of Corypheus’ destruction carried on the wind. His palm twitches incessantly, the Anchor like a worm in his flesh that won’t cease its wriggling. “You heard Abelas-- the will of a thousand generations of Sentinels lives in that pool. I won’t let you give up your life to that, not when you’re so young.”

Ed is furious, out of his mind with it, anger so thick across his tongue he can’t help but fumble his words. “You’re not even-- This isn’t yours! It isn’t yours to take! This power is from my people, it belongs to--”

“Ed, it won’t bring your mother back.”

His voice bounces off the water, off the brick, clear as a dropped coin. He knows he should be more gentle with the kid, whose face is twisting again, not entirely in anger. They don’t have time.

“I know that’s what you’re looking for,” he tells the brothers both. Al has his hand on Ed’s shoulder. “But it won’t be in there. Whatever the knowledge is, I’ll give it to you, I’ll write it all out. It’ll be yours. But you can’t enslave yourself to a god to get it.”

“Fuck you,” Ed says, and it’s mutinous, but he doesn’t lunge for Roy like he might have. He just stares at him, with ink tangled across his face and his knuckles white around his staff.

“Inquisitor,” Al says again, in that quiet voice. His armor is blackened in great, sooty patches. “Is that what you want?”

It’s too hot a day to be at war. Roy’s shirt is soaked through with sweat, his fingers are almost slippery on the grips of his staff. “We don’t have another choice,” he replies.

“Inquisitor Mustang,” says Riza.

He doesn’t hesitate when he turns to her. He keeps his back straight, though, and his shoulders level, and his palm closed over the Anchor.

She’s watching him very steadily, with the sun like gold in her hair.

“If you’ve got another idea, Seeker-Commander,” he says, with total honesty, “I’d love to hear it.”

There’s a cut down the line of her cheek, thin, like comes from fighting in forests. He kissed her mouth this morning. She’d pressed him back against a tree behind Armstrong’s tent and slung her arms around his neck.

“Magic exists to serve man,” Riza says, the words familiar as the Chant, “and never to rule over him.”

Ed makes that hissing noise he always makes in the presence of Templar doctrine. Roy wishes they could do this in private. So that she could yell at him and he could touch her. “I know,” he says, “but they’re children.”

Riza’s brow immediately furrows, her lips pulled thin. “I wasn’t disputing that, Inquisitor.”

“No, of course, I’m sorry,” he sighs. “But it’s them, or Corypheus controls the Eluvian, or it’s me. We’re out of time, I have to do this.”

The Well is placid, unmoved by the war shaking apart its temple. It’s listening, Roy knows. He can feel its hunger.

“If this kills me,” he says to Riza, who hasn’t looked at him like this since they found each other in the Frostbacks, he thinks, when he was on his knees and the killer of the Divine, “the Inquisition is yours. And if you should have to kill me, then, well, same thing.”

Ed and Al make startled noises. Riza’s hand tightens over the pommel of her sheathed sword.

“Sir,” is what she says, with her eyes on him.

She wouldn’t thank him for kissing her. The best he can do is put his hand over hers and say, “You can give me hell for this as long I live, Commander.”

Her “sir” this time is nearly as good as a kiss. He slings his staff between his shoulders and steps into the Well.

It’s like fog against his legs, like wading through cold cloud. Not really like water at all. Sounds fade as he approaches the center, and his fingers ache when he dips them in. The Anchor hums painfully, like a tuning fork struck against his bones.

Riza is watching from the shore.

He stands; he closes his eyes; he drinks.

The voices say, IT WILL COST YOU MORE THAN THAT, LITTLE SHEM.

Riza isn’t thrown to the ground when the Well explodes because she hits a wall first. It shoves the breath from her, and what she sucks back down is pure magic. She feels sick and drunk and frenzied as she gasps and stumbles forward.

“Inquisitor!” she shouts. “Inquisitor!”

Roy screamed just before the explosion. She heard him. She heard him. The brothers haven’t moved at all from the lip of the pool, Al bracing them both against the blast, and Ed is staring down through the vanishing mist.

Roy lies folded at the center of what used to be the Well.

Riza jumps the still-damp steps, lands so hard on the stone she skids. Her sword batters her thigh as she kneels. “Inquisitor,” she says, with her hands on his shoulders, his breathing loud and ragged. She turns him over and stares.

His skin pulses with glowing blue symbols, like he’s been scrawled across by some massive hand. She freezes, already hating herself for it, and watches as they flare, almost too bright to look at, Roy’s breath hitching sharply, then disappear. But he still won’t open his eyes.

Another distant explosion, though less distant than the last, rattles the world. Ed and Al appear in her periphery, Al weighed down by the semi-conscious body of Abelas slung over his shoulder.

“Is he alive?” Ed pants. “We gotta-- we gotta go. He better be alive.”

Riza has her hand on Roy’s cheek, his jaw, pushing back his hair. “Inquisitor,” she says, eyes on his lovely face, every sinew in her pulled taught as a bowstring. “Please, Andraste, Maker, wake up, Inquisitor, please.”

Roy convulses, and coughs, and opens his eyes.

“Ri-- Commander,” he says, breathless and hoarse, “Commander. Help me up.”

Maker save them both, she’s going to kill him dead one day. Just to save herself the stress.

Hissing a further few blasphemies, she gets an arm under him and hauls, stumbling a little under his weight. He’s unbalanced, clinging hard to her shoulders, and his eyes skitter back and forth once they’re upright, like he’s searching for something lost. “Sir,” Riza says, with the dread already back in her blood, but he won’t meet her gaze.

“Here, Mustang,” Ed says, holding out Roy’s staff. It was Riza’s father’s before he died, and Roy’s since he was thirteen. When he was presumed dead during the rebellion, Riza carried it in two pieces across her back and waited for a sign. Roy, half-slumped across Riza’s shoulders, doesn’t take it.

Riza realizes she’s digging her fingers hard into his ribs.

“Inquisitor,” she starts, and Roy says, “I can’t see.”

For a moment, as bright as the symbols that patterned his skin, he looks desolate.

You have to run. Mourn faster, is Riza’s first thought, staring into his sightless eyes. The second, from the thundering core of her, is: Where is Your justice in this?

“They-- The Well took my sight,” Roy is saying. “I’m sorry.” He’s saying that to her. “We have to go. Is that my staff?”

Ed nods, then, when Al nudges an elbow into his shoulder, says, “Yeah, yeah, it’s, uh--” He steps forward, hesitant at first, and wraps Roy’s hand around the staff. “Here,” Ed finishes, a little dumbly. He’s staring at Roy’s face.

They all are, up until Corypheus starts howling like an animal from across the temple court.

“Oh fucking shit!” Ed says, jumping about three feet into the air. “Eluvian, let’s go, come on!”

They run, in the most haphazard way any five people, including a blind man and an unconscious Sentinel, have ever possibly run. Across the far end of the pool, faced with Roy stumbling against her and the small stairs up, Riza hesitates.

“Are we pointed at it?” Roy says, interrupting her vision of simply throwing him over her shoulder in a rescue carry and leaping the steps.

“Yes!” Al shouts, him and Ed backing up against the ancient glass as Roy raises his hand.

Riza risks a glance over her shoulder. Corypheus is-- Corypheus is in the air flying towards them with fire trailing from every limb.

Ed is saying, “Wait, do you actually know how to work Eluvians now or--?”

“Do it!” Riza screams as Al says, “Brother, this isn’t the time!”

Blue power explodes from Roy’s palm, smashing through the brothers into the glass behind them, setting the cracked and ancient surface alight. Ed and Al and Abelas fall through immediately, Ed still swearing. Riza gets a good grip around Roy’s side, a bit of a running start, shouts at him to watch his feet, and throws them forward.

She swears, as they fall together through the blinding plane of the Eluvian, that she can almost feel Corypheus’ long and blighted fingers brushing against her neck.

And then they’re landing on the stone floor of the little storeroom behind the Skyhold gardens, skidding hard against the frayed carpet, as the Eluvian winks out behind them.

“Argh,” Riza says, or wheezes, with the majority of Roy on top of her. He’s not the tallest man in the Inquisition, but he is incredibly heavy when it counts.

“Humans suck,” says Ed, from somewhere else in the room.

“Does Corypheus still count as a human?” asks Al.

“Well, he’s not a fucking elf, Al. Hey, how long is it gonna take Armstrong and the army to figure out where we are?”

“𐀖𐁄𐀅𐁆 𐁇 𐁈𐀁,” groans Abelas from a corner.

“Damn straight,” says Ed, followed by, “No, I-- No, I don’t know what it means, Al, but I understand the mood, okay!”

Roy mumbles indistinctly.

“Pardon, sir?” Riza asks. She lifts her head up a bit, trying to see his face.

He repeats, in a slightly louder voice, “𐀄𐀅 𐀆𐀇𐀈 𐀅𐀊.”

The noise of bickering elves stops.

Riza gently lays her head back down upon the carpet, closing her eyes. She inhales once or twice. “Would you like to try that again, sir?” she asks, in her most even of tones.

Roy appears to consider this, lying half atop her on the floor of Eluvian-closet at the back of Skyhold. It’s colder on the mountain than it was down in the Temple, which she can appreciate.

“No, Commander,” he replies after a moment. “I don’t think I would.”

“Sure,” she sighs, patting near his shoulder. “Boys,” she says, pitching her voice a little louder, “go get a healer or two, would you?”

They scramble, noisily, to obey.

#fic tag #fma #dragon age #da:i #royai #sorry @ everyone in the tags #sorry @ emma #sorry @ norway #sorry @ me!!!!#we did figure out a couple ways i like. COULD make this work. but none of those ways involve this 2k right here #so up on tumblr it goes!#i used linear B for the old elvish and i was absolutely prepared to make that work on ao3 thank you #also i know its 2am i'll just reblog this in the morning it's FINE

22 notes · View notes

imperiusv · 5 years

Text

V - Million pieces

Blinded by my own arrogance and stupidity. I just couldn’t believe this was happening, again , I knew it was coming and that it was for the better we went our separate ways, but somehow i thought we were different, that there was a small chance that it might not turn out like that, that we are actually unique and we can do better and create a better future and world for ourselves.Oh boy, was i naive.You always let me down so tenderly ,you said that maybe this is where it ends and took a bow for the bad decisions that we made. It breaks my heart into A million pieces If it's gonna break me Won't you let me go Leave it till the morning I don't wanna know We're too far gone Nothing I say will mean anything Just drink, fuck, dance Right through disaster I entered our apartment ,but it wasn’t home for me anymore, as my home had left 30 minutes prior to my arrival. Words can not explain how i felt , anything i write or say won’t ever be enough to express what was going through my head - anger, rage, sadness, guilt and God knows what else . Probably that was the hardest day, seeing that you are not there and realizing you are not coming back, I knew from the get-go it was over and no amount of talking , convincing or begging would make you come back , due to the simple reason i allowed you to leave me instead of dumping your ass, but i still had to try, didn’t I? It was all a blur , i have no idea how, but my brother was there too, he came , again I don’t recall why or how , but he came to my place and was there for me and i will forever be in his debt, he helped me survive those dark days and sleepless nights, even though i hurt him too and didn’t show enough gratitude , he thought i wasn’t appreciating what he was doing for me , i realized even back then , that without him i would have been lost completely. Unfortunately i was still sick , top all that emotion and sadness with a high fever and you will have a pretty messed up cocktail , no wonder i had hallucinations. I couldn’t sleep, eat , drink or even think rationally , all these conversations we had during that time were at the cost of such a huge effort on my side, it took me hours to recover from each one, seeing how you give less and less of a damn with each second spend apart from me , really messed me up, it was like i couldn’t recognize you anymore. Not something unexpected , of course, I just again thought you were different and it wouldn’t be the same with you, but it was, you weren’t different at all, the same thing, only bigger. The same brand of cockroach I've been squashing my whole life. An ugly, evil, belly-to-the-ground , lying piece of crap . At one time the lines were so blurry, between you and the other hoe , i thought i was losing my fucking mind. The vultures gathered and were waiting to feast , all thinking i would collapse and fail , my ex contacted me as soon as you started deleting photos, talk about a messed up stalker, it was disgusting , my friends advised me to screw her brains out, but yeah, just one short thing about that , i was accused by some folks who were there with me the last time, that it seemed, at least to them ofc , I got over you so quick and smooth and that it was as almost i didn’t care that much , which is absolutely not true at all. Last time this shit had happened , my whole fucking life was a complete and utter mess, i was a fat fuck, who had been living in a bubble of his own making for the last 2 years, force fed by lies and junk food, my mom had just ran away, grandpa died , i barely passed the semester, on the final day and I had really toxic people around me, who did not want to see me do better, it was not that i loved that hoe more, i want to make that CRYSTAL CLEAR , she was just the anchor of stability i had attached myself to in that pile of shit i called my life at the time. So yeah this time I took the rational way out and to be honest my life was starting to get better even as we were breaking up, not to mention since you left that everything with a few exceptions has been phenomenal and my life has really kicked off in the direction i want to see it go, but yeah enough about that. Other bitches started writing me , girls who apparently were waiting on this to happen, like that bitch from work you hated that much, but nothing compares to the disgusting shit you had in for yourself and the crap you had been feeding me the last weeks how everything was my fault and so on, but more of that later. I was there, alone, faced with the consequences of our actions, feeling lower than the sterling. Initially nobody was on my side,not even my own self, as you had painted this grotesque picture , which i believed in without question as it was the Imperial truth. Blaming myself for everything , not receiving support from anyone, my dad initially told me i was a piece of shit or something similar, only my brother said he noticed your erratic behavior the last couple of months and knew you were up to something , i defended you, blind to the truth. The only reason i went to the sea was because i knew you were there too and it took a lot of convincing and fighting to stop me from coming to see you, how pathetic would that have been?As i was trying to make sense of it all, barely breathing and counting every second, you were having a party with your fucking parents, celebrating your freedom, as I was doing something to constrain you or damage you, I only wanted to push you to do better and be a better version of yourself, so we can grow and improve together, to overcome difficulties and conquer new peaks, not be mediocre. I guess we didn’t want the same things. I remember getting high with my brother, he was so worried i might do something to myself and i was really close to be honest to cutting or having an emotional suicide, i mean i would never kill myself for some dumb bitch, but i was close to shut down completely my emotions, I remember almost breaking down at work i went to the bathroom to catch my breath and try to get through the day, i looked myself in the mirror and i could see in the eyes of the reflection that, he just went through war and said to him ,whatever it is that broke your heart, won’t fix it, so let go. Thank God i didn’t get deeply depressed, as the last time it took me two years to recover from that, i managed to stay strong and i grew so much through all this pain, it was my metamorphosis, i was reborn as a phoenix for a second time , the good Lord had given me this opportunity to become a better man, to see the right way and find my own path in life, which i eventually started doing down the line,at the time i didn’t realize it of course, I was saying to myself why me, why does it have to be me , in all the fucking people in the world , this shit had to happen to me , i lost the woman i loved, i was thinking i might lose my job, i was actually thinking to quit , as the first weeks i was clearly unfit to do work or think at all rationally , good thing i had holidays. It was a struggle every day , just to get out of bed for weeks and months, felt like hardest thing , Fortunately for me , I am a fighter and i didn’t give up, my life has always been shaped through tragedies, funny thing is you never realize that the tragedies are shaping you,but they indeed are, making you a better man, step by step, only if choose not to be subdued by them and use them to grow and in retrospect when you look back at them you understand something you didn’t when they were happening, that life is actually a struggle , nothing is actually without a cost , just given to you, you have to fight for it ,earn it , suffer and sacrifice and learn your lessons. You made my life so hard, that i am actually grateful for it, as now i can appreciate all the good things more and learned to recognize the bad ones and avoid them like hell. Slowly my senses starting coming back to me, i am really proud of myself that i didn’t turn to alcohol like last time, i did some drugs though, but i’ve been smoking cigarettes occasionally ever since, like one before bed or whatever. Strangely i find solace in work, those days i pushed so hard at work, that my colleagues started to hate me and people generally disliked me for being a workaholic and keeping to myself a lot, it was work, gym,headphones and insomnia 24/7. Solitude. I started running every morning as i was running for my life, when i put on some music and took in a gasp of cold morning air, running through the azure fields, full of blue flowers and sapphire butterflies , I felt so good and at peace with myself, just looking at the beauty of the world and marvel at nature’s wonder, realizing how insignificant or important I am , depending on how you perceive yourself , but just for a few seconds of course, before thoughts of you would come racing to my head, but with each day they were less and less intrusive and demanding.I was lifting every fucking day so i can keep my mind off things, worshiping the Gym deities in the Temple of Iron , I was improving really slowly and seeing you every time set me back days. As the initial haze lifted I saw the truth you were hiding from me, it really tore me apart to go into your personal messages, but i had to go through your dms, as you were lying to me you dumb fucking bitch, imagine my shock and surprise when i started reading all that shit , at first i was defending you, she is confused , doesn’t know what she is saying , but slowly it all started to make sense, i started connecting the dots, older conversations, inconsistencies, logical explanations for your behavior , it all added up - Hodgetwins my girlfriend left me for a fat guy. It was disgusting when my mother tried to reach out to you, because she cared,wanting to see how we were doing - you laughed at her with you fucking friends, she is not the best woman in the world, but she has a good naive heart and she really did like you, instead you talked shit and made fun of her, despicable , i couldn’t believe what you were writing to your mom and friends about me and my family, like i was some kind of guy who was beating you and treating you like shit that all my family was fucking nuts and harassing you, meanwhile i was ready to sell my own fucking soul just to get back with you. Praise the Emperor that you are so fucking stupid not to change your passwords, so i can take advantage of your own stupidity to find out the truth,as this was the only thing i ever wanted - the truth. When you came with your sister i intentionally let it it slip ,as i couldn’t handle reading that shit anymore i knew you had to do something as I was gonna go completely crazy, good thing you are not that stupid and caught on otherwise if that shit had gone for longer , i might be in jail.The revelations from reading your messages , really set me free, gave me the spark i needed to light up my rebirth and transformation and i know what you are gonna say, that i am placing blame on other people and I’m a dumb motherfucker, blind to his own mistakes, but that’s not true, you can CLEARLY see that from the other chapters how much i cared and loved you, i know i screwed up and where exactly i failed our relationship ,but baby girl it takes two to tango , you should have fought for us , instead of giving up and taking the easy way out, as nothing worth it comes easily , a lesson i thought i had learned from trying to date you the first months of and prior our relationship, i remember these lessons now and wont repeat the same fucking mistakes , but you never experienced those things, never had to endure or suffer anything your whole fucking life, that’s why you couldn’t appreciate me or what we had, because you didn’t work for it, it was all me, love. This is what hurt me the most , that you just fucking left like I meant nothing to you, it almost shattered me and brought me to my demise, but i managed to go through the fire and the flames left from the rubble of our sin. I wasn’t planning to talk about him, but , c’mon you know me better than that, literally WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK, VERONICA. At first i thought it was some kind of sick stupid joke , but as reality started hitting me i realized that the joke was on me.Were you high or drunk or probably blind? I know the old tale what matters is on the inside, but he didn’t seem any special there as well, i believe in the ancient greek saying that the physical appearance is a manifestation of the soul, this guy must be a troglodyte from the underworld, then. Girls always move up the dating world when they leave their boyfriends , at least for the time being of course, i feel like you hit rock bottom, he looks homeless,skinny fat, disgusting ,unkempt and worst of all he is a complete beta,a stooge and a wimp for you to push around and make him your pet. I know you have a thing for disgusting guys - Romaine , Jan, this guy, lol, but I just imagine how bad i must have been for you to do such a thing or how stupid,gullible and insecure you must’ve been to make such a choice. I became the laughing stock of our entire community , even Pierre felt bad for me, all my girl friends think you went insane and most of them joke that you were probably a goddess in bed and that’s why i stayed with you for so long, it was so eye opening and refreshing when I started talking to other girls about how our relationship was, as they were telling me the things their boyfriend did and did not do and i could genuinely see the envy they felt when i was telling them how i treated you and how we lived together, going places and doing stuff and how you did me in the end,yes love, i remember you telling me the same thing how talking about us to your friends opened your eyes and what a revelation it was, oh spare me the sermon, but mine counts, as the girls i talked to, were not your disgusting friends like the one who is fucking cheater and a whore or the other one who is nasty , unfuckable fat piece of shit, or your boss and the hobo that was sniffing around, I’m talking about decent, stand up girls, educated, intelligent and smart , with a lot more life and relationship experience, older than you and your gaggle of dumb ass bitches. Every time i saw you together, something died inside me, it was the part that still loved you , in the beginning i was aggressive, as i knew i would get fired, a few times i came really close to it, especially during the winter awards lottery, I had a couple wines and i saw you with him in the crowd, thank god i was with Skalamander and Jojo, they saw you and and my eyes spelled murder, they sensed what i was about to do, make a fool out of myself and thankfully stopped me, before i could acomplish that, Jojo distracted me and Skalamander held me back, long enough for me to get distracted and you vanished into the crowds of people gathered to celebrate the holiday season, people were so happy and joys , all i could think was how fucking bad shit had gotten then, like how did this happen i was thinking the whole time, tracing back all my steps and mistakes, struggling to comprehend it all and basking in my own misery ,in such moments my thoughts were directed at myself, feeling so broken and damaged and nothing will fix me and it will only get worse and worse, but time fixes everything, that’s all i needed - time. I avoided going out alone and being generally in situation where there is no one to stop me , especially after those really close few times , I decided to put in huge effort no to do anything stupid, you never knew of course, as I am a really good hunter, i tracked you down and found what you were up to, it was rather easy , as i knew how you think and act, i studied your habits and knew exactly how you were hiding and fooling around, this brought me only misery and sadness of course,but this revelation was what i needed to break the chains that bounded me and finally stop believing that fairy tale image i had of you. It was like magic - every time i would feel weak and start to miss you, i would get a good tasty cup of reality tea or a slap in the face, talk about irony , but the rage and disgust i felt from seeing you two lowlifes together , helped me overcome my addiction to you more than all the self love in world, positive vibes, gym and bitches i fucked. To be honest I thought it wouldn’t last, like the first time you would fuck him , you would be so disgusted with yourself and see the difference, probably come begging to take you back, when that didn’t happen , by the way i knew when you fucked him, I saw you in the subway with him that morning, your messed up hair and how you were looking at one another, talk about mental breakdown, my heart fell, i nearly collapsed, it was so hard to control myself i lit a cigarette inside from being so angry, i was trembling and seeing red, thinking i might explode from the inside out.Those bits i would rather forget. Then of course i thought pride and its normal, it might take a while as it was a rebound, i wasn’t exactly being nice to you after we split , all my friends were telling me that it wont last so long and eventually you will want to find a normal decent guy , an year in, it is still yet to happen, sometimes when i feel shitty or down , i open up your Instagram and i start laughing , always fixes my mood, by the way i still don’t know why you blocked me,as I didn’t write you or anything, it also baffles me how you didn’t even reach out once to me or to my friends, family or whoever just to see how I was doing, if i was still alive or whatever, it just ridiculous. I did ask people about you, just to clarify and i tried reaching out, but you already knew that, even thought you were the one that said you still wanted me in your life and to keep contact , be friends and all those cliches , you turned your back completely on me like I didn’t fucking exist or we never happened and you still do, which is fucking ridiculous , it is as i had left you for another girl or you caught me cheating or something , wtf? After these “ incidents” I would make an effort not to see you at all, I stopped going on walks when you would be there, I knew your habits, i started going to the gym exactly at the time you would go out and your dumb ass started hanging under the gym and around, so i can see you , i hope you didn’t do it on purpose and just didn’t realize it, I mean you are not the sharpest tool in the box, but i wouldn’t be surprised if you did it on purpose just to mess with me. A lot of PRs in the gym came out of this, seeing you and Quasimodo down in the yard laughing and fooling around, sometimes i would even feel like the moment i would start to miss you, the Gods would send me the both of you together, just to remind me , why i shouldn’t miss you or want to get back together. A lot of times i would see your disgusting friend , she hates me for no fucking reason and would give me the stink eye all the time, probably because she is fat,ugly and miserable , who knows, people like to blame me for their misfortunes all the time. So this went on for quite a while, going back and forth , feeling bad , then worse and in the end better , I started fucking other girls, that didn’t help at all, first time i felt so disgusted with myself, even though all the girls were better looking than you and hotter and performed a lot better than our first time, it just didn’t feel right, fucking with no feelings and still doesn’t, i mean its cool and all , one time i fucked this french girl and woke up in some neighborhood some where in the south side of the city, with zero battery and not a single clue where I was , which i realized when i was outside of her apartment, she had a cute cat and made me tea and some french pastries,I had to ask people where I was, all dressed up in my evening attire in the chilly morning , some old guy started laughing and said he used to be the same as me when he was young, as he knew exactly what i had been doing lately , screwing around. I managed to get to the city center, got one of those fat pizzas we used to love, ate it all, walking around , feeling like i was the king of the world, for a couple of blissful minutes or probably seconds, i didn’t think about you, us or anything as a matter of fact. As the cold air entered my lungs, peace and happiness filled my mind, ham, mozzarella and tomatoes my belly, the sun was trying to warm me up on that winter morning and as quickly as it had started, everything was over,before it had really began i guess, thoughts of you started racing to my brain, oh we ate that pizza together, hahaha it tastes better than the one inside, oh we kissed in that park, yeah here we took those funny pictures,we used to walk around here, that’s the beer place we would go and try out new stuff, literally what the fuck, I knew i had to leave that shithole of a city and soon, before i had completely lost my mind. I lived in our old home or the den of misery as i liked to call it, just kidding, i called it the frozen basement or something of the sort , until December, then i went to studentski , there i finally found a great place, i actually felt kinda sad when i left it, it had a great view of the mountain it was so warm and cozy and everything was absolutely brand new, full with young people and bad memories of course, what was i thinking , i went one time next to your old dormitory and almost died, i felt so fucking bad , but i had to face my demons, challenge them and triumph , didn't work out so well initially or when Melanie and Aga came and we went to fantastico and the shots i vanished after exactly 35 seconds, i didn’t even say anything to them as i felt like i was about to cry, but yeah back to our old place, it was cold, dark and really fucking sad, my brother stayed with me for some time in the autumn, but just a couple of weeks , I don’t blame him, i would stay in that fucking place either, but the other ones I was looking at weren’t prettier either, but it was convenient for work,gym and i really liked the area, which i explored even more after you left, you have no idea how many cool places i found , that were right under our noses, each and every one ruined of course by the thought at the back of my head - she would have loved this, welp, too bad she ain’t here , everything new became a constant reminder of how many things i wanted to do and go and how we didn’t take advantage of the time we had together to the fullest, but filled it will bullshit, fighting, excuses, toxic people and wasting our time,efforts and energy, when should’ve been having the time of our life , that’s what messed me up the most, even when i came here, to this place, unspoiled by you , Sofia was all defiled with memories of us , every corner,park, street , club, restaurant i go to , we’ve been there and it sickened me so much being in that place, i just couldn’t stay anymore there, as soon as they told me I was going to Dublin i didn’t hesitate for even a fucking second, i left a dancer girl who was sucking and fucking me every day and was at my beck and call , without even blinking or thinking for a second, poor cunt got her heart broken, but she didn’t mean shit to me, just one more plaything, one more heart i broke trying to fix mine, sad but true, she thought i was getting back with you, hope she didn’t reach out to you or anything as she lost her mind when i told her we are done, talk about crazy and obsessive people , huh. I ditched all my friends and family too, just to come here and escape from you, i remember talking with Aurora and she never believed me how messed up things had gotten between us and always thought i was over exaggerating everything, but when i told her I was going here, she said she was sorry,having realized and told me that i must have really loved you so much , that i now that we weren’t no longer together i would run away and go into self imposed exile, just to get away from you and survive, because at that point it was a question of survival and sanity, not a whim , money or just changing stuff, i was going crazy,my mind is complex and efficient thing and has made me forget most of that crap , but now when i write and try to remember, listening to music from that period and reminiscing i get a glimpse of how bad things were and how fucked up everything had gotten to the point when it was just unbearable. Again this shit is getting way too long and i can go on forever writing about you , us or me, i feel like i can write a book about this, Women and other dumb stuff , i would call it .

So yeah the last time i saw you was on accident by the way, i was just late for work, but i knew, it was just a feeling deep down inside as i woke up and showered, that i would see you that day, at first when we started talking i felt like my heart was gonna explode, but as soon as i realized you were more nervous than me i relaxed and started being an asshole and wanted to show off to you, how good i was doing without you, i wasn’t , but then again i was, it really depends on how you look at it. We should have went out or at least had another talk before i left, i felt like we didn’t finish things as we should have , we just let everything fall apart, which was not the right thing to do, but for you it was perfect, as you escaped responsibility and the consequences of your actions, I was thinking i should hurt you and take my revenge on you, not physically of course, i have no idea why you would think such a thing, but rather in some other way, but i decided not to, there is no use hurting you for something that I was the consequence of my own actions, but i had to kill you , emotionally at least in my own head, as this was the only way to survive for me, i killed you, then the memories of you and after that i went after everything connected to us , butchered them too . As i had failed us , I allowed this to happen, it was all my fault ,through my fingers , out of sight, how could i have let you go , cutting corners, turning stones ,but i could only see your ghost. i started living a fast life, to forget my past time, I numb out to escape my feels. Yeah High on Life by Martin Garrix, Hope by Winona Oak/Chainsmokers and Thunderclouds by LSD (Sia) were my anthem at that time. Also finishing game of thrones without you really sucked , i mean it was so fucking bad, but still that sucked major balls having to watch it alone. We were born to go out there, explore, try and taste new things, our relationship should have been a never ending adventure, as how it started, i don’t know why couldn’t keep that flame up and i don’t think this will ever happen again , not that you were that special or anything , i mean you were in your own way, we all are unique and so on.it just i’m older, i don’t get excited as much , i’m rather emotionally distant, more mature,cold and calculating, I’m not that naive boy full of fire,hope and believing in Hollywood love tales, don’t get me wrong of course, i have become a lot more optimistic, happy and generally i love and enjoy myself a lot more, i have learned to respect my own well being and i take great care of me,as i can not afford to lose myself ever again, I am very excited about what the future will bring me and whatever it is , good or bad, I am ready to face it, on my own , battle hardened, wiser, been through the fire and the flames, I didn’t let that shit break me , as the pain and heartbreak were so hard, i took all that and grew through it and came out with a new mindset ready to love and accept,compromise, improve, learn and do better, I will never be that bitter, resentful and spiteful creature or how I was before, never again will i walk that path or fall into that trap .I lost track of time and i want end this shit once and for all - this is just my side of the story, of course, every coin has two sides, if you decided to write yours I would love to read it, there is nothing I enjoy more in this world than people telling me about me, because i have no fucking idea who I am , but yeah small chance of that happening , you prefer to pretend i never existed, but i still made you cum. I used to think that i was damaged so bad and this shit would even further fuck me up to the point ,it would render me irreparable, but it didn’t , i came out of it better than ever and now i feel ready to be with someone new now, as i am quite happy with just myself and someone else would just enhance and compliment my life, bringing further joy , rather than being the whole point of it. I think you know that , but I really did love you, never forget it , probably won’t love anyone as i loved you, i mean all love is relative and different in its own way, but just the way i loved you, unconditionally and pure, knowing all your flaws and shortcomings and what you actually were, that was something , one day you will surely regret loosing or just not having me in your life, as we were not just lover, but best friends . And this is in no way me trying to reach out to you or getting back together or whatever, I know myself better than that.

How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we never became. No man is beyond redemption, Lucius , not even you. Standing in line To see the show tonight And there's a light on Heavy glow By the way I tried to say I'd be there, waiting for Vicky the girl Is singing songs to me Ausculor

#4am #short story #victoria #modern #love #story

0 notes