#AND THEN PEOPLE DRAWING HIM WITH SCARS INSTEAD OF MAKING HIM SMOOTH its basic but i love it so much | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dreamsclock · 2 years

Text

“It’s about the swing,” Quackity tells him, saccharine earnestness dripping from his words, “it’s in— it’s in the swing, the swing is the important part, right?”

(Quackity's not mastered the basics of crits. It's a good thing he's got a target to practise on.)

warnings: blood, injury, torture, c!dream hurt, c!dream angst, hurt no comfort, dark prison arc themes

(ao3 / twitter / reddit)

Dream doesn’t answer. He isn’t sure he can. Around him, blood is all he can focus on: rushing through his hair, dripping from his wounds, splattered streaks on Quackity’s face and clothes and body. None of it is Quackity’s, obviously: at this point, though, it might as well be. He wears it well, takes the blood like it’s war paint, victory marks. His blood might as well be Quackity’s.

He might as well be Quackity’s. He feels that way, sometimes. Like he’s Quackity’s little plaything, his little toy to throw about and break when he’s frustrated.

Which is all the time. Quackity is always fucking angry. Right now, he’s mocking, which might be worse.

“Sapnap… you know, back in— Uh, back in El Rapids, he was the one who taught me how to use an axe properly.” Quackity’s voice is smooth and controlled, and Dream uses the last of his energy to push himself up higher against the wall, head reeling as blood loss takes its toll on his vision. It goes black around the edges, but Quackity snaps his fingers in front of his face to get his attention. “Listen to me, Dream. You fuckin’ listen to me when I speak, alright? You remember El Rapids, don’t you?”

The stupid country in the sky. Yeah, he remembers. Pointless and dumb and short-lived as El Rapids had been, Dream remembers it well — isn’t that proof of Quackity’s victory? He’s marked his legacy out in people’s memories, good for him, three cheers for Quackity, hip-hip-hooray. El Rapids is his legacy: is that why he’s overcompensating now? Slowly, Dream’s gaze lifts, drained and weary. Quackity’s eyes are dark and shiny. He looks half-deranged, in the throbbing light of the lava.

“I remember,” Dream murmurs, and then, “sir.”

The jagged, puckered scar of Quackity’s stretches into a grin. “He remembers,” he says mocking to no one in particular, “you remember how we kicked your ass, then.”

Dream has lost a lot of dignity in this cell, in this tiny reinforced cell he’d commissioned Sam to make for him. He’s lost more than dignity, but he refuses to lose his pride when he’s lucid. Instead of bowing his head, he forces a smile, passive nastiness seeping into the expression.

“I remember– teaching Sapnap how to use an axe properly.” He wets his lips, struggles for breath and clarity to continue. “And I remember– he never really got it right. Well– To be fair, he got it right, but he never really figured out where his power comes from. What– What the real important part of the swing was. An’–”

Hardly smart, to laugh in the face of the man who has enough power over him to control whether he lives or dies, but Dream’s brain feels sticky and sluggish: maybe it has something to do with the blood loss, or the delirious pain, or maybe everyone’s right, and he is crazy.

“He didn’t teach you right,” he finishes, voice a low rasp, “he never teaches right.”

Because Sapnap– His heart strings itself up in his chest, hangs and draws and quarters itself like a traitor when he thinks of his best friend. Ex-best friend doesn’t make it sting less. Because Sapnap– He’s a lot of things, and an instinctive learner is one of them. Dream hadn’t taught him to be a pro when they’d been kids (he’d barely been a pro himself), he’d taught him how to swing, and Sapnap had understood, automatically, the rest. The timing. How to turn a weak hit into a strong one, how to double down on a strong hit to turn it into a crit. The posture, the confidence to follow through, ways to block, ways to break blocks.

The stance. The subtle shift in stance when the axe is raised, when the axe falls. The leap of faith, the descent, the firm footing.

Sapnap is an expert at those things now. But it’s because they come so naturally to him that Dream sees Quackity’s hits ring weak now – they hurt, sure, it’s a fucking axe, it’s going to hurt, one way or another, but they’re weaker than they should be. They make him look awkward, standing there in his business suit, splattered with blood. The blood fits right in. The axe screams insecurity.

Quackity barks a laugh. “What a fuckin’ thing to say. What a fuckin’ thing to say, Dream, when you look at our positions. Who the fuck was it that went crying and begging me to stop hitting you, huh? Were you critiquing me then?”

He wasn’t. Dream’s lip, ever scornful, curls, and he has the coherency to spit blood – not at Quackity, because he isn’t sure he’d survive that one, but at the ground, watching it hiss as it touches the burning obsidian.

“The stance,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, “it’s– in the stance, Quackity. If you don’t have a firm footing, if you’re not using the right stance, your hit falls apart. If you don’t have that initial movement perfect, ingrained, then–” Cough. It’s weak. It’s bloody. “All I’m saying is that he taught you wrong,” Dream finishes, worn out, but feeling a strange steely sense of satisfaction at his own stupid words, “it’s got nothing to do with the swing. Swing as hard as you want, Quackity. At the end of the day, you’ll do damage. But it’s the stance that’s the important part. That’ll leave the scar that doesn’t fade”

Quackity is chuckling even before he finishes, and Dream knows he’s crossed a line – vicious, oddly victorious, in the face of oncoming agony, he doesn’t care. He and Quackity both know his words run deeper than axes and stances; both know that Quackity, with his fragile little country hanging precariously in the sky with not much more than a waterfall for support, will take those words and keep them with him for months to come. Dream knows about foundations. Quackity, for all his pretenses and posturing, lacks that. He thinks Quackity will always lack that.

But Quackity’s axe is swinging towards him again, and hey, maybe he’s wrong, maybe he’s mistaken, because Quackity’s footing is off and his balance is off-centered but the swing is strong, and it hurts, and it’s all Dream can do to hold back a scream.

“In the stance,” Quackity chuckles, but there’s a narrowed-eyed anger in his face now, and when he hoists his axe, the serrated edge glints in promise, “in the fuckin’ stance. Maybe you’re right, Dream, maybe you’re right. But I’ve got all the time in the world to get it right.”

Through tired eyes and a blood-tinted haze, Dream sees Quackity shift, readjust his footing, the same way he’s seen Sapnap do one thousand times before. Watches the man’s posture straighten and solidify into something more confident, more callous.

It’s not perfect. Far from perfect. Quackity’s next hit is just as lacking as the last, but Dream can’t take any triumph in that anymore. Quackity’s right. He’s got all day to practice, all month, all of forever, and he has a target that doesn’t move.

Quackity next hit and the next are enough to make Dream cry out. His entire being shatters, consolidates into something broken and jagged and raw, less human than shrieking, loud, pain. The world blurs, and still the axe lifts again.

The blade of the axe is almost as sharp as Quackity’s smile, and for the first time, Dream screams out for Sapnap.

#tw torture #tw injury #c!dream hurt #tw hurt no comfort #> sparrow's writing !!#> c!loudduo #> that one clock guy #> vegas disaster #> one hundred oneshot m(o)nth challenge

91 notes · View notes

wizkiddx · 3 years

Note

Not sure if you are taking request at all but if you do, do you mind writing something about Harry agreeing to be the birth photographer at the birth of his niece (tom and reader’s daughter) 🥺🤍

this was so interesting!! personally I am way too self conscious to have a photographer when I *eventually* have a kid aha, but I hope this is what u were looking for x x p.s. coming at my brand w the white hearts :)

tomholland x reader

summary: harry gets terrified by toms request about the birth of his child, but the reader smoothes it over

Having just had a round of golf with Harry, Tom invited him back to yours for a cuppa and a catch up too. After all the years of living and travelling with Harry by his side, Harry in particular was massively important to TOm. Especially since he’d moved in with you, Tom constantly made a super special effort to spend as much time with him as possible. Harry had a key and had no quam with letting himself in uninvited. Though since he had walked in at *the wrong time* a bit too frequently, and then the announcement of your pregnancy - he had cut down the unexpected visits.

“So, I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“This does not sound good” Harry furrowed his eyebrows together, looking suspiciously at his brother as he poured the kettle into the two matching ‘Brothers Trust’ mugs.

“Since when? I only ever ask you to do good things?”

“We both absolutely know that is not true.” Harry deadpanned, pointing to the palm of his right hand which carried a large scar. Scar in question had been sustained during one of Tom’s incredibly ‘good’ aka stupid ideas.

“Right fair… I’ll allow that.” He receeded, placing the two mugs onto the counter in front of Harry. All it took was one look at the pale brown colour for Harry to turn his nose up, shooting Tom a look as though he’d just murdered a puppy. The elder of the two sighed, knowing exactly what his brothers snobbiness was about.

“Seriously?”

“It’s not your fault your awful at this, some people just aren’t born with it.” With a sarky pat on the back Harry rounded the counter, pouring the freshly brewed but slightly too milky tea down the drain - before flicking the kettle on to make his own brew… properly this time.

Tom knew his brother well enough to know not to argue or protest, instead perching on the counter as he watched Harry work his ‘magic’.

“But seriously me and Y/n have been talking about the birth cos you know, it’s not too far away now.” This was true, you were now only 3 weeks from your due date - but going by the size of you, you were ready to pop. Quite literally, you didn't know how much longer you could last.

“I’d be concerned if you weren’t mate.”

“Well yeh and I basically um … had the idea to get a photographer for the birth right? It’s quite an American thing but I don’t want to forget anything and I’m sure it’s gonna be magical.” In response, Harry slowly turned around, empty mug in hand and eyes fierce.

“Are you fucking stupid?!”

To be fair to Harry, that had pretty much been your reaction when Tom first suggested it - word for word. He’d got the idea from one of the crew he’d filmed his most recent projects with, the guy had been raving about how beautiful it was and once he’d shown the pictures to Tom - he had to agree. Eventually Tom had worn you down to it and actually the idea of being able to save the moment you met your kid for the first time didn’t sound too bad. You had firmly set the boundaries of no photos of your ‘labour face’ and absolutely nothing from the ‘other end of the bed.’

The worry for both of you, as it always was given Tom’s reputation, was privacy. Especially the birth of your child, having a stranger there had you straight refusing, even a friend seemed still a little invasive. It was only when Tom had remembered he had a brother (who you were also incredibly close to) who was handy with a camera. Even if he had no experience with this particular type of photography, Harry was a pretty safe pair of hands for a camera in any situation. God knows he’s had enough practice at it.

“No hear me out, Y/n agreed too-“

“Of course this was your idea! So she’s totally fine with me staring at her fanny through a camera lens?”

“Harry” That was a warning tone, which the frizzy haired boy chose to completely ignore.

“No I-I mean, you want me to stare at your finances bits? Isn’t that some sort of weird incsest?”

“Shut the fuck up about Y/n’s body. You OBVIOUSLY wouldn’t be taking photos of that end, more like when the baby gets handed to us you know?”

“When its covered in gunk that came out of Y/n?”

“I’m pretty sure they clean it-“

“Not properly!”

Thankfully perhaps, the conversation was interrupted by the kettle clicking off, the water coming to a boil. With a huff Harry turned round, pouring and then stirring the tea as Tom watched his back from a distance. Neither spoke till after Harry finished, returning the milk to the fridge and then leaning against the counter top.

“Look I get it if you dont want to but your the only one Y/n trusts to do it and it means a lot to me.”

“Y/n wants me to stare at her fanny?!”

“No calm down you div. But you are the only one she trusts to be in the room when our first child is born. Will you just think about it?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, probably protest, but before he could the front door opened and you called through the house.

“Tom? I’m home!” And becasue the boy was whipped he instantly trotted to the front door giving you a peck on your lips. He murmured to you that Harry was there, his lips moving against yours and you nodded with a small smile. You knew, instantly, that Tom in all his idiocy hadn’t handled it well.

“Would you mind getting all the shopping from car? Pregnant and all, so I’m not allowed to lift a finger.” You cocked your head, laughing as he rolled his eyes with a nod.

“I’m excited for when you can't play that card.”

“But then I’ll be the women who pushed a baby out for you… the mother of your child.” Winking, you then quickly moved through the house before he could protest, just knowing he was pulling a pouty face as he watched you sway away.

Once in the kitchen you saw Harry nursing his mug like it was the last drink on earth, hunched over it from where he was sitting on a stool on the breakfast bar.

“ You lose at golf?” Opening the conversation, Harry instantly shot his head up, looking slightly terrified to see you.

“Wha- no, no I didn’t actually.”

“Tom asked you huh?” He nodded, seemingly not wanting to commit with words. “I had exactly the same face when he first told me. It’s weird right?”

“Yeh no shit.”

“He’s really keen on it though, I mean he’s like an excited puppy about the whole birth.”

“But you want it too?”

“Sort of. What I do want is for him to be happy though. And I’m fairly certain he’s gonna be terrified throughout the whole birth while I won’t be in a position to help himl.”

“You’ll probably have other stuff on your mind to be fair.” You laughed, at that, nodding in agreement with him.

“Just a little. I did think though, who is a person who I can trust to look after him too during that... and even I draw a line at your dad… Look if you don't want to, I totally get it and I can’t promise that I won’t be screaming at you during if you do. But it would comfort me to know you were there, with or without the bloody camera.”

“Seriously?” Rather than exclaiming it, Harry whispered in shock, not expecting this sort of a revelation.

“Course H! You're my little brother too.”

“I might pass out.”

“So will your brother, at least he won’t be on his own then.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Thnakyouthankyouthankyou!” You squealed, running over to hug him from the back, arms round his shoulders as he squirmed on the stool.

It was at this point Tom walked back in after unloading the ridiculous amount of baby clothes shopping you had done. Big strong Tom had to take 2 trips up and down the stairs to the nursery. Of course, all it took was a few words from you and Harry was falling at your feat. He was hardly surprised. Annoyingly you seemed to have this power over all the Hollands. They never stood a chance.

It wasn’t till later than evening, long since Harry had left and the dishwasher had been put on after Tom had made a mess cooking you dinner. Only then did your phone ping with a text message from Sam.

Sam H

��I dont know what you’ve done to Harry but I’m scared, he’s binge watching one born every minute.’

Immediately you cracked up, knowing that it was his nervous energy and need to ‘be prepared’. Tom, who was lying behind you on the sofa whilst his hands caressing your stomach, jerked his head up intrigued as the what the ‘ding’ was. You showed him and he snorted in laughter too, whilst nuzzling his nose into your neck.

“How did you bring him round by the way?”

“Oh you know, I’ve got all of you wrapped round my little finger when I want.”

“That you do… do you think I should be worried?”

“Nah your just all softies.” Laughing softly, you pulled his arms tighter around you, wiggling back into him a bit more.”

“You didn’t tell him about the godparent thing though?”

“Course not… we can give him a separate heart attack about that.”

#tom holland x reader #tom holland #tom holland fluff #tomholland #tom holland angst #harry holland #tom holland x y/n #dad!tom #fluff #tom holland x famous!reader #tom holland blurb #tom holland one shot #tom holland oneshot

341 notes · View notes

someonestolemyshoes · 3 years

Note

Hey! First of all, I'd like to say that I love your works on AO3! "Fifteen Minutes With You" (or smth along those lines) was one of the first fics of levihan I read, and I loved it!

Anyway, a couple of sentence prompts that've been rolling around in my head. I'll add some detail, but feel free to use or discard anything. Writing is tricky lol!

"What if I (insert bad deed)?"

"I'll love you just the same"

"And if I (do smth bad)?"

"I'll love you just the same."

I was feeling a childhood levihan thing goin on here, maybe angsty? Idk

And fluffiness

"Wow! It's been 4 days!"

"Since?"

"I last bathed!"

*thwack*

Aaah hello! Thank you so much, I’m always pleasantly surprised to find people who read my Levihan fics from back in the day :D it brings me so much joy, you’ve no idea.

I decided to go with the bath prompt - though admittedly, it ended up far less fluffy and far more angsty than I intended, I hope you can enjoy it regardless!

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

"Hange."

...

"Hange."

...

"Oi, shitty glasses. Hange."

No response.

Levi stands in the doorway, shoulder-leaning the frame and glowering into Hange's cluttered quarters. He has been calling her name for the better part of five minutes now, but Hange, hunched over her desk with her nose mere inches from the leaf of parchment she is scribbling on, had failed to notice him.

He kicks his boot against the door, and the resounding bang is enough to catch her attention. She jumps a little in her chair, and turns quickly to the door. She relaxes when her gaze lands on him.

"You scared me."

Levi grunts. "You didn't come to dinner.”

Hange blinks at him. Her gaze travels to the window, where the sky beyond had grown dark save for a speckle of stars and the thin smile of a wispy moon.

"I forgot.”

Levi rolls his eyes, pushing off the door frame.

"You forgot lunch, too." And breakfast, and countless meals over the last few days, weeks. Months, maybe.

She hums absently, turning back to her papers. "I've been busy. Lost track--I don't know how Erwin had enough time in the day to do everything."

Levi gives a noncommittal grunt and picks his way towards the desk, avoiding haphazard piles of books and papers and discarded scrolls, small, disorganised mountains of debris that must have made some semblance of sense to Hange. Even as he watches, she twists in her chair and reaches blindly into one pile, plucking up a stack of papers and dropping them onto the desk with a sigh.

Levi stops beside the desk, arms folded over his chest to look at her.

Up this close, Hange looks tired. It isn't an unusual sight--Hange has been prone to fits of research-fuelled insomnia for as long as Levi has known her, so easily side-tracked by her every theory and scheme that basic needs like sleep and sustenance often took a back seat. But there is something unsettling to her exhaustion, these days. There is no manic glint in her eye, no exaggerated waving or yelling, no aroused flush to her cheeks; recently, Hange is always pale, skin papery at best, but waxy and sickly more often than not. Her shoulders sag over the desk, shirt hanging more loosely over her frame than Levi remembers, and there's a near constant tremor to her fingers that barely ceases even as she presses pen to paper, scribbling notes and signatures on countless forms presented by countless people.

Her gaze is fixed dully on the newest expense report, now. The low orange light of her lamp flickers in the lenses of her glasses; fire dances on a matt black backdrop over her left eye, where the patch is strapped firmly in place. Her right is half closed, exhaustion pulling at the lid, the skin beneath is puffy and bruised deep purple. Her lips, dry and cracked, shift almost imperceptibly as she mouths the words on the page, reading quickly, scratching her signature where needed and flipping to the next page.

"There's food," he says, leaning his hip on the corner of the desk. "Stew, and the brats hid some bread from Sasha. Go eat something."

"In a minute," Hange mumbles. Levi huffs, and pinches the top of the quill, plucking it out of Hange's grasp. It's a testament to her exhaustion, that her fist keeps the motion of writing for a second too long before realising she is no longer making a mark on the paper. With a tired sigh, she sits back, and levels her tired gaze on Levi.

"In a minute," she says again, holding her hand out for the pen. "Let me finish these first."

"Eat. It'll still be here when you get back."

She looks very much like she wants to argue. Levi watches the way her brow creases in the middle, the way her eye pinches, narrowing at him, the way her hands ball into white-knuckled fists against her thighs. But she's tired. She is bone tired, and the righteous energy saps from her within seconds. She deflates, and brings a hand up to rub at her eye, knocking her glasses up to her forehead as she does.

Levi almost wishes she had fought with him instead. There's a terrible, gnawing guilt, seeing her like this--seeing the way the weight of his choice bears down on her. Hange is a worthy Commander, of that, Levi is certain--Erwin never would have chosen her if he didn't believe the same.

But things have changed. The world has changed. And what it means to be Commander of the Survey Corps has morphed into something unfathomable larger and more complex than what it was before. It is unchartered territory, and Hange has been thrown into waters black and bottomless.

Hange pushes her bangs back from her face with both hands. The hair, limp with grease, sticks in place, and even Hange seems surprised, pulling her hands back and looking almost curiously at her palms.

"Huh. Its been four days."

"Since?"

She gives him a look, then, and there's a flash of something old and familiar in her eye. She quirks the corner of her mouth in a grin.

"Since I bathed."

Levi swiftly raises his arm, and Hange flinches, but the curled fist that thunks atop her head is almost gentle. She blinks up at him in surprise.

"Disgusting. I'll hose you down after you eat."

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

Hange sits cross-legged in the tub, while Levi's fingers scrub soap suds into her scalp. The bathroom is mostly dark, save for the flicker of lamplight and the pale, foggy glow from the moon through the window.

She is quiet while he cleans her. She had eaten some food, though not as much as he would have liked; sipped at the stew and picked half heartedly at the bread the kids had painstakingly secured. It was better than nothing, but Levi finds his gaze travelling from the top of her soapy head to her bony shoulders, and to the knotted curve of her spine. He can see the shift of her ribs beneath her skin, and when she obediently leans her head back for him to rinse the suds from her hair, he can see twin points of bone at her hips, the skin brutally bruised from the pressure of their belts.

Something unpleasant rolls in his gut.

"Turn around."

Hange does, twisting until she is facing him and re-crossing her legs. Levi dips a cloth into the warm bath water and begins the meticulous process of scrubbing her down, starting at her shoulders. Hange dutifully extends first one arm, and then the other, and it is while Levi is thumbing at the grime between her fingers that she hums, tucking her knees to her chest and resting her chin upon them.

"It's been a while," she says, voice soft in the quiet. Levi moves on to the next finger; Hange's hands, like his, are calloused across her palms and at the tips of her fingers, from years of using the triggers on the manoeuvre gear. They are rough, but her fingers are longer and thinner than his own, and limp in his hand like this, they look almost delicate.

Levi hums in question.

"Since we did this."

Levi makes another non-committal sound. Things have been hectic, since everything that happened at Shiganshina. A whirlwind of learning, adapting, planning, everything moving at such a dizzying pace that moments like this had been all but abandoned.

Moments of peace, of quiet; moments where the world falls still and time slows to barely a trickle, they are a rarity none of them have been able to afford.

Levi dips the cloth in the water and rinses the soap from Hange's hands.

"We've been busy," he says. You've been busy, is what he thinks, but his guilt would sit too far forward, if he said it like that; it would be too brazen, and he knows already that his apology is not what Hange wants to hear. He made his choice, and now he has to live with the consequences. There is no room for regret.

Hange sits back when Levi brings the cloth down over her chest, crossing her legs so he can wash over her belly and sides.

"It's nice," she says. "I forgot. How nice it was."

"For you, maybe," Levi says. He taps her knee, and Hange hook her leg out over the side of the tub. Levi adds more soap to the cloth and smooths it over her thigh.

Hange lets out a low chuckle. "Just another floor to mop for you, huh?"

"The floors don't get this filthy."

He is careful around her knee, where scar tissue from a recent wound is still forming. It is tender to the touch, he knows, but Hange makes no complaints when he touches it. She lets out a pleasant little groan when his fingers knead into her calves, toes curling.

Levi washes over her foot, then taps the sole, and Hange draws one leg back in and raises the other one, and the process starts again. It is methodical and familiar; strangely comforting, in the mess of everything. They've been battered with new information, faced with a world that is so vastly different from anything they had imagined before, burdened with the insurmountable task of exploring it, of finding their place in it--all of this new, all of this frightening.

But this; this is an old tale. They have danced this dance for years, muscle memory leading them in each step. Shiganshina changed some things--Levi is more gentle in places than he used to be, careful cleaning the thickened, still healing skin on her back where Bertolt's titan had burned her. He used to dump water over her head like a dog, bit back smiles at the way she would cough and sputter and stare indignantly through her hair at him, but now is he careful to keep water from dripping into her bad eye. He slides the cloth over her face with more consideration, avoiding too much contact with the tender tissue above and below her clouded, milky eyeball. The swelling has lessened considerably over time, but the wound will remain raw for a long while to come.

When he is done, he helps her stand, and rinses her down with a pale of clean water before offering a hand to help her step from the tub. Standing up to full height, Levi can see the extent of the way her body has changed. She has always been a rake of a thing, all straight lines and sharp edges, but she has always seemed strong and sturdy. Something steady, dependable.

Now, she seems fragile in a way Levi has never known her to be. There is no room left for her to bend; too much pressure, and he fears she will snap, splinter into a million pieces he cannot hope to fit back together again.

He holds a towel for her. Hange takes it with a small, grateful smile, and wraps it around herself, then leans back against the edge of the tub and bows her head. Levi scrubs at her hair with a second towel, ringing as much water from it as he can.

She dries herself half heartedly and pulls on the spare shirt Levi had brought for her while her back and shoulders are still damp. The fabric sticks to her, highlights the protruding bones of her spine when she bends over to tug on her pants.

Once fully dressed, Hange stretches, popping her back as she does, and rolls her shoulders, her neck. She gives Levi a lazy, pleased smile.

"I needed that," Hange says. Levi clicks his tongue.

"I know. You stank."

Hange laughs, a light, airy thing.

"Always so kind, Levi," she says tunefully. She seems loose, more relaxed than Levi has seen her in what feels like forever. Her shoulders sit lower not bunched up about her ears, and her face isn't so pinched or strained. It's a relief.

It's short lived.

"I should get back," she says.

"You should sleep."

She shrugs a shoulder at him, waves a hand.

"Later," she says. Even as she speaks, Levi can see the tension rising in her; the respite of a bath and a hot meal had been brief, and already the weight is reloading. Her burden grows heavier by the second.

"A few hours, Hange. The paperwork will still be there when you wake up."

"And there will be more, no doubt," she says. "I'll get further behind than I am already."

There is no more room for negotiation. Levi can only count himself lucky that he managed to get this far with her, to do this much. He schools his face into a neutral expression and nods, scooping to pick up her wet towel and dropping it into the laundry basket as he follows her out of the bathroom.

Levi refuses to regret his choice. He made the right decision in Shiganshina, and he will not doubt himself for that.

But the tight, nauseous knot in his stomach does not ease. He watches Hange settle back into her desk chair, strap her eye patch over her still-damp hair, and bow herself over the pile of papers she had abandoned on the desk, and the sickening unease swells to his chest, pushing the air from his lungs.

He made the choice to condemn Erwin to death. He will do everything he can to ensure he has not done the same thing to her.

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

Thank you again for the ask!! If anyone else has prompts, please feel free to send them :) I can’t promise I’ll fill everything, but it’s a fun exercise

#levihan #snk #levi ackerman #hange zoe #my writing #thank you so much!! i really enjoyed doing this one ;;#i like anything that lets me just gratuitously describe....anything #asks

105 notes · View notes

anxiousgaypanicking · 3 years

Text

Manipulation

The word manipulation has such negative connotation surrounding it.

Whenever anyone hears the word, they automatically assume it’s somebody using somebody else as a plaything; as a means to get themselves to the top regardless of who ends up on bottom. Puppeteers have become a common representative for those who manipulate, as if they’re playing with people like dolls.

But, it doesn’t always mean that.

Sometimes it means over analyzing a situation and manipulating a conversation to stay away from you in order to protect yourself. Sometimes it’s joking about your trauma so that nobody else can use it against you and get the upper hand.

Both things Janus Dolion was notorious for doing.

He knew he had manipulative tendencies, and admittedly he has used it to bypass a few teachers and get a few things throughout his life, but he likes to believe he’s grown since then, and was expressing such, only for his therapist to tell him otherwise.

“You’re manipulative,” was how he started it off, before he quickly clarified “not in a bad way! You just know how to lead a discussion in a way that will keep the attention off of you. You did it a lot when we first started therapy.” Mr. Picani, Janus’s therapist, laughs, as if he didn’t just lay down news that pulled Janus’s breath from him. “When we first started, you had issues opening up to me. That’s often normal, but even now, when we talk about the incident, you make jokes about it.”

Mr. Picani clears his throat, as Janus sits there in silence, hands fidgeting with the pop-it he’s holding, fingers pushing the small orbs down, only to push them back on the other side.

“People who joke about their trauma often do it as a quote-unquote ‘coping mechanism.’ However, they also do it so that they’re always in control of it. If you joke about it, you can control the laughter, and you can therefore control whether or not other people talk about it.” Mr. Picani taps his pen to his notepad, before adding “plus, every time I simply smiled or tried to press on something further, you’d conveniently get side tracked and unveil some new trauma or incident that we’d get fixated on instead, this thing significantly less bad than the accident.”

Janus’s hand shoots up to his face, smooth fingers bumping across rough scars, before he lets go of the pop-it. His hands clasp together, fingers brushing against the same scarring over his hands. With the scorched hand, he can’t feel his normal one, most of the nerve endings having been severed.

He looks uncomfortable as he fidgets.

Instinctively, he feels the urge to say something else. Something such as “you’ll never believe what the medic said to me after the incident” or “guess who asked me to Homecoming,” but he doesn’t, because this is exactly what Mr. Picani was talking about.

He’s never cared about whether or not he’s a good or bad person, seeing as morals can be easily manipulated by religion, but now he feels a sinking feeling in his gut. Is he as bad a person as some claim he is?

“I can read the look on your face,” the therapist says, and immediately Janus’s eyes snap up and his lips press into a straight line. Any emotion previously displayed is immediately wiped away as soon as attention is brought to it, and even though Mr. Picani is smiling, he exhales through his nose.

The insistent tapping draws Janus’s eyes to that, and things are silent for a moment, before Janus looks towards the clock.

“It’s three’o’clock,” Janus says, standing up. He sets the pop-it back on the table beside him, before standing up. Mr. Picani stands up, and opens the door for him, following him out of the office.

Outside, a man with scarring up his neck and over his face is waiting for them. It reaches over his lips and basically covers his entire lower half, plus a patch over his forehead. Unlike Janus, both of his eyes are unharmed.

He leans on a cane, limping towards them when they walk out.

“Thanks, Mr. Picani,” the man says, and Mr. Picani nods, offering a sympathetic smile.

“It’s no problem. I’m working at the hospital on Friday, so I won’t be able to see you until next Tuesday,” he directs that statement towards Janus, but is looking at the man. “Thanks again, Mr. Dolion. I’ll see you later, Janus.” He waves, and heads back inside the office, leaving Janus and his father outside.

“Did therapy go well?” Mr. Dolion asks, as he leads Janus back to his car, limping to the driver's side. Janus momentarily stares at the golden head of the cane.

Janus climbs into the passenger side, refusing to acknowledge the panic that he’s filled with as soon as he’s shut in the car. Trapped; enclosed.

“Yeah,” he lies, when his father inserts the key into the ignition. He offers a small smile, one that appears real enough to wash away any doubt his dad may have had. “Therapy was great.”

so, a while ago, my therapist informed me that i’m manipulative, and told me (in way better detail) that i utilize my ability to read people in order to protect myself. when first hearing that, i knew she was right. i knew that i could direct a conversation away from me and wipe away any worry surrounding my feelings if i didnt want to talk about them, in order to keep myself from being vulnerable, and thus keep myself safe

im still guilty of doing this now, but when first hearing it, i reacted poorly, and had a breakdown over whether or not i was a bad person for deceiving my friends constantly. its because of the negative connotation surrounding the idea of manipulation that i thought of this, and thinking it back on it now, i really wanted to show that manipulation isnt all bad. sometimes its done to protect yourself, which is often an inherently good thing

so take this short piece of writing to basically express that

#cw scarring #sanders sides #agp angst #sanders sides angst #ts janus #janus sanders #ts emile #emile picani

20 notes · View notes

for-a-muse-of-fire · 4 years

Text

tame your demons

the wench and the witcher

"tame your demons”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Geralt keeps pieces of himself locked away and sheathed in ice. Sooner or later, the ice does have to melt.

Warnings: Possibly hard teen - we get a little smexy towards the end of this one, but nothing graphic. We are definitely getting into some angst now, kids.

A/N: I have a lot of feelings about these two. Basically, Hozier’s quote about “trying to love a damaged person” stuck with me and I refuse to give it up. Lyrics and title for this one come from “Arsonist’s Lullaby”, which was actually one of the first Hozier songs I ever fell in love with.

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @witchernonsense - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty

When I was a man, I thought it ended When I knew love's perfect ache But my peace has always depended On all the ashes in my wake

Gods, you should be used to the cold by now. For his kindness and warmth, your Witcher is capable of it. Biting cold, harsh as freezing rain. You try to insulate yourself against it, hoping that you can somehow bear the winter of his moods when they roll through, but it never seems to get any easier. You brace against the ice-cold of his silences and the way he draws himself away from you – steel your spine, try to smile when the flint in his eyes chips away at you.

Geralt can drop the temperature of a room without so much as a word. It’s remarkable.

And it fucking hurts.

He won’t look at you as you carefully clean the blood from his split knuckles. You kneel at the edge of the tub he soaks in, focused on the task at hand and swallowing back what feel like chips of ice caught in your throat. Even with the hearth fire at your back and the slight humidity from the steaming water, you feel like you’ve been thrown in a damned snow drift. It aches down into your bones.

The hunt had gone badly. Some alderman and his cronies unwilling to pay up for services rendered – and speaking up would have meant leaving town on the end of a rope. Geralt had blown in two weeks ago with an arctic cold around him, frosted over too thick for even you to break through, and then…

And then, there were those backwater pricks from Hagge.

You’d tried to be firm, but polite at first. The Witcher was your guest, and you didn’t take kindly to anyone speaking ill of the people under your roof, but they’d turned their drunken cruelty on you without so much as a second thought. Nothing new, there. You bore the insults when they came without flinching; it was just how it worked. They were the sort of men that didn’t much like being told what to do by the likes of you. A woman – stupid tavern wench.

‘The Butcher’s Bitch’, they’d called you.

And in all the time you’ve known him, you don’t think you’ve ever seen Geralt so furious.

You’d managed to pull him away before it devolved to a full-on tavern brawl and crushed aside the hurt when the Witcher had ripped his arm from your grasp. The instigators were summarily banned from the premises; the rest of the night had drawn to a close without incident, save for the fact that you’d practically had to snarl at Geralt to let you tend to his wounds.

“You’re lucky you didn’t break a finger,” you mutter.

Silence. The cold of it sinks in deep. You bite your tongue, standing and letting go of Geralt’s hand in favor of packing your healer’s kit up once more. The bottles clack together with a little more force that necessary as you grit your teeth; under the sting of your ego, you can feel your own anger bubbling just under the surface. Gods, you want to shake him – shout him down, throttle him around his stupid, thick head.

‘Let me in’, you want to scream.

“I’ll be downstairs,” you tell him instead, tone short and hoarse. “Need to settle the accounts for the week.”

He doesn’t stop you until you try to skirt past the tub. One big, scarred hand reaches up from the water and grips at your wrist, halting you in your tracks. His palm burns on your skin.

“Do you know why they call me that?” he growls out.

“No,” you snap. “And I don’t fucking care – “

“Well, you should.”

Geralt looks at you. Finally – finally – meets your gaze and you’re shocked to see those bright eyes have lost the ice behind them. He just looks tired; tired, and angry, with something that could be sorrow hidden just underneath. The firelight dances over his wet skin, reflects off the hammered copper of the tub to give the Witcher a gilded look about him. Pale and broad, tinged with gold. You study him, taking in the fall of his damp hair around his face. He looks so much younger.

You turn your wrist in his grip, shift to lace your fingers with his, and kneel at his side again. He stares at you and nearly seems to lose his nerve, shifting his gaze to the surface of the water. “Do you know of the Curse of the Black Sun?” he mumbles.

His other hand spins lazily over the bathwater, rippling it with a soft noise against the edge of the tub. “Heard it was shit,” you tell him. “Gave a lot of men the excuse to hurt a lot of young girls.”

The Witcher’s soft mouth twitches up, just for a moment – barely a smirk. The line of his jaw goes tense, same as it does when he’s biting his tongue. “Renfri… she was one of those girls,” he says after a moment. “I met her in Blaviken.”

It feels like the bits of ice at the back of your throat have started to melt and you find you can swallow again. Geralt’s hand is warm over yours, both from his own body heat and the steaming water. He’s silent for a long stretch, the quiet broken only by the quiet whisper of the water and the occasional crackle of the logs on the fire. His gaze stays where it is, but he finally begins to speak again.

You learn about Renfri and her men. How she called them off when they were ready to hang Geralt in the woods outside Blaviken. He tells you of Stregebor, and you can hear the sneer in his voice when he mentions the sorcerer by name. How the old man told him that Renfri was a monster, something mad and deadly that needed to be put down. He tells you Renfri’s story. He tells you about the marketplace.

Renfri’s death.

The stoning.

The Butcher of Blaviken tells you his story in a low, even, almost monotone voice. He doesn’t glance at you, not once. But neither does he push you away.

“That’s where the name comes from,” he says at the last of it, and it’s so quiet you’re not sure if he’s meant to say it out loud. “And with good reason.”

You inhale slow, taking in a breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. It catches in the back of your throat. You half expect him to shrug away, but when you lean against the edge of the tub – when you grip his hand tight and press your lips against his temple – Geralt seems to relax into the contact. He smells of your soap, and oiled leather. You nuzzle softly into his damp hair.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to him. “I’m so sorry you had to make that choice, dear heart.”

The Witcher lets out a slow breath, shoulders sinking further into the warm water surrounding him. He lets you take gentle hold of his chin, lets you turn his face until he’s meeting your eyes. You study him, carefully, taking in the sharp cheekbones and the slope of his nose. Your thumb brushes gently over the stubble at his jaw. He leans into your hand, just for a moment.

“You are not the Butcher here,” you tell him, and your tone is fiercely gentle. “You were never the Butcher here, not to me. You are just Geralt – my Geralt.”

Pretty gold eyes flash back at you. There’s a curiosity behind them, something sharp that makes your stomach drop towards your knees because you realize the implication of what you’ve just told him. Shit – shit. Your face goes warm. You bite your lip, but don’t drop the Witcher’s gaze, and you see his soft lips tilt up at one corner. “Yours, hm?” he mumbles.

Your face feels too hot, but you nod regardless. “Aye.”

He stares. Studious, intense, and the heat in your face flushes downward, prickles over your skin until you feel sweat begin to bead at the back of your neck. You duck your head. The Witcher lets you break the spell, lets you escape and stand to grab the large bath sheet hanging by the hearth. You hear water slosh when he stands and steps out of the bath; you feel oddly shy when you hand him the warmed fabric, chewing at your bottom lip as Geralt rubs the water from his pale skin. Shadow and firelight play over the cut of his torso – you watch a bead of water slick its way down the side of his thick neck before it catches on the dip of his collarbone.

All the while, he watches you. You try not to fidget and fail. Gods, you can’t stand it when he looks at you like that – it’s curious heat and shameless, open desire. It makes you feel like you’ve laced your bodice too tight and you clear your very dry throat.

“Are you hungry?” you ask weakly.

The Witcher shakes his head. He stalks towards you – for that’s the only way to describe the movement – dropping the bath sheet as he closes the distance, all pale, naked skin and solid muscle. You can feel the beat of your pulse in your throat when he crowds close and he cups your face in his scarred hands before slanting his mouth over yours. The kiss is deep, but unhurried. Geralt licks your gasp out from behind your teeth, growling in return when your hands grip the solid plane of his back. He kisses you until you feel dizzy, until your heart thunders hard against your ribs and your legs go weak.

“Are you mine, then?” the Witcher growls, low and ominous as summer thunder. He keeps one hand at your jaw; the other trails sweetly down your neck. His fingertips skate over the smooth, polished wolf’s tooth of your necklace. He tugs the laces at the top of your bodice.

“Hm? Does that make you mine, sweet girl?”

The lacing whispers free of its grommets and though the tension on your bodice goes slack, you still find it difficult to catch your breath. You can barely remember how to fucking nod, but you do it. “Yes,” you whisper.

Geralt kisses you again. The heat of it scorches.

#geralt x reader #geralt x you #geralt x poc!reader #geralt x woc reader #geralt of rivia #the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher fandom #the witcher fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #tutu scribbles #the wench and the witcher

149 notes · View notes

kakatenzo · 4 years

Text

kkyam royalty au 1

okay I have two fic ideas that are centred around a royalty au and i wanted to post both on here and see which ones ppl preferred!

here’s royalty au 1 i’ll post the second one tomorrow

(ps this is un beta’d and it is 2:40am so i have not looked over it at all. just typed and hit send)

“You come here often?” Kakashi ask sleazily.

It’s a cheap shot. He knows that, he’s sure he’s had better one liners at the tavern after one too many drinks but Kakashi can’t bring himself to care. The entire night has been occupied by stuck up nobility and empty conversations that carried across the ballroom. He’s just surprised he has managed to survive the entire night despite not coming from a royal lineage himself, it seems that all that condescending behaviour blocks all common sense and Kakashi tries not to be too smug about it. It’s a good thing he’s an excellent liar and charming if he really put his mind to it, and now he’s putting all his effort into trying to swoon this doe-eyed brunette. Kakashi hasn’t seen him before unlike the other parties of the monarchy who often were presented during ceremonies and announcements, so he assumes he is visiting from another kingdom. It’s perfect, Kakashi thinks, he’ll bag a noble for one night and never see them again.

“Yes actually,” the brunette answers frowning and it catches Kakashi by surprise. “Konoha’s been my home since I was born. I suppose you are visiting?”

Well, that’s one idea out the window so Kakashi replies dumbfoundedly, “Uh, yes.”

It seems to jerk the brunette awake. “I apologise for I have misplaced my manners, good sir.” he says before straightening his shoulders and giving a bow. “I am Yamato, nobleman of Konoha.”

Kakashi quickly dips into a bow. “Kakashi, crown prince of the Hatake kingdom.”

Yamato raises a brow. “I don’t recall the Hatake family mentioning a visit to the kingdom.”

The crown prince disguise had worked well the whole evening and if Kakashi is going to be honest with himself, it also gave his ego a small nudge but now his ego is deflating because it seems like he decided to try to court one of the only smart people in this ballroom.

“It was all very last minute, so I apologise for the short notice.”

The back of Kakashi’s neck prickles with heat and he resists the urge to ease the collar from his throat. The tavern is going to have a ball when they find out he got kicked out from the ball because he found a guy attractive.

A small, almost bashful smile encompasses Yamato’s face instead and he amicably says. “I apologise I did not mean to doubt your presence. How are you finding the ball?”

“Eh,” Kakashi says loosening up and his shoulders return to their usual hunched position. “Everyone here is on their high horse.”

For a moment, Yamato looks horrified but then he laughs. Gentle and warm, and it invites Kakashi to relax further. “You’re very honest, do they allow the crown prince of your kingdom such brash honesty?”

Kakashi returns a laugh because he is the opposite of honest. He is conning this poor man with his endless spindle of lies from the moment he had opened his mouth. “I’m only honest to people that I like,” he winks, “but I’m sure there are more honest people than me.”

Yamato shakes his head. “I’ve been attending these royal balls since I was a child. Everybody treats you like you’re below them and make you feel small over the silliest things.”

“Why do you keep attending them?” Kakashi asks and tries to ignore the sincerity that pools in his chest. “Can you not decline the invitation? It would save you from a lot of misery and hassle.”

“I seldom do,” Yamato’s eyes slide to the side and breaks their eye contact. “My aunt she—she’s very high up and it’s pertinent I attend these events to create connections with other kingdoms.”

Kakashi squashes the warmth of sincerity and replaces it with the hot rush of want. “Do you want to make a connection with me?” he offers haughtily and Yamato rewards him with a scandalised expression and a wonderful flush that disappears under his collar.

His smile is timid but Yamato’s voice is firm when he says, “I’m not opposed to the idea of making connections with you.”

“Let’s go make our connection somewhere less crowded.” Kakashi says and offers his arm.

Yamato quietly latches onto the crook of Kakashi’s elbows and Kakashi escorts him out to the courtyard. They are greeted by the cool air of the evening and the luminescent glow of the moon who casts a soft spotlight on the shrubbery below her. The roses sleep gently under the calm glow of the moon, they rest because they are tired after dancing with the sun all morning. The rest of the greenery follows suit, all the branches hang low, the leaves don’t dance as they sleep to the orchestra of chirping crickets. The courtyard is large and paves a quarter of the unending garden, its stones are smooth and even unlike the rough cobbled pavements in the centre of town. The courtyard is fenced off by a low stone wall which Kakashi hops onto and pats the space next to him, offering Yamato to do the same.

They’re both facing away from the large doors of the ballroom and Yamato tilts his head back as if he’s drinking in the light of the moon. “This is my favourite place in the palace.” He says quietly like a confession.

“I can see why. It’s peaceful out here.” Kakashi says in agreement. “What do you like to do for fun, Yamato?”

“What do you mean?” Yamato answers. His head snaps down to look at Kakashi and he almost looks baffled.

Kakashi quirks a brow. “You know, when you’re not doing these parties or your duties? What do you do in your spare time?”

Yamato bites his lip drawing Kakashi’s attention. “I like to tend this garden.” He decides after a moment.

“Is that all?” Kakashi presses. He’s not a royal but he’s sure Yamato has at least some hobbies that don’t involve standing around and looking pretty all day.

Even under the moonlight Kakashi can see the deep blush that spreads on Yamato’s face. “Well,” he starts. “I like sword fighting and I used to practice with the knights until they found—well, let’s just say nobody really liked to challenge me. The knights were all frightened they’d accidentally hurt me and then would get executed.”

Kakashi can’t help the laugh that escapes his mouth. “Really?” he says gleefully. “I never expected you to be invested in combat.”

Yamato looks away then. “I was interested in a lot of different things, but I had to whittle it down because it didn’t seem right, for someone like me to do them.”

Someone like Yamato? “I thought noblemen could do whatever they wanted as long as it didn’t betray the kingdom.” Kakashi frowns. He’s sure he had seen the duke wandering around doing activities that Kakashi wouldn’t crown ‘duke-ly’.

“I guess they just have high expectations,” Yamato shrugs. “Enough about me, you’re the crown prince! I’m sure you have much more exciting things to share than me.”

“Where do I start?” Kakashi says coolly as he rapidly searches through all his memories. How the hell was he going to fabricate a royal story? He had many in the town and in the countryside, but they all consisted of him working or training and neither seemed princely. He then forces himself to remember all those conversations he had with those prudish Lords and Ladies in hopes of bringing up a hobby that was vaguely plausible.

“If you don’t mind,” Yamato breaks his rapid-fire train of thought. “Can I ask how you received your scar?”

Kakashi’s fingers find the line that staggers under his eye before it disappears into his mask. “It was from an attack,” he answers honestly for the first time that evening. “My friend and I were out where we weren’t meant to be, and we had been ambushed. This was from a knife.”

He brushes his hair from his brow and slowly follows the ridge of his brow, over the curve of his eyelid and then over the soft fabric of the mask. Yamato’s eyes follow the path carefully, his eyes bright under the moonlight and his mouth slightly open in awe. “Is that why you wear the mask? For your safety?”

Kakashi nods quickly in agreement.

“You’re lucky to have survived, Prince Kakashi.” Yamato quips and hearing his name in Yamato’s mouth makes his heart jump.

“It was a fair fight.” Kakashi says easily. “I won in the end anyway.”

Yamato’s eyes widen and he sits up eagerly. “Do you get to train at your palace?”

Kakashi thinks of the field. It is by no means a training room nor the mighty barracks that housed the knights. During winter, when the ground froze over, was when he would accumulate the most bruises after a spar and during summer, the soil would be so dry that it would kick up everywhere. It ended in his eyes, his hair, under his nails and he always came home dirty. He thinks of his makeshift targets and dummy, the way they’ve been branded with marks since he was a child and how they’re worn and yellowed with age. He wonders if Yamato had managed to brandish a shiny sword at all and practice his footing on even ground.

“Yes, all the time.” Kakashi answers and he can’t look into Yamato’s eyes. “I begged my father so I could protect myself and it proved worthy.”

Suddenly his hands are engulfed with Yamato’s own warm ones. “Could you teach me something?” he asks earnestly.

Yamato is smiling so widely and Kakashi realises that Yamato may be the only genuine face he has encountered tonight. “Sure,” Kakashi says and leaps to his feet with Yamato following suit. “We have no swords, so we’ll focus on hand to hand combat.”

Kakashi begins with stances, he notes the importance of the stance and how to make sure there are no openings that make Yamato vulnerable. He then moved onto basic attacks, how to disarm your opponent and the weakest points of the human body.

“You’re a quick learner,” Kakashi comments nonchalantly and gently fixes Yamato’s arms by raising his elbow slightly.

“Can I fight now?” Yamato asks with a glint in his eyes.

Kakashi splutters. “I’m not going to fight you, Yamato.”

The nobleman drops his stance. “How am I going to learn if I don’t fight someone?”

“Your practice stances will kick in.” Kakashi lies. He had always made his students fight him.

“Don’t lie to me. The knights spar all the time!” Yamato protests and Kakashi bites back on a grin.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Kakashi offers. “I wouldn’t want to hurt your pretty face.”

The deep flush invites itself again on Yamato’s face as he enters his first stance. They both move shift around in a circle, waiting for the other to make a move, arms and hands close to their face and chests, and their eyes locked onto each other intensely. Kakashi throws the first attack to which Yamato quickly parries and it leaves his neck exposed. Kakashi hooks his arm over the crook of Yamato’s neck but Yamato grabs his arm with both hands and throws Kakashi off. He stumbles back and Yamato follows with two quick punches, Kakashi ducks and before Yamato can throw a jab, he rises quickly, years of agility drilled into him and knocks Yamato back onto the grass.

He lands with a soft ooft and leans back on his hands, he looks up at Kakashi with bright eyes, a ruddy face and a wide grin. His hair is ruffled but his shoulders are much more relaxed. “You’re very skilled, Kakashi.” Yamato compliments catching his breath.

Kakashi stretches his arm out to offer a hand and pulls Yamato up. He jumps to his feet and ends up nearer to Kakashi than he had anticipated. “You’re a quick learner,” Kakashi parrots from earlier. He’s distracted by their vicinity. “You did well.”

Their hands are still conjoined and Kakashi’s eyes drop to their clasped hands before dragging his eyes back up to Yamato’s dark gaze. Something snaps in the heavy silence between them, and Kakashi finds himself leaning in but Yamato stops him with a gentle press of his free hand to Kakashi’s chest.

“Kakashi,” he says warily but his brows furrow with determination. “I have something to tell you.”

Before either of them can get a word in the doors to the ballroom burst open and they both break apart from each other as if they’d been shocked. Queen Tsunade steps onto the courtyard and they both bow to greet her. Kakashi’s head swims as he straightens back up because Queen Tsunade is not a force to be reckoned with. He’s sure she’s caught him, she knows that he’s not a royal at all and has been parading around as a fraud all evening, and the mere thought of her punishment sends an awful bout of guttural anxiety.

“Ah, there you are Tenzo!” Queen Tsunade bellows across the courtyard and approaches the duo. “I thought you had disappeared before the ceremony and I was getting worried. Come along now, you know we can’t start it without you and the people are waiting.”

The relief that Queen Tsunade isn’t here for Kakashi doesn’t take the edge off his nerves. She’s even more powerful in person and this is the closest Kakashi has gotten to her. She’s shorter than he had expected, but her stoic glare and booming voice has commanded many rooms. Her blonde hair is loose over her shoulders, they fall gracefully frown the crown atop her head, and she places her hands on her hips, crinkling the jade green dress she’s often seen in. Kakashi is glad he no longer has Yamato’s hand in his grasp because he’s sure his hand would slip out with how much his palms are sweating.

Yamato shoots him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry I’m afraid I have to go. Where can I find you later?”

“Let’s meet here.” Kakashi says with the intention to bid Yamato goodbye before he returns to his regular civilian life. He had told enough lies tonight to last a lifetime.

“I look forward to it.” Yamato says sweetly before turning to follow Queen Tsunade back inside.

Kakashi lets out a sigh of relief and steals one long glance around the garden that Yamato had tended himself. He cranes his head to the moon, she had been the only audience to their dance, if you could call it such and turns on his heel to return to the ballroom.

Gai is easy to find in the crowded ballroom because he is impressing a small crowd with handstands. Kakashi joins the crowd in watching Gai perform and remembers when he had challenged Kakashi to see who could hold a handstand for the longest. Unfortunately, it had been winter and the ground was damp with rain that left their hands muddy, cold and unmoveable.

Towards the centre of the room, a servant calls for the audience’s attention so Kakashi steps forward. “I’m so sorry to interrupt the entertainment, but I believe there is a royal announcement.”

Gai fixes himself back onto his feet with unyielding control and the small crowd reward him with a short round of applause before they all usher each other to the centre of the room.

“Kakashi!” Gai booms. “It has been the most wonderful evening!”

“I’m glad you’ve been enjoying it,” Kakashi says while Gai swings an arm around his shoulders. “Would you like to watch the ceremony?”

“Why, of course!” Gai exclaims. “It would be of our best interest to make the most of our stay.”

Truth be told, Kakashi really could not care for the ceremony because all he can think of is Yamato’s ruddy grinning face under the moonlight. How his eyes glittered even in the dark shawl of the night sky. (How dark his gaze had been when they were all but pressed close to each other with the moon as their only witness.)

Although they are on the outskirts of the crowd, Queen Tsunade’s voice doesn’t fail to reach them from across the room. “Foremost, I would like to thank those who have attended today. It is always a pleasant sight to see, the unity of the kingdoms and our people, especially for an occasion such as this.” She pauses and the room waits with bated breath. “I am here tonight to proudly announce my heir and who will be next in line to the throne.”

Her speech sends the room to a stifled but frenzied whisper. Heir? Queen Tsunade had no children. Her husband passed away before she could bear any heirs. Who is this heir? Has she passed the lineage of Konoha to a neighbouring kingdom’s prince? How are we to trust this new heir to rule Konoha?

Queen Tsunade continues resiliently. “I apologise for hiding him from his people, he was too young to be exposed to the masses but I assure you he has been in this kingdom the entire time and I am confident that he will serve you, our people, very well. That’s why he is here today, because he has come of age and has grown into a splendid young man.” She smiles softly, pride shines in her eyes and she steps aside. “I would like to introduce my dear nephew, Prince Tenzo Senju, as your next ruler.”

The room bursts into a cacophony of applause as Tenzo emerges and joins his aunt, Queen Tsunade, at the front of the crowd. He gives an obligatory bow, back straight as if he’s rehearsed it a lifetime and just like the one he gave Kakashi earlier that night. Except it’s not exact because his hair is ruffled from their short spar. Gai is clapping wildly next to him but it seems as if Kakashi can’t move his arms. The noise is far too loud—no, it is far too quiet and Kakashi drowns in the rushing noise of his thoughts filling his head. Realisation sinks in, like the first chill of winter that sinks deep into your bones, but you’ve not prepared a coat and you’re left shivering in the early rays of the sun.

Then Tenzo turns and catches his eyes. He spares Kakashi a tight lipped smile, empty of the mirth from earlier that evening. No wonder why the knights didn’t allow Yamato to train, because they would have been fighting the crown prince of Konoha. He had little hobbies to do because he’s spent his entire life preparing to be the next ruler. With each piece that clicks into place the sinking feeling in his stomach only tightens.

“—Kakashi,” Gai says and it shakes Kakashi out of his trance. There is a firm but grounding grip on his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m just looking forward to meeting someone in the courtyard later tonight.”

#kakayama #my writing #WHEW this ended up longer than expected #kakashi #yamato #yamato tenzo #tenzo #kakashi hatake #naruto fic

28 notes · View notes

lumilasi · 5 years

Text

So, a short while back @theteapotofdoom talked about the bnha actor AU, and I surmised I could write something for it. In the end I feel like I’d rather draw something instead as I can’t really come up with an actual plot for such a story.

I have a few scene doodle concepts in mind already

It’s Izuku’s birthday, so Tomura’s gang kidnaps him for a party. They basically carry him off over their heads with Tomura leading them, going ”Quick, we got the protagonist, let’s run!” And bystanders watch and wheeze, with some yelling stuff like ”come back you fiends!” ”They’re stealing our protagonist!” Or ”AFO control your children!” (Afo’s actor is recording the whole shit show laughing his ass off)

Izuku and Tomura on an interview, where the interviewer points out Tomura’s character is almost portrayed like a second protagonist, and Tomura goes; ’does that mean I get to do a superhero landing?” There’s a pause, then his gang in the background starts chanting ’Superhero landing!” (The director (hori) sweats profusely)

When asked who are the biggest pranksters on set, it turns out to be All Might, Toshinori (they’re two different people in this case) and AFO - cue they mention the time they switched Hitoshi and Mei’s hairdye around so Hitoshi stepped out with pink hair. Another time when there was supposed to be a dramatic music as it was an intense battle scene, instead the speakers began to play carameldansen, or some other random inappropiately upbeat song

Jin steals a nomu costume and spooks some touring fans. Tomura shows up in full costume and scolds him, then pops his Nomu head off, telling him to ’get back to work’ before plopping the head on the tour guide, going ”there, you can be the nomu!”

Fans asking Tomura to show his face as he’s wearing the hand, he warns them he doesn’t have his make up on. He takes it off and they’re shocked to see his face is smooth because the scarring is make-up.

Recording session; Tomura gets up to Leave Chisaki’s place, but instead decides to walk to him and pat him in the head, going ’good birdy’ and everyone shits themselves

An interviewer asking if the rumors about Dabi and Tomura dating are true, and Dabi deadpans ’we’re not dating, we’re getting married. You’re not invited’ and Tomura naturally facepalms and laughs his ass off

Izuku and Tomura re-enacting a scene between AFO and All Might, with exaggerated humor. Tomura is wearing the AFO helmet thats obviously too big for him, and Izuku has All Might’s cape and his hair is styled the same way. The person recording laughs

Tomura holding up the kid actor of Izuku to AFO and asking ’can I keep it?” And he just goes (laughing) no, put that back where you found it. Wrong timeline.

Hawks explaining his character: ”remember that one dog meme where a dog sits in a burning house and goes ’this is fine’ thats my character summarized.”

Tomura explaining that while Himiko’s character is good with knives, Himiko is good with markers (cue a flashback image of her having doodled onto sleeping people’s faces)

Himiko waving the marker at camera and going ”beware or I’ll stab you!” Tomura points out its a marker, so she corrects herself, saying ”beware or i’ll draw a curly mustache on you!”

Interviewer questioning Tomura about the butterfly thing, asking about fans drawing him with butterfly wings now. Tomura springs out special effect costume butterfly wings, casually asking ’what wings?’ With an innocent face

Talks about the mall scene, where they had to film it many times because Tomura kept saying funny shit when Uraraka asked who he was, like ’he’s Izuku’s boyfriend’ or he was his unusually young looking grandpa

Tomura also plays the Little Brother/first OFA holder for those scenes, and comments how it’s funny how different vibes the two characters have, where he can make himself seem like either one depending on his expression, even without the scarring makeup (he demonstrates)

Those are some I could maybe illustrate. Especially the first one of protagonist-napping. I really find that one funny

#actor au #bnha #bnha shitpost #shigaraki tomura #league of villains #izuku midoriya #theteapotofdoom

237 notes · View notes

indigomasquerade97 · 4 years

Text

Brothers Abducted

@brothersapart

I like to call this little AU Brothers Abducted. Basically, the witch has gotten sick and tired of our heroes managing to find each other after she curses one of them. And obviously, sending Sam to Wellwood wasn’t enough to stop it. So, she decides to send him even farther away, to a place no human could never manage to get to.

And if anyone remembers a past entry of mine, they will recognize my boys.

...

Chapter 1 - Rescue

Let’s see you brats find each other this time!

Sam ran. Faintly orange beams streamed through the treetops as his only light, and the longer he ran, the darker it got. He didn’t know where he was running to, but he kept moving.

He had to find his family.

He stumbled against a tree, sucking in a lungful of cold air. Nothing was making sense. The grass around him was almost as tall as he was. Trees soared higher than what seemed possible. The bark under his hand felt… cold, and smooth. More akin to metal than wood.

He didn’t know how big he was, but he couldn’t have been the same size as he used to be. Or, maybe the world he found himself in was just too big. Monsters were real, right? Maybe other dimensions were also real. He didn’t know. He couldn’t recall anything like this in his fathers journel.

Shimmering leaves of silver fluttered in the breeze, each big enough to be small tarps to keep him hidden from this oversized world. What had that woman done?

Where is Dean?

He froze when he heard something nose its way through the grass behind him. Sam fumbled in his jacket to retrieve his knife. His back pressed against the tree, silver blade in hand, he faced toward the threat.

A dark shape slithered forth, three dilated eyes blinking down at the tiny child. It almost looked like a snake, but halfway down the thin body were two spindly legs. It stood up, that long neck winding through the grass to get closer. It was easily bigger than an elephant. Sam clumsily slashed at the thing. It flinched back at his fast movements, then lashed out. Sam barely jumped out of the way in time to miss the fangs that crunched against the bark.

Sam gasped when he landed on the ground. His hand had slipped against a stone, slicing through his palm. He scrambled to his feet as the snake-thing struggled against the bark, where its fangs had gotten stuck. It planted its feet and pulled, dragging a chunk of bark with it. It snapped its jaws and splinters of wood showered down on Sam. He flinched back, and its head swivelled to him. It opened its mouth, some green slime dripping from the fangs as it prepared to strike.

Hiissss-thunk!

Sam flinched back as a long wooden pole – more a tree than anything – slammed into the beast’s head, then into the tree, the other end quivering from the force. The snake slumped over, dead. Sam shivered as his eyes took in the thing. It looked like an arrow.

An arrow that was over twenty feet long.

Then he saw the arrows owner and lost his breath.

…

Jason was taking a walk through the woods to clear his head. Politics had been getting hard to deal with as of late. Ever since the pet trade scandal, the Shifter race as a whole had been in hot water, despite the fact that the Mandimal’s had had no part of it. And Jason had unfortunately been stuck in the middle of it. The United Empire had mixed reactions to his and Takota’s relationship, and Jason was not taking the attention very well.

So, he took a walk down the paths in the Silver Woods. He shivered, pulling his hood up to ward away a particularly cold breeze. It would be night soon, but he stalled. He wasn’t quite ready to head back inside yet. He just continued his leisurely walk, listening to the rustle of leaves as unseen wildlife frolicked.

It was fortunate that he stayed out as long as he did.

He paused when he caught the faint sound of a yelp out in the trees. He frowned. No one was supposed to be out so close to sunset. Hell, even he wasn’t supposed to be out. The animals that came out during the day were usually small and easy to deal with. The nocturnal ones, not so much. They could be too much even for Shifters, so it was better if everyone was indoors at night. Night only lasted four hours on this planet, anyway.

He decided to investigate and send whoever was outside back indoors. Hypocritical of him to lecture them about being out after curfew, true, but still. He couldn’t just leave them out.

The sound had come from deep inside the woods. He began hiking through the long grass, keeping his eyes and ears open. He couldn’t see anyone through the trees. But he could clearly hear them. Possibly a human, then. Their breathing was off. Panicked? Maybe. But where-

He saw movement by a tree ten meters away. He glanced over to see a Yolsnak. It was a native pest, looking much like Earth’s snakes, but with three eyes and legs. It was on its hind legs, looking ready to strike at something.

Something small, in a tattered jacket, feebly holding out a shining blade.

Jason gasped. Before he had even finished sucking in that breath, he’d swung his bow from over his shoulders, nocked an arrow, and had fired, all as the small pest began its lunge.

Jason took a few deep breaths to calm his racing spark before he stepped forward. The small figure flinched away from him, those tiny eyes wide with fright. They couldn’t have been more than three inches, if that. A kid, Jason realised. What was he doing this far outside of the U’Boltan headquarters? Where were his parents?

The kid scrambled away, becoming cornered between two roots. His breathing had become choppy and erratic, matching the rapid bada-boom of his tiny heart. Jason bit his lip and quickly put away the bow. He held his hands out in surrender and slowly sank to his knees. He was very aware of how frightening he could be to the smaller people.

‘Hey, hey, it’s alright,’ He quietly comforted, ‘I’m Jason. Where’d ya come from?’

Sam trembled, one hand scrubbing the tears away while the other desperately clutched his knife. A giant. He couldn’t even fight off that… whatever it was. How was he supposed to ward off an actual giant?!

‘N-nowhere!’ Sam stuttered, ‘Just l-leave me alone!’

‘”Nowhere”, huh?’ Jason asked, then smirked, ‘Well. Never been there before. What’s your name, kid?’

Sam stared at the giant hooded figure. Had… had he just made a stupid dad joke? What was wrong with this monster?

Although, he had stopped that snake from attacking him. And he had kept his distance, keeping those huge hands in sight. With how he was hunched over, it was almost as if he were trying to make himself seem smaller. But he was much too big to do so successfully.

As frightening as the giant was, he’d still saved him. Perhaps he wasn’t so dangerous, like his father’s journal said?

‘I-I’m Sam,’ He answered, sniffling quietly, ‘What… Where am I? I want my brother!’

Jason could practically feel his spark ache. The kid was so small and scrawny. And now there might be another one somewhere out there?

‘Okay, calm down,’ He pleaded, wishing he could just hug the poor kid, but knew it wouldn’t go down well, ‘You’re outside the Mandimal headquarters. How did you get here?’

Sam blinked. He didn’t recognize the name Jason had given him, so he instead focused on the question. He remembered that woman, holding Dean against the wall. There was a light, and suddenly he woke up in this forest.

‘You’ll never find each other!’

‘I- I don’t know,’ He wailed, drawing his knees to his chest, ‘Dean and I were at the hotel, and that woman- I don’t- ‘

Jason sighed. He hated it when children cried. And the fact that this boy was so lost and scared was ripping him apart, old brotherly instincts rearing from nowhere. Then he looked up to see the sun was dipping over the horizon. It was steadily getting darker. He didn’t have much time.

‘Sam,’ He said, cocking his head to catch those teary eyes, ‘We can’t stay here. It’ll be dark soon. I gotta get ya somewhere safe.’

‘B-but Dean- ‘

‘I’ll get people to search for him,’ Jason promised right away, ‘But right now, I need to get you out of here.’

Sam shifted, flinching when he used his injured hand to sit up. Jason blinked, so intent on the tiny child that he managed to notice the slight grimace.

‘Your hurt,’ He rumbled, then slowly held out one hand, palm up, ‘Please. I can’t just leave you out here on your own. The sooner I know you’re safe, the sooner I can look for your brother.’

Sam took a deep breath, staring at the hand that sat a few feet away. Was he actually considering this? Putting his life in the hands of a giant… he could already hear his father’s disapproving voice. Could hear Dean telling him how stupid it was.

But the giant was offering to help. And right now, he was all the boy had.

‘You… promise you’ll find Dean?’ He asked, his voice cracking.

‘I swear, I’ll personally look for him,’ Jason said earnestly, ‘I’m afraid that is all I can promise for now.’

Sam took a deep breath, then stood up. He took a few cautious steps forward, but Jason didn’t move. He hesitated once he was beside the hand. It was almost like it was just stone, it was so still. He looked up at the man, who gave him a reassuring smile. Sam sighed, then stepped up onto the hand.

The surface of the hand was strange. It gave slightly under his weight, and gave off some heat. Sam wobbled a little, falling into the centre of the palm. He could feel a powerful thrum under his palms, likely the giant’s very heartbeat. The skin was covered with calluses, showing years of hard work. Sam could even trace the faintest of scars that littered the skin. It was very similar to his father’s hands, actually.

‘Okay, hang on.’ Jason warned, then the hand rose. Sam flinched at the odd feeling. But Jason was taking the process slow, so it wasn’t too disorienting. He cupped the hand against his stomach, then slowly stood up.

‘Right, let’s get you inside.’ Jason said, then began walking.

#@brothersapart #new au #Brothers Abducted #contest entry #my writing #chapter 1

14 notes · View notes

runaway-horses · 5 years

Text

Wait For Me (I’m Coming) Part 2/2

<<Previous Chapter

Word Count: 5,119

A/N: *chanting* Comfort, comfort, comfort-

This is basically 5k words of me trying to fix everything I put Logan through in the last chapter. Reblogs and comments are extremely appreciated, I love this AU and I’d love to know what everyone thinks of it. Onto the story, I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Aftermath of torture, medical stuff related to the aftermath of torture, hurt/comfort, anxiety attack, PTSD-like symptoms, this is mostly comfort honestly. Please let me know if I need to add/remove anything!

Tags: @pippippippin, @a-cure-for-sentience, @stormcrawler75, @princeyssash, @quoth-the-sparrow, @theresneverenoughfandoms, @queer-guineapig

~~~

The rock wall is hard and digs into his spine, but Roman doesn’t shift away from it. His body is tired from the events of the day and he doesn’t want to risk disturbing Logan.

Logan, for his part, doesn’t look like he’s waking up anytime soon. His face is pallid and thin, his usually angular face even more pronounced, dark purple half moons under his eyes. He doesn’t even know where to start with his injuries. The back is the worst. He’ll have to have Patton look him over when he gets back.

He’s still lost in tumultuous thoughts when he hears a shout from the trees. He looks up to see Virgil, surrounded by his men, sliding off his horse and running to them. Virgil is on his knees in front of them before Roman can blink, hands on Logan’s face and a hand lacing in his limp one and concern and fear and relief written all over his face.

“He’s alive, Virgil. Just unconscious.” Roman says, voice low and gentle. Tears spring to Virgil’s eyes and he nods, gaze never leaving Logan’s face. Roman feels as if he is intruding on a very personal moment, but he can’t extract himself from his position in any way, so he stays silent and allows Virgil to grip Logan’s hand tightly while he collects himself.

After a while, Virgil takes a deep breath and his tears slow, his expression steadying.

“How can I help?” All business, Roman knows Virgil is compartmentalizing his emotions. (He and Logan both do that. It’s one of the many traits the two brothers share. Roman believes it’s genetic, Patton blames their parents.) And that he’ll probably hide out in his tent once this all passes and fall apart in private.

(Patton will coincidentally be walking by his tent as the emotional storm subsides, and he’ll duck in to hold Virgil and keep him company. They make a wonderful team, those two.)

“I think we just need to get him back to camp, have Pat look over him, and we’ll go from there.” Virgil nods and stands up, prepared to help Roman stand and get Logan on the back of a horse. Roman sees the moment Virgil spots Logan’s back and the mix of emotions on his face, Horror, disgust, anger. Virgil’s face pales considerably but his hands are steady when he catches Logan’s shoulder while Roman stands.

Together, they make their way to Roman’s horse. They stand for a moment, contemplating, before Roman hands Virgil Logan’s limp body. He mounts with one smooth movement, patting Maximus’s neck in apology before leaning back as far as he can.

“Lay him across my lap, I’ll hold him until we get back to camp.”

Virgil’s face screws up momentarily, but he lifts Logan up to Roman and together they position him over Roman’s lap. Roman grips him tightly with his one hand and gathers the reins in the other.

As a group, they set off towards camp.

~~~

The dawn is just beginning to peak over the horizon when they get back to the little gathering of tents, and Patton is waiting for Roman when he arrives. He reaches up for Logan and helps get him down. Roman swings off Maximus and lands with an oof, the movement takes more energy than it should. He hands Maximus off to another man and follows Patton to his tent.

(Usually Roman always takes care of his own horse. He feels he owes it to them for carrying him safely to his destination and it’s the least he can do in return. Just this once, however, he allows himself the exception.)

Patton lays Logan out facedown on a pile of blankets and starts to work immediately, cutting off the tattered remains of Logan’s shirt and setting a bowl of hot water nearby. Patton doesn’t even hesitate at Logan’s wounds- thank God for level-headed Patton, he’s always been good in an emergency- and starts to gently peel the pieces of fabric stuck to the gashes off.

Roman’s hands shake with exhaustion but he kneels on Logan’s other side.

“How can I help?”

Patton fixes him with A Look and shakes his head.

“Roman, you’re clearly exhausted. There’s no way I’m letting you help me out right now. You need to rest. Heavens knows the last time you slept.”

A retort is rising on the tip of Roman’s tongue but he’s quelled with another look from Patton.

“I can’t leave him, Patton. Not again.” Roman’s voice is small, and he realizes abruptly that tears are welling up in his eyes.

Patton’s eyes are warm and he looks at Roman gently.

“I know, Roman. But I swear on my honor that nothing will happen to him under my care. If you stay in here, you’ll just be in my way. Go sleep, in your own tent, and once you’re rested you can come back and watch over him all you want. You’re of no use to me or Logan in this state.”

Roman deflates, closing his eyes. He still wants to argue, but the truth of Patton’s words are too heavy for him to ignore. He nods tiredly and stands up shakily.

“You’ll come get me-?”

Patton cuts him off. “Yes, Roman, I will come get you if he wakes up before you do.”

Roman nods and ducks out of the tent flap into the fresh morning air. He allows himself a moment to breathe deeply. The dawn hasn’t looked this beautiful to him in about 18 days, not that he’s counting. With one last gaze at the tent that houses his beloved, he ducks into his tent and falls onto his pallet.

He’s asleep moments later.

~~~

When Roman wakes, the sun has already passed its peak and is slowly falling. The mid-afternoon heat has made the blankets on his pallet uncomfortable, and he kicks them off with a huff. Once he’s freed his legs from their fabric cage, he rushes out of his tent and towards Patton’s.

He pushes the flap open and sees Virgil and Patton bent over Logan, gently dabbing cotton balls at the edges of his wounds. He can’t decide if it’s better or worse with the dried blood cleaned up.

Patton looks up at his entrance, and the lines on his face seem more pronounced than usual.

“How is he?” Roman asks, slightly breathless.

“He hasn’t woken up, if that’s what you mean. His injuries…” Patton trails off and Roman's throat goes dry. “He will be fine, physically. Given time and proper care, he will heal. He’ll always have scars, but rathered scarred and alive than...well. But Roman, I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s so disgustingly inhumane.” Fury is alight on Patton’s face, and there’s a tension in the room.

Roman knows what Patton is feeling, felt it himself and expressed it in the form of unmoving people left on the floor of that cave. He doesn’t know what to say, and just nods instead.

“I know it is,” He manages to get out, before gently kneeling next to Virgil.

“Can I help?”

Virgil nods and hands him his cotton swab, leaning back on his heels. Virgil’s eyes are red and puffy and Roman wonders what’s going through his friend’s mind. He thinks they’re all feeling a little lost in the face of the events of the last three weeks. He’s just opening his mouth to speak when he feels Logan shift beneath him, and suddenly the room goes very still, and very quiet.

“Logan? My dear, are you with us?” Roman is the first to break the silence, tentative.

“Roman?” Logan’s voice is raspy and faint, and Roman thinks he might cry at the sound of it.

“Yes. Love, it’s me. I’m here.”

Logan’s hand scrambled across the floor, the movement frantic. Roman grasped his hand in his and squeezed gently.

“I’m here.”

Logan turned his head towards the sound of Roman’s voice, his face dirty and drawn.

“We’re at camp, in the Alface forest. Virgil and Patton are here, so are most of the Guard.”

Logan’s gaze drifted past Roman and focused on Virgil, who was situated behind Roman. He went to move and immediately made a noise of pain, his eyes glossing over with tears.

“Virgil?” He asked, his voice small. Virgil looked surprised but quickly recovered, moving forward and kneeling next to Roman. Logan gave Roman’s hand a squeeze before letting go and reaching for Virgil. Virgil’s hand wrapped around his immediately, expression open and tearful. Virgil reached forward and pushed Logan’s hair away from his face, inspecting his brother’s face.

Logan stared at Virgil’s face intently, as if reassuring himself that he was here. His grip was surprisingly tight considering his fatigued state.

Virgil remembered the day he had come home and told Logan that he was going to be in the King’s Guard, and how scared Logan had been. He remembers how Logan’s hands shook but he hugged Virgil and told him he was proud of him. He remembers how Logan had hovered around him for the rest of the day, and when they two of them went to bed last night- two bodies on one small mattress, there wasn’t room for two in their house- Logan had pressed a little bit closer to him, how he had held his hand just like this.

So Virgil holds his hand now, knowing that he’s looking for security. He knows Logan, knows his brother likes to pretend he doesn’t have emotions, and he knows that right now he’s caught in a whirlwind of emotions that he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Logan?” Patton’s voice is a welcome distraction from his thoughts. “I’m going to dress and wrap these wounds. It will probably hurt, but I promise to be as gentle as possible.”

Patton would’ve made a good doctor, Virgil thinks. His voice is calm and steady as he pressed a hand to an uninjured section on Logan’s lower back. “Are you ready?”

Logan draws in a breath and nods but Virgil can see the tightening around his eyes. Virgil motions to Roman with his head, attempting to get his message across. Logan needed his family, and Roman was part of that. Fortunately, Roman understood the unspoken command.

He shuffled forward, towards Logan’s head. He settled himself down and then ran his fingers through Logan’s hair.

“Logan, put your head in my lap.” Logan seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Come on, I got you.” Roman coaxed, continuing to untangle Logan’s hair with his fingers. Finally, Logan gently lifted his head and allowed himself to be maneuvered into Roman’s lap, sighing softly when Roman resumed his gentle petting.

At Virgil’s look, Patton started dressing Logan’s wounds and bandaging them, mouth set firmly.

For the next hour, Virgil and Roman comforted Logan through it, shushing him gently and talking aimlessly about inane things in an attempt to fill the silence and give him a distraction. When Patton secured the last bandage, Roman had a slight damp spot on his pants from Logan’s quiet tears and Virgil’s hand aches from how hard Logan had squeezed it.

Roman realizes that Logan has fallen asleep, his breaths even and his grip on Virgil’s hand loose. He can’t help but be grateful. Roman hopes that he is free from pain in his sleep.

Patton packs away his supplies and sighs, exhaustion on his face. Roman absently wonders how much sleep he got last night, if any at all. Patton gives a tired smile to Roman. “You’re free to stay with him tonight, I’ll crash elsewhere.” Roman knows that ‘elsewhere’ means Virgil’s tent, and he nods in affirmation.

“Thank you, Patton.”

Patton’s smile is soft and genuine when he says “Of course, Roman.” And then he ducks out of the tent.

Virgil is looking at Logan’s back, a mix of expressions on his face. Mostly he looks tired.

Roman nudges him gently to get his attention, and Virgil snaps back to himself.

“You can rest, Virgil. I know you didn’t sleep last night. I’ll keep an eye on him, promise.” Roman echoes Patton’s sentiment from last night, and a little bit of tension seems to ease out of Virgil’s stance.

“I know, it’s just…” He trails off, eyes clouding.

“You can’t believe he’s here?” Roman finishes for him.

“Yeah.”

Quiet falls over the tent as Roman and Virgil both watch Logan breathe.

“I’ll be back later, Pat will need to change those bandages.” Virgil says, standing up slowly.

“Ok. I’ll come get you two if we need anything.”

That seems to settle Virgil and he nods before turning and exiting the tent, leaving Roman alone with Logan.

He notices how Logan trembles slightly in his sleep and his heart aches. He doesn’t know if it’s from cold or something else, but he pulls a blanket over him anyway. Logan seems to settle once he’s covered and Roman sighs to himself.

Minutes later, however, he starts twitching again, this time murmuring slightly in his sleep. It might seem benign to anyone else, but Roman has known Logan long enough to recognize a nightmare when it starts. Normally, he’d wake him and soothe him with kisses and a warm hug. Then the two of them would lay awake in each others arms, and talk until Logan drifted back off.

But he doesn’t want to wake Logan, knows he needs this rest, and instead he starts to sing.

Wait for me, I’m coming

Wait, I’m coming with you

Wait for me, I’m coming too

I’m coming too

He keeps his voice low and leaves his hand on Logan’s head, hoping it offers some comfort.

I’m coming, wait for me

I hear the walls repeating

The falling of my feet

And it sounds like drumming

And I am not alone

Logan lets out a sigh and shifts slightly before stilling. His trembling ceases and so does his mumbling but Roman continues to sing until the song is finished, and then one more time. When he stops singing, he just looks down at Logan, at his love, and he thinks of the bandages under the blanket, and the wounds hidden under them.

He thinks of the damage that he can’t see, but can feel in the way Logan’s body tenses slightly in his sleep, his distressed noises as he slept, reliving horrors. He thinks of Logan apologizing to him, voice catching on the words even as speaking pains him, and of the state that he has been living in for the past 18 days.

The longer Roman lingers on it, the more helpless he feels. He doesn’t know how to fix this, feels so utterly small and helpless in the face of this foe.

But for now, in this moment, he holds Logan. There’s not anything that he can fix in one night. But he can sing Logan’s fears away, and keep him warm. And maybe, Roman thinks, that’s enough.

~~~

The trip home takes three days. It's arduous and slow going, and Roman is happy that their group is so small.

It’s just him, Logan, and Patton. They had decided to ride ahead by themselves, as they could move faster without the entire King’s guard accompanying them. Virgil has stayed to lead the rest of the soldiers, and Patton goes ahead with Logan and Roman. They stop every few hours for Patton to change Logan’s bandages, and they make their goal getting back to the castle as fast as possible.

Logan rides with Roman. He sits behind him and wraps his arms around his waist in a position reminiscent of many hours spent riding together.

There’s nothing romantic about this ride, however.

Logan’s pained breaths brush against Roman’s ear, and the tightening of his arms around his waist are ones of pain and necessity, not from trying to press closer to Roman. They ride until Logan’s barely suppressed gasps of pain become too frequent and Roman forces them to stop.

(Logan has barely spoken since Roman carried him out of the cave. His silence is almost more concerning than anything else. Roman tried to fill the silence at first, but now they just ride.)

They come out of the forest and Roman feels relief knowing that they’re close to the castle. Logan gives his waist a little squeeze, and Roman knows he feels it too.

They don't stop, just ride as the ground evens out, castle growing on the horizon with each stride of the horses' hooves.

Patton cues his horse into a gallop, gaining ground ahead of Roman and Logan. They hadn't had time to send a message ahead of them, choosing to leave immediately. Patton will alert the castle doctors that the Prince is returning with the court astrologer, and he is in need of medical attention.

Logan pressed forward and hooked his chin over Roman’s shoulder.

“We’re almost there, love. Patton’s going ahead to alert them.”

Logan nodded against his shoulder and Roman swallowed regret at not hearing his voice. He tightened his grip on his reins and set his mind to arriving as fast as they could.

~~~

When Roman made it to the gates, there was a group of people waiting for him. He slid off Maximus and turned to help Logan down. His lips were set tight with pain and he landed on the ground with a huff. As soon as Logan’s feet hit the ground, Patton was there with the palace doctor, Emile, at his side. They wrapped an arm around Logan and steered him towards the entrance, Patton and Emile already rapidly exchanging words.

Roman went to follow them but found himself blocked by a small group of people, all clamoring for his attention. Several members of the court, all asking questions about Logan, one or two of his advisors who had issues that really required his immediate attention, as well as several servants who he figured were just lingering for hints of gossip.

He was momentarily overwhelmed with the movement and chatter, but he gained his wits enough to get their attention.

“Enough! Your questions will all have to wait, I have more important matters to deal with. Please return to your jobs, I will be available later. And someone please return my horse to the stables.”

With that he pushed through the small gathering and followed the steps he had seen Patton and Logan take. Once he was out of sight of everyone in the courtyard, he started running.

~~~

Logan tried not to wince as he was directed to Emile's quarters, the hands on his shoulders only heightening his pain. At some point, he looked over his shoulder and realized Roman was not with them. He tried to swallow the panic that rose in his chest at the revelation. It was irrational, nothing was wrong. Or perhaps that statement wasn’t entirely accurate, but nothing was wrong that could be changed by Roman’s absence or presence.

So why was he having a hard time breathing?

He was distantly aware that Patton and Emile were talking to each other, and probably talking about him, but as they weren’t talking to him he just let the conversation fade into noise. They ushered him into a room and sat him down on the bed, hands settling on his shoulders. Logan resisted the urge to flinch at the touch and tried to focus on the rhythm of his breath.

Patton moved out of his line of vision, stepping behind him, and his chest seized up.

Patton wouldn’t hurt him, he knew. But he couldn’t see him anymore, he was no longer observable, and memories of being in another room with stone walls and a person at his back were spinning through his mind.

His heartbeat was loud in his ears. Logan’s chest felt tight and it felt like he couldn’t draw in any oxygen. He was distantly aware that the hands were no longer touching him and he could faintly hear what must be Patton- or perhaps Emile?- talking, but he couldn’t discern the words. His vision blurred slightly at the edges as his breathing wheezed.

But then someone was kneeling in front of him. Logan became aware that his hands were balled into fists when warm hands covered them and eased them open.

“Logan?”

Roman’s voice was clear and cut through the haze in his mind. He was kneeling in front of Logan, warm eyes filled with concern, and the panic eased.

“Roman,” He said, voice quiet and raspy.

“Yeah love, I’m here.” He started rubbing circles into Logan’s hands with his thumbs. “What happened? You weren’t with us for a minute there.”

With Roman here, the panic was already draining away, Logan focusing on the touch on his hands and the rise and fall of his breath.

“It was rather illogical, I couldn’t see Patton or Emile once they went behind me and I panicked, I suppose.” Saying it aloud only heightened the sense that Logan had overreacted, and he steadfastly stared at the ground. He heard a small noise from behind him but ignored it, unable to muster up the energy to care about what it could have been.

A gentle touch on his shoulder drew his attention back and then he heard Emile’s voice.

“I’m sorry that we upset you, Logan. However, it is important that I look at these injuries. I will speak to you the whole time so you are aware of what I am doing. Is that alright?”

Logan nodded and gripped Roman’s hand a little tighter.

“I’m going to start by removing the bandages.” Emile said. Logan stayed perfectly still while one by one, his wounds were uncovered. Emile didn’t react, simply asking Patton to bring his bag over.

“Patton did a good job of treating these initially,” Emile commented, rummaging in his bag. “You’re lucky, they’re clean. My biggest concern is infection, but we should be able to avoid that by keeping them covered.” Emile placed a gentle hand on Logan’s arm. “I’m going to clean these now with some alcohol, it’s going to hurt.”

Logan had always liked Emile; he was gentle and kind but wouldn’t sugar coat things, always getting straight to the point. He nodded to show that he had heard, and didn’t even flinch when the cold alcohol made contact with his wounds.

Once he was done, he asked Patton to re-bandage them. Then he started his examination of the rest of Logam, taking note of the bruises on his torso, the cuts on his chest and face, and the ugly bruise blooming across the left side of Logan’s face.

“Logan, could you remove your trousers for me?” Emile asked, tone light. Logan stood with an effort and started tugging on his pants. They were tattered and dirty, blood staining them in some places. Once he got them past his knees, he sat back down on the bed, exhausted from the small effort. Emile cleaned and bandaged the cut on his thigh but deemed that his legs were uninjured for the most part.

Logan looked at his pants, pooled around his ankles, and realized that he didn't have the energy to pull them back up.

Roman seemed to notice this, and he hooked his fingers around the band of the pants, pulling them back over his legs.

It was a small gesture, but it made Logan’s eyes water slightly. Roman’s attentiveness since he had found him made his heart ache and his chest feel heavy with an emotion that he used to fear. There had been a time, a time before Roman, before this gentle affection, that nothing had scared Logan more than being vulnerable. He would have never allowed himself to feel this feeling, to put a name to it so boldly.

Love. It should be terrifying.

But there was nothing scary about loving Roman.

He didn’t even notice that Emile was done until Roman squeezed his hand and drew his attention back to the present.

“Are you up to walking back to my room, dearest?”

Logan stood up off the bed, and promptly felt the world blur as he stumbled forward. Roman caught him by his arms, avoiding his back, and setting him steady.

“Easy there. I got you, don’t worry. One step at a time, there we go.”

Roman kept one arm secured around Logan’s waist as they walked together out of the infirmary. He murmured encouragement to Logan the entire time, letting him lean most of his weight against Roman.

When they finally made it to Roman’s room, Logan was drooping with exhaustion, muscles aching and wounds throbbing. He was compliant as Roman eased his pants off again and dressed him for bed, each touch soft and only making Logan want to sleep more. Once he was dressed, Roman quickly disrobed himself and helped Logan into bed, crawling in behind him.

Logan laid on his stomach to protect his back, but felt anxiety prickle at his neck when Roman laid down beside him. He felt...exposed. And a little cold. He couldn’t help that little whine that left him, and Roman immediately was running a gentle hand down his arm.

“Logan? What’s wrong?”

He wasn’t sure. He wanted Roman to hold him, to be enveloped in warmth and love and safety, but he couldn’t press against Roman like he normally did. And he didn’t know how to put it into words. He didn’t want to ask, just the idea of it had heat rise to his face.

“Just...cold. Is all.” He said, hoping that that explanation would suffice. Roman’s hand stopped moving on his arm and Logan held his breath. Then he felt Roman shift, moving down the bed, until he was laying flat.

“Come here,” He said, gesturing to his chest. Logan crawled up, settling his head on Roman’s chest and letting himself sink down into his body. The gentle beat of Roman’s heart against his ear was soothing, and Roman wrapped one arm around his lower back before tangling the other in his hair, running through the strands.

“Better?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Mhm. Perfect,” He responded, letting his eyes shut. Logan drifted to sleep, secure in the knowledge that for the first time in weeks, he was safe. He was home.

~~~

In the following weeks, more security was added to the castle. Guards were around every corner, and weak spots in the castle’s construction were shored up. The astrologer, hardly a public figure as it was, was barely seen. To an outsider, nothing of importance was different about the castle.

To Roman, lots of things were.

He rarely left Logan’s side, refusing meetings and bringing his work into his personal quarters. Logan had tried to argue at first, but the relief in his eyes when he saw Roman was enough to steel Roman’s determination. He didn’t mind changing his routine, this small changes were nothing compared to what he would do to keep Logan happy, to keep him safe. Having Logan home made breathing easier, filled up the negative spaces where an extra body was meant to be.

Home. It was a word that has kept Roman warm while he searched for Logan, knowing that home was with him. The castle was just brick and mortar filled with irrelevant material things, it was a place meant to be filled with people, and feelings.

Home was Logan's laughter, the turn of his lips when he frowned at Roman with barely hidden affection in his eyes.

Home was in sleepy kisses and sleep softened touches, the precious moments when the Dawn sneaked in through windows and bathed Logan's face in a golden light.

Home was in the touch of hands, of gentle caress of face, of an extra cup of tea appearing on his desk while he labored over papers and requests.

Home was also in the empty space between them on the bed when they disagreed, in words that were too barbed or too honest.

Home was in loving Logan, and choosing to come back to him. To cross the space between them on the bed, to apologise for words that were said in haste, in the band-aid smoothed over the wound on his heart.

It was nighttime, and the candles set around the table were burning Roman’s eyes. He frowned at the papers in front of him. The disturbance among the nobles in the West was only rising, citizens being alerted to the brewing trouble and growing antsy themselves. He looked up from the tables at a gentle knock against the doorframe, seeing Logan standing there, holding a candle of his own.

“Roman, it’s almost midnight. Come to bed, the papers can be dealt with in the morning.” He said, stepping forward so he was standing at the edge of the table.

“I know, Logan, but there’s just so much to be done.” He said, pressing his hands to his eyes.

“Nothing can be done tonight, my dear.” Logan said, placing a hand on Roman’s shoulder. He blew out the candles around the table and reached for Roman’s hand. Roman looked up, about to protest, when he saw the dark circles on Logan’s face. It was clear that he hadn’t slept either, and was just as exhausted.

With a rush of guilt, Roman remembered that Logan hadn’t been able to sleep on his own since the cave. Roman’s habit of staying up till the early hours of the morning, only to collapse into bed and do it all again the next day was affecting him just as much.

Logan pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, and murmured against the top of his head, “Whatever you’re thinking, I want you to stop. Everything is okay. Whatever has happened, has happened, and it is in the past. Let’s go to bed, and tomorrow will be better.”

Roman ignored the tears pricking at the back of his eyes and stood, allowing Logan to lead him back to their room. He shrugged off his clothes and tumbled into bed, Logan setting his candle down on the bedside table and blowing it out, climbing in after Roman.

Roman wrapped his arms around Logan, pulling him in close.

Logan’s body was warm and he sighed, relaxing against him.

It’s not going to be easy, he knows. The problems will not have magically resolved themselves in the morning- his father will still be sick, revolution will still be stirring, there will still be scars on Logan’s back.

But it will be easier with Logan at his side.

He presses a kiss into the soft brown hair and whispers “I love you.” Before he allows his eyes to shut and drifts to sleep.

#athena rambles #love athena #logince #hurt/comfort #royal au #tw anxiety attacks #tw ptsd

135 notes · View notes

archiefm · 4 years

Text

... claws my way up from hell once more and vomits onto the dash.... hello. its nora. i used to write rory bergstrom, but if u were here before that u might remember me as greta or alma putnam or..... som1 else.... an endless carousel of trash children..... this is finn, who i actually wrote for an early version of this rp abt 5yrs back now...... grits teeth..... so forgive me if im rusty i havent written him in a long time but seein honey boy gave me a lotta finn muse n im keen to get Back On The Horse yeehaww...

DYLAN O’BRIEN / CIS-MALE — don’t look now, but is that finn o’callaghan i see? the 25 year old criminology and forensic studies student is in their graduate year of study year and he is a rochester alum. i hear they can be judicious, adroit, morose and cynical, so maybe keep that in mind. i bet he will make a name for themselves living off-campus. ( nora. 24. gmt. she/her )

shakes my tin can a humble pinterest, ma’am....

finn has a bio pasted at the bottom (n written in like.... 2015.... gross) but it’s long so if u don’t wanna read it here’s the sparknotes summary..... anyway this was written years ago n a lot of it seems really cliche and lame now but..... we accept the trash we think we deserve

grumpy, ugly sweater wearing, tech-savvy grandpa

very dry sense of humour and embraces nihilism.

if ron swanson and april ludgate had a baby it would be finn

he was raised in derry, just south of dublin.

from a big family. elder sister called sinead. he also has a younger sister (aoife), a younger brother (colm), and a collie named lassie because his father lovs cliches (finn hates cliches but loves his dog).

his father was a pub landlord and his mother worked at the market sellin fruit n veg when they met but got a job as a medical receptionist when she had kids cos it meant she cld be there with them in the day and work nights.

his parents met when they were p young and fiesty and rushed into marriage cos they were catholic n just wanted to have sex. his family were literally dirt-poor, but they had a lot of love i guess

hmmmmm his relationship w his father wasn’t the best cos i can’t write character who have healthy relationships w their parents throws up a peace sign. yh, had a pretty emotionally distant, alcoholic violent father n so gets a lot of his bad habits i.e. drinking as a coping mechanism and poor anger management from him BUT anyway

as a kid he was never very motivated in class, he always had a nervous itch to be off somewhere doing something else. struggled under government austerity bcso there just wasn’t the resources to support low income families where the kids had learning difficulties n needed support. fuck the tories am i right

his mum suggested he try sports to help w his restless energy but he was never any good at football so he took up boxing and tap dance instead. he took to tap dancing like a fish to fuckin water. as adhd n found this as a really good way to use his excess energy in a creative way

had a few run ins with the police in his early teens for spray painting and graffiti, but he straightened himself out n now actually considering becoming a detective inspector??? cops are pigs.

he had a youtube channel where he posted videos of him tapdancing and breakdancing as a kid, basically would be a tiktok boy nowadays, n had like... a small fanbase in his early teens. attended several open auditions unsuccessfully, until he was finally cast in billy eliot when he was fifteen.

during billy eliot he began dating an italian dancer called nina. they became dance partners soon after and toured across the republic with various different shows (inc riverdance lol the classic irish stereotype). their relationship was p toxic tbh, they were both very hot tempered people and just used to argue and fight all the time.

he went semi-pro at tap dancing, and nina couldn’t stand being second best so she moved back to italy with her family. ignored his texts, phone calls, etc, eventually he was driven to the point where he used his savings to buy a plane ticket, showed up at her house and she was like wtf?? freaked out and filed a restraining order accusing him of stalking.

he was fined for harassment and then returned home to derry, but after the incident with nina he quit dancing for good and finished his leaving cert before heading to university in the US to get as far away from nina and his past life as poss. and basically since he quit dancing to study forensics (death kink. finn cant get enough of that morgue. just walks around sayin beat u) he’s become a massive grump and jsut doesn’t see the good in people any more.

u’ll find finn in an old man bar drinking whiskey bc he is in fact an old man at heart or sat on his roof smoking a joint, drawing wolves and lions and skeletons and shit, playing call of duty or getting blazed or at the corner of the room in a house party ignoring everyone and scrolling through twitter. is a massive e-boy. always up-to-date on memes and internet slang. has reddit as an app on his phone

not very good at communication. rather than solve his issues by talking, he’d prefer to just solve them through fighting or running away from his problems hence why he has come halfway across the world to get away from an issue which probs cld have been solved w a few apology emails.

takes a lot to phase him, but when his beserk button gets pressed he can become a bit pugnacious like an angry lil rottweiler. in his undergrad he was in a few fist fights but doesn’t really do tht any more as he doesn’t condone violence.

in the previous version of this rp he was hospitalised like 5 times. pls, give my son a break. stop tryin to kill him. he literaly got a bottle smashed over his head and bled out all over his favourite angora rug that was the only light of his life

works at the campus coffee shop n always whines about how he’s a slave to capitalism. always smells of coffee

lives off campus with an elderly woman named Marianne, and basically gets reduced rent bcos he makes her dinner / keeps her company. they have a great bond

fan of karl marx. v big on socialism

insomniac with chronic nosebleeds

cynical about everything. too much of a fight club character 4 his own good n has his head up tyler durden’s sphincter

always confused or annoyed

statistics

basic information

full name: finnegan seamus o'callaghan nickname(s): finn age: 25 astrological sign: aries hometown: derry, ireland occupation: phd student / former street entertainer fatal flaw: cynicism positives: self-reliant, street smart, relaxed, intelligent, spontaneous, brave, independent, reliable, trustworthy, loyal. negatives: hostile, impulsive, stubborn, brooding, pugnacious, untrusting, cynical, enigmatic, reserved.

physical

colouring: medium hair colour: dark brown, almost black eye colour: brown height: 5’9” weight: 69kg build: tall, athletic voice: subtle irish accent, low, smooth. dominant hand: left scar(s): one on the left side of his ribs from a knife wound that he doesn’t remember getting cos he was drunk distinguishing marks: freckles, tattoo of a wolf howling at a moon allergies: pollen and the full spectrum of human emotion alcohol tolerance: high drunken behaviour: he becomes friendlier, far more conversational than when sober, flirtier, and generally more self-confident.

psychological

dreams/goals: self-fulfilment, travel the globe, experience life in its most alive and technicoloured version, make documentary films, help the vulnerable in society, grow as a human being.

skills: jack-of-all-trades, very fast runner, good at thieving things, talented tap dancer, good in crisis situations, dab-hand at mechanics, musically-intelligent, can throw a mean right hook and very capable of defending himself, can roll a cigarette, memorises quotes and passages of literature with ease, can light a match with his teeth.

likes: the smell of the earth after rain, poetry, cigarettes, shakespeare, whiskey, tattoos, travelling, ac/dc, deep conversations, leather jackets, open spaces, the smell of petrol, early noughties ‘emo phase’ anthems.

dislikes: the government, parties, rules, donald trump, children, apple products, weddings, people in general, small talk, dependency, loneliness, pop music, public transport, justin timberlake, uncertainty.fears: fear itself, drowning alignment: true neutral mbti: istp – “while their mechanical tendencies can make them appear simple at a glance, istps are actually quite enigmatic. friendly but very private, calm but suddenly spontaneous, extremely curious but unable to stay focused on formal studies, istp personalities can be a challenge to predict, even by their friends and loved ones. istps can seem very loyal and steady for a while, but they tend to build up a store of impulsive energy that explodes without warning, taking their interests in bold new directions.” (via 16personalities.com)

full bio (lame as fuck written years ago..... pleathe...)

tw homophobia

born in quigley’s pub on the backstreets of sunny dublin, young finnegan o'callaghan was thrown kicking and screaming into the rowdy suburbs of irish drinking culture. the son of a landlord and a fishwife, he never had much in the way of earnings, but there was never a dull moment in his lively estate, where asbo’s thrived, but community spirit conquered. at school, finn was pegged as lazy and unmotivated, though truly his dyslexia made it hard for the boy to learn in the same environment of his peers and only made him more closed-off in class. struggling with anger management, finn moved from school to school, unable to fit the cookie-cutter mould that school enforced on him, though whilst academic studies were of little interest to the boy, he soon found his true passions lay in recreational activities. immersed into the joys of sport from as young as four, finn was an ardent munster fan and anticipated nothing more than the day he could finally fit into his brother’s old pair of rugby boots.

his calling finally came unexpectedly, not in the form of rugger, but through dance. to learn to express himself in a non-academic way, he began tap dancing, finding therapy in the beat of his soles against the cracked kitchen tiles (much to his mother’s disgrace). it wasn’t a conscious choice, finn just realised one day that dance was something that made him feel. a king of the streets, finn made his fortune on those cobbled pavements – dancing and drawing to earn his keep. by default, finn became a street artist, each penny he earned from his chalk drawings saved in a jam jar towards buying his first pair of tap shoes. though many of his less-than-amiable neighbours called him a nancy and a gaybo, finn refused to quit at his somewhat ‘unconventional’ hobby, for the young scrapper found energy, life, and released anger through the rhythm of tap. soon he branched out into street dance, hip hop, break dancing, lyrical, his days spent smacking his scuffed feet against the broken patio into the night.

when he was thirteen he took up boxing, and as expected, his newfound ‘macho’ pastime conflicted with his dancing. the boxers called him ‘soft’; the dancers called him ‘inelegant’. he felt like two different people; having to choose between interests was like being handed a knife and asked to which half of himself he wished to cut away. he couldn’t afford professional training in dance, with most schools based in england and limited scholarships available. instead, he made the street his studio, racking up a small fanbase on youtube. when he was fifteen he made his debut in billy eliot at the olympia theatre in dublin. enter nina de souza, talented, beautiful and italian; ballet dancer, operatic singer, genius whiz kid, and spoiled brat. she was selfish, conceited, hell bent on getting her own way, and every director’s nightmare. finn fell for her like a house of cards. he’d always had a soft spot for girls who meant trouble. and so their hellish courtship began.

by the time they were seventeen, the two young swans had danced in every playhouse across the republic. they were known in theatres across the country for their tempestuous personalities, their raging arguments with one another, their tendency to drop out of shows altogether without any notice, yet the money kept rolling in and the audiences continued to grow. for three years, their families continued to put up with their hysterical fights followed by passionate reconciliations. he was too possessive, and she was too wild. their carcrash of a relationship finally came to a catastrophic halt when nina broke off the whole affair and returned to italy with her family. for months finn tried to contact her, yet his phone calls, texts, facebook messages were always ignored, until finally he was driven to drastic measures and used his savings to get a plane to her home town. when finn turned up uninvited at nina’s house she freaked out – and rightly so – she contacted her agent, accused him of stalking her, and had a restraining order placed against him. finn was arrested, held in a station overnight, and charged with harassment before he was allowed to return to dublin.

after the incident with nina, finn lost the fight in his eyes. he became far more hostile, far less likely to retaliate with his own fists, and picked fights not for the thrill of feeling his own fists pummel another into a wall, but for the sensation of his own brittle bones cracking. he dropped his tap shoes in a dumpster, stopped talking to his friends, followed his father’s advice and went back to school to complete his leaving certificate. a few short months later, and finn was packing his bags, saying his bittersweet goodbyes, and travelling half-way across the globe to be as far away as possible from his past self, his mess of a life, and most of all nina. it seemed somehow ironic that the boy who had been cautioned by the garda so much during his youth for spray painting, busking without a liscence, and raucous parties would become the grumpy, aloof overseas student studying a degree in criminology; that his once reckless spirit could be crushed so easily.

of all things that finn could be called, straightforward would never be one of them. ever since his first days in atticus, the boy was pegged as hostile, hot-headed, cynical, rude. he seemed to spend more time in his thoughts than engaging in conversation. like a ticking time-bomb, finn’s anger was of the calm kind, liable to explode without a moment’s noticed. his unpredictable personality make him something of an enigma to those who aren’t amiable with the lad, though hostile as he may appear, he harvests a good heart. loyalty lies at the centre of his affections, and whilst his friends are few in number, he makes a lifelong partner. somewhere within finn, there’s still some fight left, but mostly he has recognised that his hedonistic lifestyle did little to leave him fulfilled – mostly, it just emptied him out – and over his three years at university has resigned himself to a nihilistic predicament.

if u wanna plot with me pls pls pls im me or like this post!! i am always game for plots i love em so excited to write with you all here r some ideas

study buddies. finn is now a phd student so has to start takin shit seriously. he gon be in the library every day doing that independent study. if he had ppl who were also regular library goers n they get each other coffees to save time.... tht wld be sweet

ppl who love techno dj sets and going super hard on the weekends!!! fuck yea

friends with benefits. exes on bad terms. ppl he tried to date but couldnt because he’s always emotionally hung up on someone else. spicy hook up plots

ppl he met touring?? maybe ppl who were also in the entertainment industry..... anyone got a character who is ex circus hit me up

does anyone else study criminology / forensics / criminal psych / law? phd students sometimes lecture so he cld be an assistant lecturer / tutor if ur character is in a younger year

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

finn goes to the skatepark and all the young boys there think he’s a gradnpa which he is!

#huntingtonintro #is tht the tag....... idk..... msg me xo

8 notes · View notes

thebeethathums · 5 years

Text

Enough

Crowley x Reader One Shot

Warnings: Suggestive situations?

It had not gone over well when you told the Winchesters that their paranoia about introducing you to Crowley was unwarranted, as you had known the King of Hell back when he was just King of the Crossroads.

That and that you had made many small deals with him over the years.

Looking back, that fact was probably the clincher for what had become one of the most explosive arguments you’d ever had with your little family. Dean had thrown a chair across the room causing it to smash against the door frame, not that you were really any better, as you had buried more than one of your knives hilt deep into the wall before you’d left.

Sam had had a horrified look on his face when Dean told you to- how was it that he put it- “Get the hell out of my sight you stupid lying bitch before I do something we’ll both regret!”

You had screamed back, “I didn’t lie, you just never asked! Besides I was leaving anyway. Who in the world would want to stick around someone as daft as you?!”

Dean had seen red then, “Well go on then and don’t you dare come back. I never want to see your ugly demon-dealing face again.”

That had hurt, more than he could ever know. You loved them like family… heck as Bobby’s daughter you were basically family to them, but here you were again, same as always-cast out by the people you loved. The internal scars from Bobby sending you away when you were young ran deep alongside those from all the others you had lost or who had abandoned you over the years.

You could walk off the anger but the sorrow stuck with you as you made your way down the road, only a light hoodie to keep the cold night air from your skin. You hadn’t bothered to grab anything- not your coat, your bag, your phone, or even your favorite knife from the wall. You had just turned and bailed, slamming the door behind you.

Tears froze to your cheeks as the winter cold started to set in and you didn’t reach to brush them away.

“Tsk tsk, darling you shouldn’t be out so late all on your own and without a proper coat. It’s fixing to snow you know love.”

You didn’t even jump when he appeared from the shadows, beginning to trail you as you walked, “I don’t care what you think Crowley. This is all your fault anyway. Just go away.”

You tried not to let your tears seep into your voice, keeping a flat but even tone as you normally did, but the demon had known you long enough to know the difference. He zapped himself in front of you so you either had to stop or go around him.

You opted for the latter but he did manage to get a look at your tear-streaked face, frowning as you demanded, “What in hell are you here for anyway?”

He zapped in front of you again, hoping you would stop this time, and raised his arms to gesture around him, “Just visiting an old haunt. Nostalgia and what not.”

You stopped and realized the two of you were standing in a familiar crossroads, the very same one where you had first met Crowley. You spun slowly taking it in. That was why this town had seemed so familiar you reasoned and a wave of angry tears started to spill over onto your face.

If you had never come here, never stopped in this place, you wouldn’t know Crowley and none of this would ever have happened. You let out a frustrated yell to the heavens, where you were sure someone was laughing at you.

“Come now, darling, I’m not so bad. You can’t honestly wish that.” Soothed the Scottish accent you’d come to love. You could feel his warm breath on your ear.

You turned and shoved him, “Stay out of my head Crowley!”

You shivered slightly and plopped down in the middle of the crossroads, unsure of what else to do at this moment, you couldn’t go back but what was the point in going forward.

“Are you going to tell me what happened love? Or am I going to have to frolic about in that gorgeous mind of yours to find it?”

You sighed, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere. He probably enjoyed this, seeing you at your lowest- broken, angry, and hopeless. You let the memories of earlier that night wash over you so that he could read them easily as you let the cold seep through your body from where you touched the ground.

“I’m surprised at you love… throwing your lot in with the terrors in plaid. It doesn’t seem your style. I’m sorry darling, but I can’t say I’m surprised it ended that way.”

“I didn’t “throw my lot in.” It has nothing to do with hunting or even the apocalypse, they’ve been my family since I was a kid and they asked for my help. So I gave it.” You seethed.

“Family? I thought you had no family.”

“A lie Crowley. I didn’t want you to use Bobby or them against me.” You tossed casually.

Crowley tilted his head in thought, “Why did I not see it before? You are the child that old man sent away… no wonder your lovely little heart is filled with doubt and caution.”

You stayed silent, shivering as you hoped he would just go away and leave you alone. There was a hand on your shoulder momentarily and, in the time it took you to blink, you were suddenly in front of a roaring fire with a deep crimson comforter wrapped around your shoulders.

You couldn’t move, all of your hunter caution bells going off in your head all at once. A fucking demon-no, not just any demon- the King of Hell, had just kidnapped you, it didn’t matter how comfortable you were and how welcome the sudden warmth was, that could not be a good thing.

You heard his signature dark chuckle from somewhere behind you, “No need to be so on edge darling.”

You stood to level him with your most intimidating stare, letting the blanket fall from your shoulders, “What do you want from me, Crowley?”

You were surprised to see that his face was unsure, relaying that even he didn’t know why he’d brought you here. It was only for a moment though as his face quickly twisted into a smirk and he purred “Can I not rescue a lovely damsel in distress? I suppose I could have left you to freeze, but I thought this would be so much more fun.”

You narrowed your eyes, was he flirting with you?… was that even a thing? You refused to lie to yourself, that accent drove you absolutely crazy and his unique combination of suave and gruff all at the same time was very attractive but he was… well... the King of Hell.

He stepped closer to you and offered you a glass of whiskey. You took it and downed it without a second thought. If he wanted to mess with you, there were other better ways, besides if you knew one thing about Crowley it's that he doesn’t mess around with his whiskey.

He smirked and closed the gap between you two, causing you to back up until you toppled on to an elegant black couch. You cursed as you tried to right yourself and Crowley laughed, easing down gracefully next to you, “You might as well stay there darling.”

You glared at him and, having recovered, moved to get up, an action you soon found to be restricted by a firm hand on your shoulder, his hand. You glared at it and then at its owner angrily but it had no effect as he moved it to cup your cheek.

You searched his face and he smirked and said, “Oh love, you never could take a hint,” then leaned in and crashed his lips on yours in a rough but not entirely insistent way.

You put a hand on his chest to push him away but an arm that had snuck to your waist pulled you to him and the motion pushed you past the point of no return. Your eyes flickered shut as you dissolved into one of the most passionate and lustful kisses you’d ever experienced.

He gently bit down on the outer edge of your lower lip, wanting access to your mouth’s smooth interior, but you didn’t gasp as he’d expected. Instead, you smiled into the kiss briefly before you gave him a bite of your own, bringing your teeth down on his lip and drawing blood.

The action had the intended effect as he gave a surprised little moan and you slid your tongue victoriously into his whiskey-flavored mouth. He growled slightly at your actions and fought your tongue for dominance, simultaneously pressing you back into the couch so he had you pinned beneath him.

He pulled away for a moment to wipe at the steady trickle of blood coming from his lip, “Naughty girl. I’ll just have to make you pay for that now won’t I love.”

You grinned and grabbed his red tie to pull him back to you, “And if I do it again?”

You smirked before pulling him close enough to bite the sensitive spot on his neck, just below his ear, again drawing blood. Crowley moaned loudly and you licked the fresh wound.

He very suddenly pressed you firmly into the couch, pinning your hands above your head to look you straight in the eyes, “Then I shall have to punish you all the more.”

There was a mischievous glint in his eye as he crashed his lips against yours again and let his hands wander down your form to tug at your shirt.

Crowley had been the one constant thing in your life for the past four years, it wasn’t exactly what you had in mind when you thought about having someone to rely on but you couldn’t deny that he always seemed to show up when you needed him.

He bit down on your now bare shoulder and you reasoned that maybe that was enough.

51 notes · View notes

motherwasapapafucker · 5 years

Text

Señor 105 Meets The Exterminating Angel

She stands alone, an endless expanse of sand and sky spilling out before her. Behind her sits the town, a crisscrossing network of homes and workplaces raised above the blistering heat of the sand atop four massive pillars. It’s not terribly notable, its industry centred around slow, laborious mining projects that appeal to no-one but the corporations who make small fortunes off of the rare minerals acquired beneath the planet's surface. Its scant population -comprising of a few thousand of the galaxies vulnerable and desperate- could vanish overnight and no-one would notice, and even if they did they wouldn’t care. She refuses to allow that to happen.

Her breath mists the visor of the environment suit and she makes a conscious decision to slow her breathing. She has brought little with her beyond the suit; A handful of wrist-mounted tools that will aid her in the coming fight and, of course, the mask. She rarely removes it, its sleek surface as natural as any other part of her body, it says more about who she is and what she stands for than anything else she owns.

Firming her footing in the soft, burning sand she begins to meditate, visualising the array of tattoos that cover her body. As she pictures each symbol the mask changes, the number at its centre steadily increasing with each vibrant new design. Behind her, the town will be beginning to rise, its people weary at the prospect of another day’s toil. If she doesn’t succeed, doesn’t stop what is about to happen, then they will all be dead before the morning is over. Her wrist device pings and she readies herself, here they come; Invaders from Another Time.

The ship arrives with little fanfare, a sleek, featureless thing that appears in the air as if it has always been there. Its sudden arrival would unsettle her if she hadn’t seen it before, now the only fear she possesses is the knowledge of what its crew will do to this world if she doesn’t stop them. It is already in motion, sliding towards the town with no visible sign of propulsion. By now they will have scanned the surrounding landscape for any signs of defence and finding nothing but her, will go to high-alert.

A perfect circle forms in the side of the ship and a trio of guardsmen riding small disks ringed with controls descend towards her. The lead guardsman wields a lance-like device that throbs with energy, sending a jet of green-tinged plasma towards her. She dives to the side, dodging the attack and rising immediately, charging towards the lead disk, zigzagging as more blasts rain down around her. As the disk passes overhead, she squats and lunges towards it, visualising the symbol for hydrogen she soars through the air, wrist device pointed directly at its underside. The device emits a shrill noise and the disk’s smooth surface liquefies, its pilot toppling through it with a yelp of fear. She takes a moment to savour the man’s look of bewildered indignation as he slips past her and plunges towards the ground, snapping a mock salute as she glides through the liquid. Deactivating the device she lands on the disk, surface solidifying beneath her.

The controls are far in advance of anything she uses, however they betray an inherent simplicity that suggests a lot about the disk’s pilots. Turning it sharply, she watches as the remaining guardsmen swerve to avoid her, one toppling from his disk as it spirals madly through the sky. The other is more successful, turning his disk and coming up directly behind her. He fires his weapon, narrowly missing her. She leaps from the disk, crashing backwards into her pursuer with a satisfying thud. Stunned, the guard stumbles backwards attempting to draw his pistol, she slaps it from his hand and drives her knee into his abdomen sending him crashing over the edge of the disk with a resigned groan.

Seizing the disk’s controls she twists it towards the ship, the door that the guardsmen emerged from already closing. Pushing the disk to the limits she braces herself against the controls and launches across them, hurtling through the closing gap at the last moment. She lands with a roll, the faint noise of the disk crashing against the side of the ship barely audible behind her. The hangar is all but empty, a few stunned technicians in form-fitting, grey coveralls watching her in stunned silence.

She greets them with a brief ‘hola’ and dashes deeper into the ship.

The Exterminating Angel drove a sharp, precise punch into Señor 105’s chest, it was the sort of punch that made him feel his age. The Angel, resplendent in a golden uniform and ornate, beetle-like mask emblazoned with a single unblinking eye at its centre, cackled and lunged at him, offering the Señor no respite from his opening attack.

Señor 105 had been pursuing this mysterious figure for months, following a trail of broken, near-dead wrestlers throughout Mexico. He believed he had finally caught up with the Angel at the villa of Professor Cristaldi, a former wrestler known as El Pugilista who had retired from the sport to teach history at the University of Nuevo León. Unfortunately, the Señor had instead found himself lured into a trap; The Angel having already killed Cristaldi and subjected the villa’s staff to a peculiar cybernetic lobotomy. With too many innocent lives at stake, he had allowed himself to be captured and taken to the caverns beneath the villa.

If...when he escaped this place he would ensure The Angel’s victims received the best possible treatment.

As the lobotomised staff led him through the caverns Señor 105 could hardly believe what he was seeing. They were in the midst of a strange transformation, a sleek metal-like substance covering entire passageways, the material seemingly used for both this and any furniture he saw. Hallways dotted with men dressed in form-fitting black uniforms and helmets that recalled the Angel’s own mask passed by as he was forced deeper underground. Clearly, the Angel had used the villa as a base of operation for some time, but this didn’t strike the Señor as the lair of a garden variety madman, something about the entire operation left him with a deep sense of unease. The journey climaxed in a vaulted chamber that held the oddest sight he could imagine, a wrestling ring shaped from the same material seen throughout the caverns, surrounded by spectator seats. The Exterminating Angel was waiting for him, pacing the centre of the ring like a caged wolf, he glanced at the procession drawing Señor 105 towards the ring and smiled.

“So, you finally came.” The Angel says, a shrill, mechanical edge to his voice presumably provided by a device in his mask. Señor 105 glanced up at his foe, remaining silent for the moment as he stepped into the ring. Offered a better look at the man, the Señor immediately recognised someone who did not truly understand lucha, the Angel’s ornamented mask clearly serving as a status symbol rather than a performance piece. This was a man who believed his own hype and was all the deadlier for it.

“I was offered little choice,” Señor 105 replied stripping his suit jacket and shirt, there was going to be a fight regardless of what he said to the man, and he would prefer to be ready. “What you’ve done here is monstrous.”

“My actions were necessary to bring you here.”

“You’ve killed many people, and scarred more trying to what? Lure me here for a fight, you could have simply contacted me via legal channels if that’s what you wanted.”

“I’m sending a message, correcting things. Putting you in your place!” There was hate visible behind his mask, a burning personal thing that the Angel clearly struggled to contain. The Señor had seen this anger in many of his long-term foes but he had never encountered the Angel as far as he knew.

“I imagine we have different notions of my ‘place’.”

“I’m going to show how weak you really are.” The Angel snarled, moving to his side of the ring. Around them the room began to fill with the uniformed figures he had seen on his journey down, silently taking up their role as spectators. Señor 105 noticed that many of them were haggard, their uniforms showing signs of wear and tear that had never been properly addressed. The Angel reached into his outfit, flinging two bloody organs onto the ring’s floor.

“The remains of Cristaldi.”

Before he could question the Exterminating Angel’s understanding of basic anatomy Señor 105 found himself under attack, his foe leaping at him with startling speed, precise punches coming at him from all directions. “What, no bell?” The Señor spat as he blocked the Angel’s next attack, he was clearly someone who understood the art of the fight and decided a long time ago that he did not care for the rules.

“Only funeral bells!” The Angel stepped back laughing at his own joke. Señor 105 rolled his eyes -making a mental note to donate the money he had been saving every time he had heard this line- and used the Angel’s brief respite to launch his own attack, leaping forward with a double kick that ended the Angel’s laughter with a sickening wheeze. His foe was stunned, stepping backwards in a daze, he jumped, wrapping his arms around his thick-neck in an attempt to bring him to the ground, the Angel held firm using the Señor’s momentum to send him crashing across the ring.

Señor 105 was certain a number of his ribs were broken, a painful stabbing already building in his chest, the gathered crowd watching the fight with a near-reverent silence as he attempted to stand. The Exterminating Angel stepped towards him slowly, savouring his pain with unhidden glee. “Strength means nothing when you don’t know how to use it.” Senor 105 felt the Angel wrap his arms around his neck, lifting him off the ground effortlessly, he hung painfully in the air fighting the urge to scream. The Angel swung violently, flinging the Senor across the ring and into the ropes at its far side.

“You seem to have a problem with me,” The Señor felt the tang of blood in his mouth as he stood, awkwardly doubled over trying to lessen his pain. “But I had no idea who you were until a few months ago.”

“We’ve never met, but I know you.”

“If you think I don’t know the importance of strength,” the Señor stepped forward raising his fists. “Then you don’t know me.”

“You ruined me!” The Exterminating Angel jabbed at him, the Señor ducked and drove a series of punches into his chest. “Your ideology is a mockery of strength, you do not command the respect of those weaker than you, you don’t give them a function in your society, they do not fear and love you.”

“That’s not strength.” Señor 105 felt his ire build and headbutted the ranting fool, the Angel snarled tearing at his mask revealing a bloodied, broken nose. The man’s skin was almost bronze, with close-cropped blonde hair and blue eyes that the Señor wouldn’t even pretend to be surprised by.

“You defend the undeserving,” The Angel shrieked, the now damaged mask adding a warped, inhuman edge to his voice. “Coddling their weaknesses, allowing them to refuse the natural order.” He couldn’t move fast enough and was forced back by the man’s attack, painfully slamming into the ropes. The Angel punched him in the face, lifting him overhead and slamming him into the ground. He took a moment to regard his fallen foe and then began to rain heavy kicks down on him, the Señor crawling away in an attempt to escape the onslaught.

“Worst of all, people follow you. They believe your ideology, believe that strength should be used only to defend, they follow your example and fight fights they never should. It spreads, and spreads and never stops, all because of you.” Senor 105’s body seethed with an agony he hadn’t felt since his fight with Mr. 105, his anglicised double from a sinister counter-world, but he had survived that and he knew he could survive this. The crowds were standing, chanting along with the Angel’s brutal assault, the Señor struggled to focus on what they were saying, all too aware of the injuries now covering his body, but eventually, the word became clear.

“EXTERMINATE!”

“I’ll change it, I’ll stop it from happening.” The Angel said stepping back, turning his attention to his followers. “I’ve beaten you here, I’ve stopped the idea before it can ever spread, you’ll become a lesson, just another fool that would let chaos reign rather than let those who should lead do so.” He kicked the Señor in the chest forcing him onto his back, a deathly silence falling across the audience. “You die here alone, broken, surrounded by the pageantry you define yourself by.” The Exterminating Angel raised his foot, ready to drive it into the Señor’s skull. “Your world view revealed for the lie that it is.”

“You friend,” Senor 105 said grabbing his leg with both hands, twisting it sharply sending the Angel crashing to the floor with an agonised shriek, “talk too much.” He stood, controlling the shaking pain that swept across his body via the mental recitation of a calming mantra. “Now get up, you believe you’re strong? Prove it.”

The Angel stood, looking around the ring with something approaching panic, his mask was all but gone and the face underneath was covered with blood. “You, you can’t do this to me again,” he said, his true voice a small, quiet thing, “I’ll still win.”

The Señor raised an eyebrow under his mask and readied himself. “How does the song go? Hit me with your best shot.” The Angel lunged forward, spittle foaming at his mouth in a manner that Señor 105 couldn’t help but compare to the strange, plant-like hounds that had patrolled the grounds of the vila when had first arrived. A few punches connected, hurting him more than he would like to admit. The Señor jumped backwards, ducking the Angel’s flailing punches, he returned the gesture and riddled his chest with a series of heavy jabs directed towards key pressure points throughout the man’s body. The crowd watched in stunned silence as the Exterminating Angel staggered backwards, a blank numbness spreading across his body, the Señor crouched, bracing himself against the floor. He leapt forward with a double kick that connected with the Angel’s chest and sent the man flying from the ring, crashing on the floor with a heavy, definitive thud that echoed around the now silent chamber.

He turned to the crowd, all staring blankly up at a man they never thought would win, and at a loss for anything better to say he regarded them with an extravagant bow and a single word that felt right given the present circumstances.

“Exterminar.”

Señorita 1207 is on a mission to save a world that no-one cares about, plunging through a ship from the future intent on strip-mining its resources for their own benefit. She knows that she doesn’t have long to stop them, to stop them from killing off the planet’s population simply to get them out of the way. The people doing this don’t care, the planet’s people are an afterthought to both them and the corporation that has cheerfully sold the world off to them. When she’s dealt with the immediate problem she’s going to ensure they face justice as well.

Her arrival on the ship has created the perfect opportunity for its slave population to rise up, and while she’s happy to help, this new complication has added yet another element to her already hectic schedule. She could have made a direct byline for the control room, destroyed the ship from there, but in doing that she would have doomed people who had no choice in the matter. Some would call them tragic, but ultimately acceptable losses. Señorita 1207 refuses to accept that, to even entertain the notion would betray everything she stands for.

Her mentor, the second woman to call herself Señorita 1207 had been the one to teach her the code, the idea they all lived by. It was a remarkably simple one. Stand up against injustice, take the hit for people who can’t, and be seen doing it. She’s been evacuating the slaves, evacuating anyone who is willing to stand against the people controlling them, leading groups through the ship to hangers filled with disks that will ferry them down to the planet below. She smiles as the last group, all of who had volunteered to help her, vanish through the wall.

Guards in black beetle masks pour into the room, five or six at a guess, she dives as blasts of energy sear into the wall behind her. She’s fast, faster than them, they go down easy and she’s out of the hanger before the last one falls to the ground. She plunges through an endless succession of identical corridors, she could have spent hours wandering them but a few brief conversations with people who have been forced to spend their lives in the ship has given her a clear idea of where to go.

She turns a corner, knocking-out the two guards stationed there as she passes. Another two guard the door at the corridors far end, they barely have time to unsling their weapons before she’s on them. The first doesn’t put up a fight, collapsing after a brief scuffle, the second fires two shots, one grazes her side and she uses the sharp burst of pain to push herself forward, colliding with the guard and forcing her way through the door.

She flings the guard over her shoulders and turns her attention on the men stationed in the room. They look at her in stunned silence, the commander in charge of the operation half-raised from his chair, unsure what is happening to what should have been a simple mission. The man who will one day become The Exterminating Angel is about to experience the defeat he will spend the rest of his life reliving.

Señorita 1207 grins, ready for the fight.

#senor 105 #the klade #obverse #doctor who #the daleks #lucha libre #god I love senor 105 #this is just daft fan wank #but by god I will fanwank and none of you can stop me #fan fic #proof read and re-drafted #but dyslexia is a bitch so I'm sure there's a tone of things I'll catach well after the fact

6 notes · View notes

dumbsadlesbian · 6 years

Text

Sick To The Stomach

Jack has no problem admitting he's fucking a student. Rhys, however, prefers not to be stared at by his rather petty peers. Shit happens.

"Just a few more documents, babe."

Rhys sighs, dangling Jack's mask from his fingers. He studies it; smooth, pliable. Enough to allow basic functions. Rhys wasn't sure how a mask drew less attention than a scar, but he wasn't one to speak. People had scars- it was fine.

He draws a line across it with his index finger, where Jack's scar would be. It's not the same. The fact that Jack couldn't even go outside without it broke his heart. On the other hand, Rhys knows that he can't change how Jack feels, no matter how hard he tries. Jack is stubborn. He's just happy Jack trusts him enough to take it off around him, to let Rhys play with it and look at it with wonder and curiosity. It's like a child with a new toy.

Everyone knew Jack anyway. On the other side, Rhys supposes that Jack could ask why he wore long sleeves so often, or what the point was to wearing both gloves on a cold day, considering he has a robot arm. It isn't that Rhys is ashamed- it's pretty cool. Sometimes Rhys just wonders what it would be like if he still had all human parts instead of a robotic arm and eye, a USB port in his skull.

Then again, there are also aliens and small, raging psychos existing, so nothing was really surprising anymore anyway. Normal? Rhys knows of no such thing.

"Booorrreedd," Rhys drags out every syllable in a whine that's almost pitiful. He sets the mask down on the bedside table. He's lying on his back in Jack's soft bed, legs crossed and propped on the headboard, a pillow proudly displaying a pattern of the Hyperion 'H' supporting his head.

Rhys instead focuses his attention on Jack's real face, which he much preferred to a mask. Sometimes, if he was gentle about it and had Jack in the right mood, Jack would let Rhys touch his scar. It was a thick, smooth line. The edges were ragged but still just as soft. And even after all this time, the damaged skin stayed an angry pinkish-purple, instead of fading into a soft silvery-white like the rest of the scars that claimed his skin. Jack didn't want Rhys to look at it as awesome or cool, and more than once Rhys has had to promise, "It's just another part of you, Jack. I love it just like I love everything else about you."

Rhys really did love every part of him, too. The way his hair was so messy in the mornings. Rhys would play with it and Jack would complain about him messing his hair up but never actually stop him. How he always smelled nice and never complained about Rhys taking his clothes. Jack couldn't fit into Rhys' clothes, but even now, Rhys was nestled into Jack's soft, yellow Hyperion sweater that he'd come home in last night. It was a little too big- the sleeves kept going even after his fingertips stopped. Rhys didn't care, and it left Jack without a shirt on and something for Rhys to look at, so it was a win in his eyes.

His eyebrows were furrowed as he expertly scanned through the papers in his hand, leaning his back against the headboard, his legs crossed under the blanket. One arm was wrapped around Rhys' legs, devoting its time to caressing Rhys' thigh, tracing fading dark marks and faint bites leading further up. It gave Rhys butterflies thinking about it, despite having been with Jack for quite some time.

Jack wanted to show Rhys off- Rhys refused, afraid of unwanted attention. Everyone knew Jack. He had fans. It made Rhys uncomfortable seeing students, even other professors approach Jack on campus, trying to strike up a conversation. Though Rhys knew it made Jack uncomfortable too, he couldn't help but wonder whether or not he secretly enjoyed the attention. He was *the* Handsome Jack, you know. Rhys preferred not having the rage and drama of a bunch of upset fan people following him from class to class. So they kept it a secret, despite whatever suspicions others might have.

Rhys was drawn out of his wandering thoughts as Jack's light, wandering fingertips trace around a particularly tender bruise. Rhys shudders without thinking.

Jack turns to look at Rhys, whose eyes are scrunched tight. Maybe in embarrassment, maybe to keep from saying something he doesn't want Jack to hear. In reality, Rhys wants to tell him, "Do that again."

Jack releases an exasperated breath, dramatically putting the papers down. "However can I grade papers," he jokes, "if this horny bastard never lets me?" Jack crawls out of the blanket and over to his boyfriend, where he slowly straddles Rhys.

It reignites the giddy feeling swirling in his stomach. Rhys opens his eyes. Now that Jack is hovering right above him, he can see the small, purple 'decorations' scattered lazily about Jack's collarbone. Rhys feels heat against his cheeks and his hands itch to touch them. He curiously wonders that if he touched them like Jack did, would he react in the same manner?

"I call it the lack of willpower," Rhys' voice catches in his throat instead. No matter how he tried, he always felt helpless against Jack, not that it was a bad thing. Every touch felt new, every hug and kiss emitted a strike of electricity and he never grew tired. The first time Jack had touched Rhys had changed him. He'd become insatiable, and Jack often made it his duty to point it out and use it to his advantage.

Jack had no issue keeping up-or far surpassing Rhys' appetite, for that matter.

Jack chuckles, nuzzling his nose against the crevice between Rhys' neck and shoulder. The scruff on Jack's jaw scratches his skin, but he doesn't mind. Rhys would tell him he needs to shave, but he's already having trouble keeping his thoughts straight- forming a coherent sentence might be out of question.

Jack snuggles closer, pressing his chest to Rhys' and bringing his arms close. "So help me," Jack whispers against the crook of his neck, "the persistent shit-dick strikes again."

"Oh my God," Rhys' voice is shaking, unstable because of Jack practically laying on him but he brings his arms up to hold Jack anyway, who's freakishly warm against him. "You love my dick."

"Mm," Jack lifts his head and touches his nose to Rhys'. He pretends to think, like it's even an actual question. He lightly bumps their foreheads together.

If Rhys wasn't already pitifully melting in Jack's arms, he totally would've whispered 'boop'.

"That is information I cannot rightfully disclose," Jack smiles brick brightly.

They break into laughter. Rhys loves it when Jack smiles, he loves everything about it. A face that goddamn handsome has no place being so serious all the goddamn time.

In fact, Jack has no right to do a lot of the things he does to Rhys, intentional or otherwise. The way his heart thrums in his chest and it feels like a heart attack, or when his breath catches and halts and he feels like he understands what asthma feels like, and it's all without his permission. It's so terribly unfair, and Rhys can only hope that he makes Jack feel the same way. Jack has always had an incredible reserve of confidence and resolve, and he'd hardly if ever seen it waver. He's far too good at picking and choosing what emotions he allows to be read and yet Rhys can't bring himself to care all that much. Jack could probably play Rhys as much as he liked, and though he knows that Jack is far too kind to do that to him, he can almost certainly assure that he would let Jack do it regardless. Rhys loved Jack. What could he do?

"How rude," Rhys manages as their laughter slowly ebbs. His hands run across Jack's spine, dotting the points where he can feel each vertebra rise against his skin. He feels weirdly proud when it's Jack's turn to shudder- though Rhys isn't sure if it's because of his touch or probably that his robotic arm is just cold.

"Okay, okay," Jack concedes. "I admit that your d-game is pretty great."

Rhys snorts and receives a playful nudge in return.

Jack tugs at the hem of Rhys' sweater. Rhys gives him a questioning glance. "I want to hear better." Jack holds Rhys up as he tugs it over his head, throwing it halfheartedly across the room, laughing when Rhys' teeth chatter at the sudden chill. Jack places his head on Rhys' bare chest. "See, this is better." He listens for a moment, comforted by the gentle, even lull of Rhys' heartbeat. The sound of him breathing, the buzz of blood flowing beneath his flesh, it reassured Jack. Rhys was here, he was alive, it was all real and he was happy. Jack had gone through obviously rough things and having Rhys was more assurance than he honestly deserved. "Your heartbeat sounds amazing."

Rhys smiles, eyes squinting at the warm intensity of emotion Jack brought him. He brings Jack up, coercing him closer until they were face to face. Rhys props himself on his elbows, earning a curious gaze. He leans forward, kissing each dark bruise that smattered Jack's neck from the night before. "You're the amazing one, you handsome douchebag," Rhys whispers against his flesh, one hand grazing up the side of his ribs.

Jack shivers again this time, making a frustrated expression- he felt control slipping through his fingers, useless as trying to catch water. This was entirely new, unfair, and Jack didn't like it.

Rhys smiles, because this time he knew Jack wasn't acting because of the cold.

Since when did Rhys become the one in control?

Rhys grins. "That was frickin' hilarious. Especially 'cause I'm even on the bottom right now."

"Don't push your limits, Rhysie, baby," Jack sighs. He doesn't know where this feeling originated from- but it makes him uncomfortable. He'd always been in control. He'd seen Rhys loose control countless times during...activities. He'd seemed flustered afterward but in the moment he'd enjoyed it. Jack enjoyed watching that. But to lose it even momentarily- especially over something so small as to Rhys' touch was strangely shocking.

"I like pushing limits, *cupcake*," Rhys grins. He knows that's Jack's nickname for him. He also knows that he liked seeing Jack react involuntarily.

Jack was unsure of how to cope. Following his first instinct, he straightens himself, the soft, light atmosphere draining from the room. Instead, it fills with tension, dread.

Rhys' chest feels full- he might've had his moment, but he gets the feeling that he could not stand up to Jack's anger, his aggression. It was embedded within his very personality.

"I'm not the submissive type, pumpkin," Jack takes Rhys' wrists in his hands. His grip is tight enough to bruise, but it's what Rhys liked. Despite that little blip of dominance, the anxious flipping of his stomach, the question of what Jack was going to do, it was enough to remind him that this was definitely what he preferred. Rhys knew Jack was like an unstable shotgun- he went off at the strangest things and times- perhaps it was his past that allowed him to transform from sweet to dark-eyes-and-brooding within a spare minute.

"You win," Rhys utters.

Jack proceeds to free Rhys' hands, the real one tingling at the return of blood flow. Instead of pinning Rhys, Jack leans down to kiss across his jaw. Rhys wants to give in. Instead, he glances at the clock and whistles. "You sure you want to start this?"

Jack looks up from his canvas, already guaranteeing new art to replace the old. Rhys observes the blooming red momentarily. Jack works quickly. He gives Rhys a look that almost scares him.

"Really, Rhys?"

Rhys shrugs sheepishly."Twenty minutes until your first class, is all I'm saying."

Jack bares his teeth.

"Not that I want you to go or anything," Rhys breathes, craning his head back and baring his neck to Jack, utterly vulnerable. "For Christ's sake, please don't."

"I need a helluva lot more time than that, knowing you," Jack rolls his eyes and continues letting his lips roam.

Rhys runs a hand through his own hair, smoothing stray tangles. He's shaking again, and he doesn't know why he submits himself to such a man. It's absolute torture.

"May the Lord have mercy on my soul."

Rhys can feel Jack smirk against his throat. "You don't deserve my mercy, princess."

#rhack #handsome jack/ rhys #vaughn #slow to update gay is a-okay #alternate universe au college/university #hiding a relationship is hard #learn to wear a scarf #fluff smut update tags as I go #was looking through rhack photos and bam this

16 notes · View notes

vanillaghost · 7 years

Text

Leave the Body (And Leave It Cold)

Recruited as a volunteer gifter for @thelightningsoul ! I don’t think I’ve ever written anything this dark before tbh. Though I’m honestly surprised how freeing the exercise was, granted it’s in that sick and twisted kind of way lol. Hope you enjoy your gift!

Prompt fill for the @tomarrydarkspringexchange:

Prompt #1: A scene where it starts off non-con and ends up consensual. (If you would like to include NSFW). Voldemort arrives at Malfoy Manor before the group is able to get away and separates Harry from everyone so it is just the two of them before he’s tortured for information.

Pairing: Harry/Voldemort Word Count: 5,561 Rating: Explicit Tags: Canon Divergence, Rape/Non-con, Torture, Bondage, Asphyxiation, Forced Orgasms, Biting, Graphic Depictions of Violence.

(Author note: First 500 words or so are basically lifted straight from the source material, but only as a quick refresher for those who might have forgotten what went down in Malfoy Manor, like me *sweats*. Please heed the tags before reading! For real, I ain’t playin’.)

“The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter!” Bellatrix leered. “Your death approaches!"

Harry knew it. His scar burst with the pain of it, and he could feel Voldemort flying through the sky from far away, over a dark and stormy sea. Soon he would be close enough to Apparate to them, and Harry could see no way out.

All hope seemed lost until the ominous creak and jingle of the chandelier above precluded its crash to the floor in an explosion of crystal and chains. As glittering shards flew in all directions, Harry leapt over an armchair to wrestle the three wands from Draco’s blood-smeared hands. By the three-fold strength of Harry’s Stupify, Fenrir Greyback rose toward the ceiling before he smashed to the ground in an unconscious heap of matted fur and brown claws.

Then Dobby had taken his mistress’ wand and their opponents, save for Bellatrix’s blade, were rendered magically defenceless.

Yet Harry's scar still blinded him with pain. He dimly knew they had only moments, mere seconds, before Voldemort was with them.

“Ron, catch – and GO!” Harry yelled and threw one of the wands to his friend before he bent down to tug Griphook out from under the chandelier. Hoisting the groaning goblin still clinging to the sword over one shoulder, Harry seized Dobby's hand and spun on the spot to Disapparate.

But before he turned into darkness, Harry caught one last view of the drawing room. Of the pale, frozen figures of Narcissa and Draco, and of the blur of flying silver as Bellatrix's knife flew across the room at the place where he was vanishing.

The pain in Harry’s forehead pierced him as the weight of the goblin bore down upon him. He could feel the blade of Gryffindor's sword bumping against his back and Dobby's hand jerked in his.

Then an icy wind gusted into the room, trailing with it ghostly black vapours and Harry was seized by a red light. With a violent jerk, he and his friends were pulled from their almost-Disapparition and brought crashing to the ground where the room felt more dim and dark all of a sudden.

Harry’s breath froze in his throat as the realisation struck him like a punch to the gut: They were too late.

He looked around to where Ron lay a few feet from him, Hermione still unconscious in his frozen hold. Then to the little elf standing beside him.

“DOBBY!”

The elf swayed slightly and together, he and Harry looked down at the silver hilt of the knife protruding from the elf's heaving chest.

"Dobby – no – !" Harry bellowed. "NO!"

A dark stain spread across Dobby's front who stretched out his arms with a look of supplication. But Harry could not move for the Stunning spell which locked him down, and Dobby teetered and fell onto his side.

“Dobby, no, don't die, don't die – ”

The elf's eyes found him, and his lips trembled with the effort to form words.

“Harry... Potter...”

And then with a little shudder the elf became quite still, and his eyes were nothing more than great glassy orbs reflecting the shadows of people they could not see.

A low, cruel peal of laughter echoed in the drawing room and Ron and Harry were disarmed of their wands. Still unable to move, Harry’s eyes wildly searched until they could just make out his worst fear.

Voldemort stood tall and imposing at the entrance of the room, his blood coloured gaze searing Harry to the spot. “Harry Potter… I have you at last,” he said, savouring the words like he had been waiting a lifetime to say them.

Harry swallowed around the sharp lump of despair that began to lodge itself in his throat.

A long moment stretched into what felt like an hour before Voldemort’s head snapped to the side and he hissed to his followers: “Leave Potter and take the rest as prisoners.”

As quick as if a switch had been flipped, the Malfoy family and Bellatrix all scrambled to do their master’s bidding. While Harry’s company were levitated out of the room, Voldemort’s eye caught the gleam of Gryffindor’s sword still clutched in Griphook’s hold as he floated past. The smooth, snake-like face contorted in fury and with a swish of his wand, the goblin was yanked out of line to land with a heavy thud at the Dark Lord’s feet.

Griphook uttered a feeble whimper of pain before a foot connected with the goblin’s head and he fell into unconsciousness. A baleful, crimson-coloured gaze turned on Bella who cowered underneath it.

“My lord – ” she began but was cut off by Voldemort’s scream of “SILENCE!” Her mouth shut like a steel trap before she dutifully awaited her punishment.

“If I’m not mistaken, this item should have been locked away in your vault.”

There was no response.

“Well, am I wrong?”

“No, my lord, it’s a fake – the goblin – he said so! I swear it!” Bellatrix pleaded in a high, whinging voice. “Oh please, my lord, you must believe me.”

Voldemort’s thin lip curled into a sneer. “Is that an order? You dare order the Dark Lord what to do?”

“No, no, no, of course not,” she wheedled. “Please forgive me, my lord, I – ”

“Enough!”

Again her mouth closed like it had been made to do so by magic. When she did not move or say anything else, Voldemort snapped, “Get out of my sight.”

She began to leave when he called after her: “And take THIS with you!” The compact and hefty body of Griphook flew through the air so that she scrambled to catch him in her arms while he still clutched the ‘fake’ sword of Gryffindor.

“Make sure we’re not disturbed for the evening,” Voldemort said, and with that final order, the door was slammed shut on the both of them.

Nothing but the sound of Harry’s panicked breaths could be heard in the room until the soft rustle of Voldemort’s robes sounded against the floor as he finally turned back to Harry. That calm, euphoric smile had once more returned to his face.

“Now, where were we?” he said, and pointed his wand straight at Harry. “Ah, yes. I remember now. Why don’t you tell me a little about what you’ve been up to, hm? What secrets did that old fool Dumbledore tell you about me? Speak!”

Harry hardened his gaze and it must have shown that he wasn’t going to say a word, because in the next second Voldemort had brandished his wand and bellowed, “Crucio!”

White hot pain, much like the one from his scar but ten-fold, ripped through Harry and he screamed.

“HARRY! HARRY!”

Faintly, he could hear Ron’s voice yell from below but all thought and sensation had been obliterated from his mind. The torture seemed to go on for what felt like years until, all at once, it finally stopped and Harry found his face was crushed against the floor. His glasses were skewed on his face and his body felt taut and frayed like the end of a singed tightrope.

“I can go on like this for days, Harry, I’d advise you not to test me.”

Harry tried to move but quickly regretted the decision when his body thrummed with the aftershocks of pain. So instead he panted his response into the floorboards.

“Go… fuck… yourself.”

There was a split second of fury-filled silence before the agony of another Crucio roared to life in his aching body like a thousand burning suns. Again, Harry screamed and again he heard the desperate, muffled cries from his friend in the dungeon below.

And only after another century passed did it stop again.

It was difficult to hear anything when Harry’s ears rang. But he could have sworn he heard a self-satisfied chuckle from somewhere far away. It was hard to focus when each breath felt like a shard of glass slicing into his lungs. When each movement felt like he was being crushed beneath a boulder. His head could have been on fire for all he knew. His vision was blurred and spotted with little white pinpricks of light.

Eventually the unmistakable pale grey fabric of Voldemort’s robes drifted closer until the man stood only an inch away from Harry’s face. A foot abruptly shot out to knock him in the ribs and Harry jolted, letting out a feeble cry of pain.

“Now’s not the time for rest, I’m afraid,” Came the cold voice. “In fact, it’s time to get up and tell me what I want to know.”

And just like that, Harry’s whole body was jerked into the air and left to hover there as Voldemort stepped closer toward him. At that distance Harry could see the bright red of those snake-like eyes and the sickly pallor of that grey-tinged skin. It reminded Harry much of a living corpse.

“One way or another, Potter, I will get that information out of you.”

Harry took a sliver of dark satisfaction by the clear frustration written across his nemesis’ expression. Then a cold finger reached out like it had once done in a graveyard so long ago, and slowly slid down Harry’s cheek. There was an answering shiver at such a gentle touch when Harry’s skin remained so sensitive from its recent ordeal. The reaction did not go unheeded by Voldemort, and a fascinated look crept its way into his gaze by the unexpected reaction. After a moment, a sickly idea seemed to have formed in his mind and his thin mouth twisted into another horrible smile.

“Harry Potter… I think I know just what to do with you after all.”

A fear like no other slashed its way into Harry’s heart when Voldemort started to tug at his clothing. Harry tried to struggle against the hands but they were too strong and eventually he was stripped naked, still floating in mid-air like he were on display at a museum. The red-eyed gaze took it’s time sweeping down the length of his body as the stirrings of nausea and horror began to turn in Harry’s stomach. But all he could do was continue to resist against the Stunning spell that froze him in place

“I think you might just end up liking this method of… persuasion a lot more in the end, Harry,” Voldemort mused aloud. An evil smirk still played at the corners his mouth.

“No… No! No, get off me!! I SAID GET OFF!”

Harry’s heated protests fell on deaf ears though he was sure his friends could hear it from below. Cold hands roamed his chest and hips, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Voldemort made a thoughtful noise before grabbing hold of the length between Harry’s legs and roughly tugging on it. Harry winced and screamed in helpless outrage but the hand did not stop.

Voldemort tutted in mock sympathy. “Now, Harry, are you sure you don’t recall what an old wizard might have mentioned to you once? I know you know, and as I mentioned before; I can do this for days.”

Harry’s heart seized at the mere idea of this becoming more; of the possibility of it going on for days. But then a twitch in one of his fingers saved him from pursuing that line of thought. He could feel the effects of the stunning spell starting to wear off and as soon as he was able to move his arms, he lashed out and struck Voldemort across his face. The levitation spell ceased from the distraction and Harry fell to the ground as Voldemort let out a roar of anger.

But Harry was still wandless, and he did not manage to get very far. Voldemort was still much physically stronger, and within seconds, he had overpowered Harry and threw him against the nearest wall. Long, cold fingers wrapped around his throat and squeezed, fingernails stabbing into his skin. Harry gasped for breath as Voldemort leaned in with a half grimace, half smile, while his free hand moved aside his robes. Harry’s own hands scrambled to pry the fingers from around his throat. He coughed and choked, dread filling him with the knowledge of what was about to happen.

Voldemort’s robes were parted and Harry dared not let his eyes travel down to witness what awaited him. His scar still burned, but with a different sort of heat now; it was angry, consuming, but anticipatory and triumphant.

Light-headed and beginning to lose the battle for breath, Harry struck out with his legs and they collided with flesh and bone. Another snarl and this time the pressure around his throat disappeared to be replaced by the sensation of being bodily thrown across the room to land in what could only be the chaise lounge.

Harry groaned and tried to get up when the hissed words of an ‘Incarcerous’ were heard and his hands and feet were instantly wrapped in thick cords of rope before being secured to every corner of the chaise lounge. Again Harry attempted to free himself but the ropes held firm. He could only move his torso, knees, and head which turned to watch Voldemort stalk toward him like a snake hunting its prey.

The glimpse of the other man’s own manhood was an unavoidable sight now. It protruded from the slit in his robes; thick, long and as pale as the rest of him – but red and angry at the tip. It bobbed heavily with each step taken closer and Harry’s breath became shallow with trepidation.

“That’s enough playing, Harry, I think it’s time you learned a lesson or two.”

He disappeared behind Harry who struggled even more fiercely until two hands wrapped around his hips, nails digging into the flesh of his pelvis before tugging him into a kneeling position.

There came another hum, this one more considering and pleased. “I shall enjoy ruining you, I think.”

“LET GO! GET OFF! GET OFF OF ME!!”

Harry’s protest died on a sharp inhalation of breath when a sharp stinging slap resounded against his arse.

“Silence! You can speak only when I tell you to.”

A disgusted shudder ran through Harry at the sound and feel of spit hitting his skin to slide down into the crack of his arse. He tried again to jerk forward and away from the sensation but the hold on his hips kept him still. A helpless noise left his mouth and he shut his eyes tight, muscles tensing for what was about to come.

One of the hands left his hips to slide a finger into the crack of his arse and prod at his hole. Harry drew himself up from the touch and wished for anything to take him away from this. That he could at least be rendered unconscious beforehand, or pray to be Obliviated afterward. Anything, anything…

The feel of the finger was unable to be ignored as it wormed its way inside him before sliding back out. This movement was repeated again and again, each time with another finger added until Harry was letting out a despaired whimper of breath. The noise was answered by a low rumbling laugh.

“There’s still time to make this stop, Harry, although it would certainly be regrettable as I think I’ll enjoy taking you apart far too much. Who’s to say I’d ever be able to stop?”

A waiting pause that Harry refused to fill with an answer.

Another slap – Harry heard it before the pain fully registered blooming across the tender flesh of his backside. He tugged his bottom lip into his mouth and bit down hard so as not to cry out. He’d not let this monster have anything from him. He could have his body but not his soul.

“Let’s see if those lips are loosened after I’m done with you.”

And without any more preparation or warning, the blunt head of a thick cock prodded at his entrance until the bulbous tip finally slid inside with a pop.

Harry’s breath left him with a whoosh when it didn’t stop there, and kept going until his arse pressed flush against a pelvis. He inwardly swore and prayed and cursed to every magical being and deity he could think of; anyone that could save him from this unfolding nightmare. Harry winced and bit the cushion to keep himself from screaming at the stretch and burn of such a huge thing forcing its way inside him. So deep and wide that he didn't know how it was all going to fit inside.

But it did, and Harry could feel everything from the tiny ridges to the veins that slid against his sensitive inner walls. A sharp hiss sounded as Voldemort’s hands slid up to curl around his waist. “Who knew the Chosen One would be so tight? I bet that fire inside makes you feel so warm around me too. Give a squeeze then.”

When Harry did not comply, Voldemort’s grip tightened and he began to move with abandon. He thrust without a care that Harry burned and felt like he was being ripped apart. The large girth slide in and out, pounding, slapping, and hammering into him for what felt like ages. One hand eventually moved from his waist to grab the back of his neck and shoved Harry’s face into the cushions of the chaise lounge. At this point, Harry’s whimpers turned to dry sobs uttered through clenched teeth.

Voldemort tutted in a mock show of sympathy. “Quiet, Harry, or else your friends might hear what a filthy creature you’re being for me.”

It seemed to go on forever, alternating between slow and drawn-out, to brutally hard and fast. Bitter shame flushed through Harry at the dawning fact he was hard between his legs. Disgust curled in his belly at his own biology, that there was any sort of pleasure being taken from this. He refused to acknowledge it and hoped the other man did not notice lest he discover new ammunition or encouragement from the display of weakness. But the hope was snuffed out too soon.

“I think I’ll take you on your back now,” Voldemort breathed hotly in his ear. “I want you to see exactly who is taking everything from you, Harry Potter.”

No, no, no…

The ropes loosened and Harry swung an arm out but he was too slow – too weak – and it was caught in a lazy but firm grip. Strong fingers curled around his wrist and forced his arm back to the other corner of the chaise lounge where it was rebound so that he now lay on his back, splayed bare before his torturer. Harry closed his eyes to the way those crimson-coloured eyes retraced the expanse of his naked body. Then there came that inevitable low sound of amusement again.

“My… Harry, Harry, you truly are a filthy creature, aren’t you.”

The sudden lack of air in his throat had Harry’s eyes shooting open to find a grinning face staring back at him.

“Tell me to fuck you,” Voldemort ordered, fingers squeezing until Harry’s vision blurred and his limbs strained against his restraints. After a moment the grip briefly loosened enough for Harry to get out the words: “F-fuck me,” he gasped.

“Say please.”

Harry sobbed as hot tears began to sting the corner of his eyes.

“Say it,” Voldemort hissed and his fingers gave a threatening squeeze.

“Please!” Harry panted. “Please fuck me.”

A satisfied smile curled thin pale lips and the hand was thankfully removed from around his throat. Harry took in large, relieved breaths of air as he slowly became aware of fingers pressing inside him again.

“Since you asked so nicely… But first, I think I’d like to see what it looks like for the Boy Who Lived to come on the Dark Lord’s fingers.”

Harry shook his head and with renewed vigour, began to struggle at his restraints again. The fingers were pressing, delving in deep until they pushed against something that made Harry see white.

No, please, no…

But he couldn’t control it no matter how hard he tried. His back arched as his prick jerked and shot a stream of hot, pearly white release all over his stomach. A noise that sounded more like agony than pleasure was ripped from Harry’s throat.

Almost as soon as the high had come and gone, the waves of shame crashed down on Harry again. He was hardly even aware that the fingers had been once more replaced with a cock, and that it now moved more viciously within him.

A hopeless, dry sob escaped Harry’s lips that he smothered against the cushion of the armchair before continuing to take whatever Voldemort gave him. Another round of skin-splitting blows to his arse and another volley of thrusts inside his abused arsehole which he was sure would be bleeding by now. Harry grit his teeth, shut his eyes, and rode it out. This too, he told himself, had to pass. Sooner or later, it must pass.

The conclusion of his torture did not register at first until the crush of sharp teeth dug into his shoulder and signaled Voldemort’s release inside him. Harry could only manage a weak cry in response but otherwise did not try to throw his attacker off lest more pain come from it. Once the jaw unlatched from his skin and the throbbing died down enough, the dampness of the cushions beneath Harry’s face registered as evidence of him having cried into them. He swallowed thickly and found his throat raw and broken from what he can only imagine to be from screaming.

To his captor’s shock and reluctant awe though, Harry’s mouth remained sealed shut as it had been before.

With a snarl and an abrupt withdrawal from the abused body, Voldemort gave him a choice: If Harry did not give him the information he wanted, then he'd just have to kill his friends.

He then made to leave when from some desperate, deep place inside of him, Harry had found enough strength to scream one more time.

“NO!”

And then he began to do something he never thought he would: Harry begged.

The stream of pleading from the younger man’s mouth seemed to surprise Voldemort as much as it did Harry himself, though the former had to admit it was appealing.

Yes, Voldemort thought he liked that very much.

“I suppose some agreement can be reached,” the Dark Lord mused in a false tone of consideration. “So I will give you this, Potter; their lives will be spared if, and only if, you willingly give yourself to me…”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat and his heart seemed to stop beating altogether. But it was his friends… Ron and Hermione. And he would rather die first than let anything happen to them. His gaze flickered to Dobby still lying in a small bundle in the corner of the room. The little elf’s body cooling among the shattered chandelier sprinkling the floor. Large glassy eyes stared, unseeing, at Harry who closed his own in defeat.

Harry could feel the curl of triumph echo through his scar without having to say a word.

“Such a good little hero you are. Willing to sacrifice everything for your friends… I often wonder how loyalty like that can exist.”

A moment passed where nothing happened and Voldemort snapped. “I’m waiting.”

Harry shifted sorely on the chaise lounge, realising that his restraints had been loosened. Slowly, he stood on shaky limbs and tried to ignore the trickle of blood and semen down his thigh. The ropes slipped from his wrists and ankles to drop to the floor in a curled heap like coiled snakes. Harry stepped forward gingerly, hiding the wince of pain that shot through him with every step. Voldemort watched him with gleaming, anticipatory eyes.

“That’s it, Harry, come to me…” his voice slithered in his ear. Harry was unsure whether it was aloud or in his head but at that point he didn’t care.

Once he got to Voldemort, Harry dropped to his knees and gritted his teeth at the jarring sensation in his bones and muscles.

“There we go. Open up, now. Open up nice and wide for your precious little friends’ sake.”

Harry held back another agonised noise that threatened to spill from his mouth and instead leaned forward and parted his lips to take in the long, hard flesh. Slick with the same warm liquids that dripped down his leg now.

Harry took all of him in and when he didn’t think he could take any more, Voldemort’s hand grabbed the back of his head and forced him down so that he choked on the lack of air and large intrusion at the back of his throat. Thankfully, Harry was allowed to pull back once – only to gasp in one desperate breath – before his face was forced against pubic bone again.

“Nice and deep, all the way, there we go…” Voldemort goaded. “Such a pretty mouth for fucking that I think that’s all it will be allowed to do from now on.”

Harry mentally added that he would sooner end his own life than have this happen again. And that was a promise and an oath; this would not be happening again, one way or another. The thought spurred him on and lit a fire behind his watering eyes that he turned on Voldemort as a challenge.

The look did not go unnoticed and was returned with one of wariness and suspicion. But it was clearly not enough to override the pleasure the Dark Lord was getting from Harry sucking on his cock.

Another yank on his head drove Harry down on the long, thick shaft again. Harry glared, one full of rage as his mouth bore down again and again. Voldemort’s hand still clutched painfully at his scalp and hair, making him gag and choke. His throat and lungs burned, his vision became blurred and his face numbed as spit dribbled down his chin. And when the lack of air began to make Harry light-headed and dizzy, he beat his hands against the powerful thighs, fingers digging in and hoping they'd do some damage no matter how small. But those small mercies of air were short-lived until Voldemort would jam himself back into his mouth again.

At last, it became too much and with a guttural cry from Voldemort’s mouth, hot and bitterly salty release splashed down Harry throat and flooded his tongue, almost drowning him with it all. His head jerked back and the hand holding him dropped away in its relaxed state so that he could cough all over the floor. His bare chest heaved with desperate gasps for breath.

The sight seemed to amuse Harry’s captor by the way he laughed in his cruel, taunting way.

“You have more use than originally thought,” Voldemort said, and closed his robe over himself properly again. He stood and began to retreat from the room.

“W-wait…” Harry rasped.

The footsteps halted and without turning to face him, Voldemort spoke.

“Never fear, Harry, a deal is a deal: Your friends shall remain unharmed. For now.”

In a swirl of robes and black smoke, he left, and Harry, spent and exhausted and hurting all over, hobbled over the pieces of broken chandelier, uncaring of the pain, toward Dobby. With a gentle hand, he removed the blade and closed the elf’s eyes at last so that he could appear resting.

He then turned to walk a few feet and pulled his hoodie from the pile of his clothing still left on the floor and wrapped it around his shaking shoulders. Too tired to put anything else on, he curled in on himself in front of the embers of the dying fire where he eventually let blissful nothingness claim him.

Harry woke with the immediate and terrible knowledge of where he still was and what exactly had happened. Still weak and exhausted, he also realized that he was not alone.

Voldemort sat under him on one of the armchairs, tracing his skin with misleading gentleness and watching him. He must have lifted Harry while he slept and placed him on his lap. Tears threatened to prick Harry’s eyes so he closed them to stop them from falling. With a swallow around the dull burn in his throat, he made another silent vow to never let this man see him cry.

“Not even a kiss good-morning?”

Harry simply stared and Voldemort continued: “I must confess I’ve never known what it felt like to be kissed. Something tells me that there must be something remarkable about it going by how authors, poets, and musicians alike will dedicate their work to it.”

The cold fingers reached up to touch Harry’s cheek who flinched.

“Kiss me,” Came the order, and Harry, dead-eyed and for all the world appearing like he had given up, pulled himself into a sitting position to lean in and press still lips to Voldemort's thin, cold ones before pulling away again.

Unsatisfied by the lack of enthusiasm, Voldemort roughly yanked Harry against him again as fingers tugged hard at his hair and dug painfully into his tender scalp. He crashed their lips together in a bruising, possessive kiss. Teeth bit and a tongue pushed for dominance into the wet heat of Harry’s mouth who had no other choice but to open up to him.

After some moments, Voldemort pulled away and his customary vicious smile was on his lips again.

“You know, I don’t think I want anything out of you anymore. You can take the old fool’s words to the grave for all I care, for I’ve a far better use for you now anyway.”

His smile was gleaming and mad, holding the promise of a lifetime of hell and pain. But it was a promise Harry would not let him keep.

In a flash of silver, Bellatrix’s dagger appeared from the pocket of his hoodie to sink into Voldemort’s right shoulder with too much ease.

The older man hardly had time to register what happened so the resulting cry of shock was delayed. Within that split second before he went to grab his wand, Harry hesitated – The rising wave of panic and horror of his own action began to creep up on him. But in the next instant he had smothered it with a greater sense of urgency.

Harry did not spare another second to think before he thrust the knife into Voldemort once more. This time the body beneath him jerked violently and there was a clatter of what must be Voldemort’s wand dropping to the floor. Harry did not pause or stop this time; he repeated the action again and again until the once-strong hands that reached up to try stop him were too weak and fell to the side, limp and useless as the dagger kept spearing into the body of Harry’s torturer.

No sound but that of Harry’s harsh pants and the dull, wet thuds of a knife hitting a lifeless body could be heard in the purple-walled drawing room of Malfoy manor.

Harry scrambled off the armchair the moment he realized he’d done enough. The body was not moving anymore. He was safe, he was safe…

But for the longest time he just sat on the floor and stared, alternating looks between his bloodied hands and the mess that was left of his enemy. His hands were shaking and his heart pounded in his ears.

Voldemort… was dead.

The revelation shook Harry to the core and he could not stop shaking even as he slowly dressed himself back into his old clothes again. With one last glance at the dripping blade discarded on the floor, Harry left for the dungeons below.

Ron and Hermoine shared looks of relief and nervousness when they saw him. But they froze the moment he opened the gate and fully witnessed the state he was in; covered head to foot in what could only be blood. In frantic voices they asked if he were all right but Harry found he could not truthfully answer the question just now. A wave of something monstrous and dark simmered beneath the surface of his mind and it took him everything he had to keep it there, locked tight until they could leave this damned place.

“Harry?”

“Come on, we haven't got much time.”

Both his friends were still looking at him though; at the shut off look in his eyes and expression. He wished they would stop. He was trying so hard...

“What about Voldemort?” Ron asked.

“Dead, for now.”

Stunned silence followed the statement and Harry could see the moment they pieced it together; from his blood-stained person to his sudden freedom. Hermione and Ron exchanged another look but they did not have much time before the Malfoys and Bellatrix realized something was wrong.

They finally crept out of the dungeons, Griphook in tow, and Disapparated from the hall. Just in time to hear the beginnings of a familiar, vengeful and despair-filled shriek echo through the manor.

As the gut-wrenching jerk of Apparition took hold, Harry gripped the twin of his phoenix feather wand in a tight fist. They still had a few horcruxes to kill, after all, lest the corpse came back to life again.

#harrymort #tomarrydarkspringexchange #thelightningsoul #title taken from the song 'o death' by shakey graves #that song is 10/10 would recommend #also this was way too long to put in a post wasn't it #//orz #m: writing #harrymort prompts

21 notes · View notes