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valuedabovehoardedgold · 3 years

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Friction part 1

Pairing: Karl Heisenberg x Female Reader

Warnings: Blood, Violence, Abduction, Groping, Non-consensual touching, imprisonment, Slight choking, Collar, Dry Humping

Word count: 1,225

Rating: Mature (minors DO NOT INTERACT)

Summary: Your friends and you make a massive mistake in your adventure. Deciding to rest at the inn located in the infamous village, you’re all captured and taken to the four lords. Where you unintentionally capture the attention of Lord Heisenberg. Who has plans for you.

(this is a darker fic, if that isn’t your cup of tea please feel free to ignore)

I want her.

The words that lead to your current predicament. Chained to the dirty factory floor of some backwoods plant, your friends scattered to the wind. Your hope of escaping diminishing second by precious second.

It's the sound of metal grinding against metal that rouses you. Besides a small overhead beam of light that blinds you, you can't make out much. Your throat hurts, and upon further inspection, your fingers brush against the cold rusted surface of a collar. You also find that your wrists are bound as well. A rusted chain reflecting dully in the light shackling you to the floor. It jolts you from your half-awake daze, and panic settles in.

Fuck.

Nothing is familiar, and the last thing you can recall is the musty-smelling bed you were about to sleep in for the night. But that's beside the point; now your focus is on your pounding head and aching body. Memories slowly fade back, going on a trip with friends, stopping at the creepy inn as the sun set behind the snow-capped mountains. Then-then, everything stops after the inn. Though, you're not able to place why.

Shadowing your eyes from light helps with the throbbing and makes the blurred room if only a little more focused. That's when your eyes catch it, movement. Miniscule amongst the darkness but your eyes latch onto it, someone is here with you, and that terrifies you more than the thought of being alone.

"Ah! Our guest is awake," the voice is familiar, and it sends a mixture of fear and curiosity coursing through you. A shadow, hunched over something, on a beat-up desk, the scattering of papers signals that whoever it is has turned to face you.

"What's the matter, sweetie? Bat got your tongue?"

Your tongue refuses to cooperate for a moment; your mouth feels like sandpaper, but you manage to croak out.

"Where am I?"

Your throat burns with every syllable, your lips crack with every word. It's been a while since you've had water.

How long had you been out?

The figure doesn't answer but draws closer to your light. You wish it wouldn't, it's a childish thought, but maybe in the light, you're safe. But no the figure enters the beam and it hits you. The inn, your friends' screams. Rushing out of your room to help, pain, and then darkness. The throb in your head makes sense now.

"Name's Heisenberg. But let's leave the questions to me, alright?"

He's massive standing before you his shadow engulfs you. He looks like some sort of doomsday prepper. Wearing a wrinkled hat the brim shadowing his face, sunglasses, and a tan trench coat. You feel yourself shrinking to the floor terrified of him, he hasn't made a hostile move toward you but he has the power to do whatever he wants with you. That sets your heart racing as he watches you in silence for a moment.

"Now, let's get a better look at you," he states and stands there for a few moments, and you're left confused.

"Do I have to spell it out, sweetheart?"

Again your blink up at the strange man before you, he's deranged, he must be... He huffs throwing his head back, like a child being denied something, before the metal collar around your throat tugs painfully up. The edge of it digs into the soft flesh as you're forced to stand. You panic like a wild dog in a trap, fighting the pull, but it does nothing to stop the collar forcing you to stand.

Your vision swims as the collar forces your head back; you feel like a trussed-up trophy. Left balancing on your tiptoes as he walks around you, appraising the body on display before him. You feel his eyes taking you in, shorts, and a ratty tank top the only barrier between your flesh and his hungry eyes. The clothing leaves nothing to the imagination as he stands behind you. You can feel the skin bruising where the collar cuts into flesh, biting your lip as he closes the distance between you two.

"Now I see why the super-bitch wanted you so badly."

It's rumbled into your ear another shiver races down your limbs, another memory surfaces, after the inn.

Waking up in a chapel the stone foundation freezing against your skin. Your friends bound, and someone--something argues for each of you. A towering woman sitting in a pastor’s chair. Arguing for all the women in the group to go to her. Her yellow eyes shining in the dim lighting as she takes in your whimpering friend.

You lean against your friend in a small attempt at comfort. She hides her face against your arm. Her sobs becoming louder, as the conversation continues. The group before you bickering about you and your friends as if you’re livestock to be doled out to the highest bidder.

I want her.

The memory fades as he presses himself to your back. Your heart stops your fingers grasping at the taunt chain holding you hostage.

How is he doing this?

Your panicked thoughts don't help as hands grasp at your hips, yanking you closer to him. You bite your cheek to stop a yelp from leaving you. You will not give him the satisfaction of hearing your fear. His nose presses into your hair. He takes a deep sniff nuzzling deep into your tresses; the growl he makes sends shivers creeping down your spine.

"Hmmm, it has been...awhile."

He mutters into your hair as his right hand slips forward cradling your abdomen, his left keeping your hips pinned against his. Grinding himself against you, and it feels... fuck it feels good. It had been too long since your last...You are seriously considering this? You got hit hard on the head, this must be some sort of trauma reaction.

It's how you try to rationalize the way your body reacts to him. Your core throbbing as warmth settles into your stomach. You close your eyes and another memory slithers its way to the forefront of your thoughts.

He kneels observing each of you, his scarred lip pulling into a smirk. The friend he's closest to squirms away, pulling on his bindings as he does so. As you feel his gaze land on you, a stupid part of you meets his gaze, daring him to do whatever his fucked up mind could think of. You're bruised, bloodied, and pissed. Right now you're hoping your bravado gets his attention off your friend shivering beside you, barely holding back her sobs. He stands heading back to his makeshift throne, but his gaze lingers on you the rest of the time. As his fingertips stroke along the handle of the wicked-looking hammer beside him. You've made a critical mistake, you just don't realize it yet.

You'd sealed your fate to him the second you'd challenged him. In your naivete, you all but condemned your friends to their demises, each one doled out to the different lords. Each one...mostly likely dead or being tortured in some horrid way. It feels like a sick cosmic joke, and yet here you are forgetting those very friends you tried to save in favor of the man who is dry humping you like a dog in heat...And you're enjoying it.

Heisenberg didn't want to end you though, no he liked the spark behind your eyes. Liked the way you refused to be caught, he'd even witnessed you take down a few of the lycans. You're a fighter.

"You're gonna be fun," he chuckles with a final grind against your backside. The sensation leaving you gasping as the collar goes lax and you drop to the floor. Biting back a whine of pain; knees scraping against the concrete floor, and your hands taking the brunt of the fall.

Heisenberg smirks above you, fingers tilting your chin up to face him.

"Be good now sweetheart, I've got some...things to work on."

With that, he's disappearing into the dark. Leaving you to consider your options...Make nice with him. Or figure a way out.

#karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg imagine #karl heisenberg x you #resident evil 8 #resident evil village #resident evil 8 imagine #resident evil village imagine #karl heisenberg x female reader #this is a dark fic so please feel free to ignore #just trying my hand at writing him #let me know what you think!

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years

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Built on a Lie

Prompt: I like the possible idea of Janus being a absolutely crushed to find Roman bleeding out due to a bruised ego in his room after pof was uploaded. After all most Sander Sides Fans hated Roman after he mocked Janus's Name.

Thanks for the prompt, babe! I hope it’s what you wanted!

Read on Ao3

Pairings: arguably roceit i guess??? it’s just focused on them, can be platonic or romantic if you want. same with LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR

Warnings: sympathitic janus even if it might not seem like it, sympathetic feral protective remus, roman is a hurt boi

Word Count: 5010

The wedding is tough.

After the wedding is an ordeal.

After after the wedding…hurts.

The Mindscape is all but deserted. No one wants to come out to the common areas for risk of running into someone who they had…disagreements with or getting swept up in a painfully awkward conversation. Patton lingers in the kitchen, Virgil almost never opens his door, Logan works, and Remus, well…Remus is the only one still behaving as normal.

Janus is grateful for his consistency.

In all honesty, and oh, the irony, he doesn’t enjoy this. He doesn’t enjoy the others walking on eggshells constantly, nor does he thrill at how they seem to jump at everyone, not just him. His point was made. That is his job.

But he’s not so sure he fully anticipated the cost.

At the very least, Logan seems to get over their troubles first. He approaches Janus a few days after the wedding and offers one of his philosophy books. Janus accepts it gratefully and by the time he’s finished it, Logan starts talking again. It’s not the greatest thing for the Mindscape that Logan is willing to talk to the others again.

Patton comes around next, simply because he’s the kindest. Janus pities him a little for it. But sure enough, the common areas start to ring again, drawing Remus out from the depths to cause his chaos.

Virgil appears next, summoned by the repeated calling of Remus’s antics and Janus’s exasperation. And sometimes, well, sometimes it seems like they’re back in their hallway, with Patton and Logan looking on with the air of some bemused anthropologists.

All the Sides reemerge and start trying to figure out what’s going on except for Roman.

Roman is nowhere to be found.

“He…he just needs some more time, I’m sure.”

“Roman is prone to fits of dramatics. It is unsurprising that he chooses to have a repeat performance.”

“Princey’s a bit of an asshole, it’s gonna take him a while to own up to what he did.”

“Catch!”

Janus grunts and staggers under Remus’s weight, eventually getting them both with their feet back under them on the floor. He adjusts his hat and looks disapprovingly at the amount of slime Remus has managed to get all over himself.

“What were you even doing?”

“Exploring the precise relationship of viscera to ventricles inside the heart of a blue whale!” Remus shakes his sleeve. “They lied about how bit the veins and arteries are.”

“How did you—nevermind,” Janus sighs, “I don’t want to know. Now, will you answer my question or not?”

Remus shrugs. “Dunno. Not paying attention.”

“…Roman’s not or you’re not?”

“I’m not!” He flicks some slime at Janus’s hat. “But you should be!”

“Yes, well, when slime starts to emerge from every corner again, I’ll chase you down.”

“Ooh, promises, promises.”

Janus doesn’t hurl some of the slime at Remus as he sinks out.

Roman still hasn’t appeared and the others are starting to notice. Thomas isn’t exactly in a position to do a whole lot of things, but at the very least he’s not doing what he perhaps should have been capable of. Logan notices and at first, chalks it up to the fact that they are in a pandemic; lapses in peak physical and mental performance are not unexpected, but it quickly becomes clear that it’s a little more than that.

The Mindscape grows dimmer, more sluggish. Thomas doesn’t seem to want to do much of anything, let alone work.

“I don’t understand,” Patton mumbles one afternoon when they meet—sans Roman—to try and figure out what’s going on, “I know I’m having a few—um, it’s not Thomas’s feelings that are causing us problems.”

Janus doesn’t make a note of how Virgil quickly presses his arm against Patton’s shoulder.

“There are certain things that are to be expected under times of great stress,” Logan muses, “and certainly any pre-existing problems will be exacerbated, but…this was not anticipated.”

Remus cranks the chainsaw and sets about carving up a new slice of…whatever he’s working on. “We’re in a pandemic, Spectacles!”

“I am wildly aware.”

Virgil stares at the chainsaw—which is fair—then up to Remus. “You ever been in a pandemic before, Remus?”

“Nope!”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Okay, so that makes sense. But L’s right, this feels…weird. Like we’re missing something pretty big.”

In unison, they all look towards Roman’s seat.

The room falls as quiet as it can with Remus’s chainsaw still in the background.

The big, red, overstuffed armchair looks…different, without Roman lounging in it. The blinds aren’t drawn but it looks like the coloring has faded significantly, as though it’s been out in the sun for far too long. The seams look as though they’re struggling and there’s a dark imprint on one of the arms.

It’s not a shock to Janus to discover he’s never really looked at the chair before.

“Has anyone heard from Roman,” Logan asks quietly, “since the wedding?”

Virgil shakes his head, glancing around. Patton looks down at his chest.

“You think this is Roman.” It’s not a question.

“HIs tantrums do not normally last for this long,” Logan continues, adjusting his tie, “and whilst I admit that perhaps our circumstances have contributed more than I anticipated, I do not believe that is how Roman feels.”

“Princey has been away for a really long time.”

“Thomas is starting to get hurt by it,” Patton mumbles, laying a hand on his chest, “I can—I’m starting to feel it a little.”

“So we need to get Princey’s head out of his ass again.”

Logan sighs. “Most likely.”

“I didn’t want to rush it,” Patton says, glancing at Janus, “but you guys are right. I think he’s being selfish now.”

At the word ‘selfish,’ Remus freezes.

The chainsaw splutters and dies to the floor with a heavy clunk.

“Remus,” Patton scolds, “be careful with the…”

He trails off when he notices what the rest of them have.

Remus is standing completely still—an impossibility for Remus—his head tilted back, eyes fixed on a point in the ceiling. His nose quivers, almost like a bloodhound.

His nose twitches.

His lip curls up into a snarl.

His morning star appears in his hand with a growl as he tears off toward the stairs.

“Remus? Remus!”

“Wait!”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Remus!”

Janus closes his eyes, reaching out to see if he can tell where Remus is going. His eyes shoot open.

“Roman’s room. Now.”

Virgil grabs Logan and Patton and sinks out.

Janus tries to appear in Roman’s room only to hit something burning cold. He hisses and flinches away from it, only to realize that he hasn’t materialized properly and is stuck. The burning cold reaches further, further, into his scales, digging under them, until Janus yanks himself away and appears, panting, in the hallway outside Roman’s door.

Virgil appears too, still holding the others. “What the fuck was that?”

“Did he block us out?”

“None of us have the ability to do that, other than Thomas.”

“Did he get Thomas to block us out?”

“I don’t know!”

A loud crash jerks their attention to Remus. He raises his morning star again and drives the spikes deep into the bright red of Roman’s door.

…that isn’t nearly as bright as it should be.

Remus snarls again and wails against the door. The wood starts to creak and buckle under the onslaught. He hefts the weapon again and shatters the door with a thunderous crack.

The morning star is hastily flung aside as Remus claws at the splintered wood, yanking it away from the hole he’s made.

The door groans and yields.

Remus rushes through, Virgil on his heels. Patton and Logan attempt to follow only to run smack into both of them.

“Why’d you stop, kiddos, we can’t—“

��Let us through, why did you—“

When those two fight their way through and into silence, Janus sighs and gingerly steps through, nudging Logan and Virgil aside to look at what’s got them so shocked. Roman in the middle of a sobbing mess of tissues, probably, or an empty room signifying he’s gone off on some quest in the Imagination, or even a pouting Roman glaring at them for ruining his door.

He gets around Virgil’s shoulder and his blood runs cold. Burning cold.

If they weren’t in Roman’s room, he’s not sure he’d be able to recognize this as Roman.

His pristine white costume is stained an ugly brown. The gold trimmings fall limply off, hating on by barely a thread. His hair sticks to the floor in horrid, matted clumps. His hands are speckled and stained with more blood, some congealed and crusted from the puddle on the floor. His legs bend at awkward and uncomfortable angles. One of his arms is stretched away from, reaching for something.

Or anything.

They dare not move. They dare hardly breathe.

Remus takes a step forward. Then another. Then another. He circles the body on the floor, not caring about stepping in the blood, crouching down on the far side. His face is drawn, paler than Janus has ever seen it go, he looks sick.

If…if Remus looks this bad—

Remus looks up at the others. His face darkens.

“Explain,” he whispers, his voice low and soft and dangerous, “now.”

No one can find words to even try.

When no one says anything, Remus crouches down and, with a tenderness that shocks Janus, lays his hand on Roman’s side.

“Roman,” he whispers, almost inaudibly, “Roman, can you hear me?”

“...Re?”

“Yeah, Ro-Bro, it’s—it’s me.”

“Wha’re you…here?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Remus growls, looking up at them again, “maybe no one was.”

“’S fine.”

“Roman, it is about the furthest from fine that it could be.”

“…’ve had worse.”

“…okay I was wrong. That is the furthest from fine it could be.”

Judging by the way Roman’s body slumps, his eyes must fall closed again. “You c’n go. D’n’t have to stay.”

“Not on your life.”

“’S fine, Re,” Roman slurs, “the others will…wonder where you are.”

Remus stiffens. His hand tenses on Roman’s side.

“No,” he says softly, “they won’t.”

Roman twitches, his head rolling up. “‘M sorry, Re.”

“What the absolute fuck are you apologizing to me for?”

“Thought they’d…care.” Roman’s head waivers and drop back down. “‘Bout you.”

Patton can’t stifle his whimper.

Roman twitches again. “Wha…”

“They’re not gonna wonder where I am,” Remus growls, “because they’re here.”

Roman’s going to panic. He’s going to freak out and they’ll have to reassure him. Or Roman’s going to be angry and they’ll have to stop him from hurting himself. Or he won’t believe Remus and that…that might be the worst.

…Janus should really stop thinking that.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’re they here, Re,” Roman mumbles, his body sagging to the floor again, “‘m I late for s’mething?”

Remus snarls and Roman flinches.

“Don’ be mad, Re, please, ‘m sorry—“

“I’m not mad at you, Roman.”

“But you’re mad.”

“No.” Remus stares at them, his voice still even and soft. “I’m enraged.”

Before they can say anything, Roman hisses and jerks. Remus’s hands instantly flit to Roman, searching for whatever’s hurt him.

“What’s happening, Ro,” he growls, “whose ass do I need to kick?”

“You can’t,” Roman wheezes, “can’ stop it.”

“The hell I can.”

“No, you—you actually can’t,” Roman says, reaching for Remus’s hand, “help—help me sit up?”

“Ro, you’re—I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“’S fine.”

“I don’t think it is!”

“Please?”

Remus sighs, gingerly wrapping his arms around Roman’s bruised and bloody body. “Come on then.”

Roman’s costume clings to the floor and his back as they sit up, the stain darkening and drying on the belly of his tunic. His head lolls against Remus’s chest, breathing heavily for a moment before he finally looks up.

Oh, his face…

It’s an absolute mess. Blood and salt and other things Janus couldn’t hope to figure out cling to every scrap of skin they can as he squints at them.

“You broke my door.”

“You were in trouble,” Remus replies easily, hoisting Roman to sit properly.

Roman sighs, his breath rattling. “Did I miss a meeting?”

“We…” Logan swallows. “We just came from one.”

“Oh.” Roman closes his eyes. “I’ll…gimme a minute, I’ll—“

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“I gotta do the meeting, Re.”

“The hell you do.”

“You—you don’t have to worry about the meeting, Roman,” Logan says firmly, taking a step closer, “we—what happened to you?”

“What d’you mean?”

“What does he mean?” Virgil explodes. “Roman, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Roman hisses again. “Don’ have to shout, Virgil.”

“Of fucking course I have to shout! Look at you!”

“I believe that might be more of a reason not to shout,” Logan says quietly. Virgil huffs, balling his hands up into fists.

“What the fuck happened, Roman,” Virgil repeats, “and don’t pretend like you don’t know what we’re talking about.”

Roman sighs again, something whistling, what happened to him?—and sits up away from Remus. “I can’ shout, come closer.”

Logan and Virgil immediately walk forward, crouching down a respectful distance away. Patton takes a moment longer, creeping forward and reaching out a trembling hand toward Roman.

“K-kiddo,” he mumbles, “I’m so—so sorry, I didn’t know—“

“’S okay,” Roman slurs, leaning back against Remus, “’s okay, Pat.”

“Patton?” Logan turns. “What do you know?”

“Yeah, Patton,” Remus growls, “why don’t you tell us.”

Patton shrinks back. “I—I—“

“Shh,” Roman mumbles, clumsily patting Remus’s hand, “don’ do that, ’s okay.”

“No, Roman, it’s not.”

“...kiddo?”

Roman nods.

Patton takes a deep breath. “You guys know that—how Roman gets hurt sometimes when Thomas does something that, uh, doesn’t turn out great?”

“We all get hurt, Pat,” Virgil says, “that doesn’t explain this.”

As if on cue, Roman hisses again.

“No, no, Virgil,” Patton mumbles, “it’s—Roman’s the only one who gets physically hurt when this stuff happens.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he looks at Roman’s injuries. “Of course…”

Despite everything, Roman smiles tiredly up at him. “Figure it out?”

“You’re the Ego,” Logan mumbles, “and thus it follows that you would get…bruised.”

“Wait, that’s a literal thing?”

“Apparently so.”

“Jeez, Princey,” Virgil mumbles, “you coulda told me.”

“You were busy, didn’t wanna give you anything else to worry ‘bout.”

“That’s not—Roman—“

“But Thomas has been inside,” Logan interjects quickly, “alone, he hasn’t—we haven’t done anything since the pandemic began.”

“It’s a pandemic, Lo,” Roman says, “no one’s doing much of anything…besides staying inside, reading things, watching things…”

“So how is this happening to you, Roman,” Patton says, wringing his hands, “what—what’s doing this to Thomas?”

“Fuck,” Virgil says, burying his hands in his hair, “Princey has this been happening to you since the wedding?”

“Mm,” Roman hums, leaning heavily against Remus.

“People are watching the video,” Logan whispers, “and they’re—well, they’re talking about it.”

“Are they—are they still saying Thomas should’ve…” Paton gulps. “Done something different?”

Logan shakes his head. “I’m sure they are but Thomas…Thomas hasn’t been looking at the comments from the video, not really. Virgil and I have specifically told him not to.”

“So then why is Thomas still being hurt by it? Why are people still attacking Thomas?”

“Not—“ their heads all jerk around to look at Roman— “not Thomas.”

He waves a hand at himself.

“Wouldn’t be like this if it were them attacking Thomas.”

“Then what—“

“They’re attacking you?” Virgil’s eyes go wide as they scan over Roman’s injuries. “Directly?”

“Mm.”

“Oh, kiddo—“

“Princey, what the hell—“

“Why didn’t you tell us? We could’ve—“

“What for?”

In response, Roman’s eyes raise slowly, and look at Janus.

Everyone else follows, looking back toward the door, realizing that Janus hadn’t moved closer with the rest of them.

Roman’s gaze isn’t cold, but it makes him feel cold.

Oh.

Oh, no.

“My name,” Janus breathes, “it’s…they’re mad at you because of me.”

“Told you,” Roman slurs as his eyes close again, “gotta come closer. Can’ shout like this.”

Janus swallows heavily, his throat dry, clutching his cloak tightly around him as he edges closer. Roman mumbles to himself until Janus is close enough to hear him.

“There we go…” He cracks a bloodied eye open. “You’re right. They’re angry at me. Rightfully so, but…yeah.”

“Because you made fun of my name?”

They all rush forward as Roman keens, his hand flying to his gut and hissing.

“Fuck, Princey, is it—is it still happening?”

“Mhm.”

“How do we—how do we stop it?”

“Can’t,” Roman mumbles, “wasn’t lying. Nothing you can do. Not until it’s over.”

“It’s been ages since the wedding, Roman, how much longer is this going to go on?”

Roman makes a vague noise of ‘I don’t know.’

“But—but—“ Logan looks frantically back and forth between them— “surely they can’t all be angry at you, that would be—“

“They’re not,” Roman mumbles, “not all of them, but it’s—it’s most of them.”

“How is that possible?”

“Some of them really don’t like me—“ Roman hisses again— “some of them really like J-Janus or Remus or…or Logan, or Patton—“

“What?”

“What does that have to do with—“

“And some of them just think that it’s—what I did was—“ Roman stifles a whimper, biting his lip— “really bad.”

“But then why…why aren’t the rest of us being affected like this?”

“You’re not the Ego.”

Remus snarls again as Roman jerks, a new bruise blooming on the underside of his neck.

“…ow.”

“We have to get you cleaned up,” Logan mutters shakily, trying to stand.

“Not much point right now,” Roman sighs, absentmindedly nuzzling into Remus, who tightens his grip protectively around Roman, “‘m just gonna get all messy again.”

“Not if we stay with you,” Logan promises, “not if we help.”

“…don’ have to.”

“What the hell are you—“ Virgil shakes his head. “Of course, we’re gonna help you, Roman.”

Roman just looks at them and closes his eyes.

“Ro—kiddo,” Patton says, reaching out for him, “why don’t you believe us?”

“You haven’t exactly…done that before.”

“We didn’t know!”

“You did.”

Patton’s retort dies in his throat. He looks desperately around for something, anything—

Janus is in shock.

Roman…oh, Roman…Janus knew Roman was the Ego, but he didn’t—he hadn’t—

Fuck, were the bruises from what he said still there? Not—not just that awful, awful thing about comparing Roman to Remus, but…from before?

How many times had Janus hurt Roman…and hadn’t cared?

“…I’m sorry, Roman,” Logan murmurs, breaking the silence, “will you let me help now?”

Roman looks up at him. “I’ve been awful to you,” he mumbles, “you don’—don’ have to apologize.”

“Yes, I do,” Logan says, “because you’ve been wonderful to me too…and I am not blameless in this either.”

“But they don’t know that.”

“I do,” Logan says firmly, “and they will.”

The smallest smile tugs at the corners of Roman’s mouth as Logan stands up to go fetch the first aid kit.

“Princey, I—Roman,” Virgil stammers, “fuck, you—oh my god—“

“I’ve been awful to you too, Virgil.”

“And I’ve been fucking worse right back!” Virgil squeezes his hands tight. “And I—you’re the only one who gets yelled at for it. Fuck, I’m—I’m so fucking sorry, I’m gonna—can I help too?”

“…if you want.”

“I’m gonna go help Logan get the shit,” Virgil mutters, getting to his feet and tearing out after Logan.

“…oh, kiddo…”

Patton’s eyes begin to tear up.

“I thought—I thought you needed more time—“

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Pat,” Roman manages, “it’s not fun, trust me.”

Patton’s laugh comes out more like a sob.

“I won’t hold it against you, and you can—“ Roman hisses again— “help if you want.”

“Do you think you can drink something?”

“…I’ll try.”

Patton’s gone in a flash.

Janus looks at Remus. Remus glares at him and pulls Roman closer.

“…we should…try and get some of that off,” Janus tries, “so we can see what, um…”

Remus’s stony silence as Roman starts to drift again cuts off Janus’s words.

“…Remus…”

“You are very, very lucky,” Remus whispers, cutting him off, “that I’m not about to leave my brother’s side for a long time.”

Janus nods.

“Start on the buttons,” Remus says, “at his wrists. I’m not sure how much of this we can save.”

He immediately sets to work, trying to communicate how sorry, sorry, sorry he is with every gentle brush of his fingers against Roman’s skin. Remus summons something for them to lean Roman against as they start to gingerly remove the tunic. It’s worse than Janus thought.

Roman is one big pulsing wound, little nicks here and there and varying shades of purple, red, green, yellow, all coming from one massive sore in the center of him. As they watch, more injuries appear, little bruises that make his breath hitch, and occasionally a small swipe along his ribs. As Janus works the cuff over his wrist, one of his fingers blackens and swells as it breaks.

“Oh, Roman…”

“Sit up, Ro,” Remus whispers tenderly, peeling and unsticking the tunic from his back, “okay, there we go. Are most of them…up here?”

“They all look to be coming from…that,” Janus says, indicating the giant wound, “so…”

And indeed, as they watch, Roman keens again and the wound deepens, more blood beginning to trickle out.

“Are all of these—“ Janus indicates the injuries littering Roman’s body— “comments?”

“Mm.”

“Then what—why is this one…?”

Roman’s eyes drift closed and his head lolls back.

“’Oh, Roman, thank god you don't have a mustache.”

No.

“’Otherwise, between you and Remus—‘” Roman winces as the wound digs deeper— “‘I wouldn't know who the evil twin is.’”

…no…

Janus reaches out a trembling hand and lays it next to the wound. It’s…it’s warm under his touch but…wrong.

A snarl jerks his hand back and he looks up to see Remus glaring at him.

“Remus—“

“Save it.” Remus glances toward the door. “The others will be back in a moment anyway.”

Sure enough, Logan and Virgil bust through the broken door, their hands full. Logan immediately sweeps his gaze over Roman and kneels down, reaching out.

“May I touch you, Roman?”

“Mm.”

“Thank you.” Logan slots a hand gently behind Roman’s hand. “We’re going to try and get the blood off of you first, alright?”

“Mm.”

“This might sting,” Logan cautions, starting to rub an antiseptic towel down Roman’s arm, “my apologies.”

Virgil takes another one and carefully cleans Roman’s other arm, mindful of his broken finger. As they work, Patton reappears, holding a bottle of water and a glass of juice.

“Come on, kiddo,” he says softly, taking Logan’s place behind Roman’s head, “drink this for me?”

Roman manages a few sips of each.

“Good job, kiddo, there you go…” Patton glances down. “Does it seem to be stopping at all?”

As if it can hear him, the wound starts to bleed again.

“Oh, Roman…”

Logan glances between the wound and Janus, his brow furrowed.

Please, Logan, for once…don’t be so smart.

The way Logan’s eyes widen and narrow say that it’s too late.

“This one seems to be the origin,” Logan says instead, turning away, “all the others seem to stem from it.”

“Okay,” Virgil mutters, “so what’s that one?”

Janus’s mouth runs dry as Logan turns to him expectantly.

“Well,” Remus growls, “go on.”

“I don’t—what if it just makes it worse?”

“That didn’t stop you before.”

“I didn’t—“

“Oh, shut up,” Remus cuts him off, “you knew. You knew.”

“Remus—“

“You wanna know how I know that?” Remus draws away from Roman just enough to clench his fists. “Because I found you after the wedding. You were all curled up on the floor and you were so upset.”

Roman stirs. “…Re…”

“And I asked you why, and you said it was because Roman made fun of your name,” Remus continues, “and I thought: ‘huh, that feels a little weird. Where have I heard that before?’”

Patton shrinks out of Remus’s line of sight.

“Then I remembered! The courtroom,” Remus continues, a manic smile on his face, “and your little plan to make sure Roman felt like he had no idea what was going on.”

“…J, what is he talking about?”

“Oh, he’s not going to tell you,” Remus says, “but I will.”

“Remus—“

“You said that you knew Roman,” Remus says, talking right over him, “and you knew that if you pushed him in the right direction, you’d be able to get him to listen to you easily.”

Even Logan pauses.

“Do you remember what you said, Janny?” Remus’s eyes bore into Janus’s mind. “Do you?”

“…Remus, please.”

Remus’s grin drops.

“You said,” he whispers, “that if you just fucked with his name, he’d be in the palm of your hand.”

And he was.

"Conveniently, everyone seems to have forgotten that. Forgotten what you did. Or they don't care."

Remus tightens his grip on Roman.

"But not me."

Guilt presses hot and thick against Janus’s throat. Unbidden, huge, fat tears start to form in his eyes as he stares at the wound on Roman’s gasping chest. Distantly, he thinks he can hear the others muttering but all he can think about is how much of this is a lie.

Roman isn’t the evil twin.

Roman isn’t Remus.

Roman isn’t stupid.

Roman isn’t worthless.

Roman isn’t a toy or a puppet or a tool.

Roman isn’t selfish or greedy or arrogant.

Roman is hurt and scared and Janus is so, so sorry.

He lets out a growl of his own and presses his hand hard to the wound.

Lie. Lie.

This is a lie.

Truth is hard and unyielding and painful but nothing is more painful than knowing that all of this is built on a lie.

Janus grits his teeth and concentrates, his hands trembling as he presses it against the wound, searching, searching for—

There.

He closes his fist around the lie and yanks, pulling the words and the hurt and the ache out of Roman’s chest in a bright flash.

When it’s gone, Roman’s chest is heaving, bruises still littering his torso, but the big wound is nowhere to be seen.

Panting, Janus clenches his fist until the lie shatters into pieces, the shard disappearing into harmless puffs of air.

He looks back.

Logan and Patton are staring at him open-mouthed. Virgil has his hands bunched up in his hoodie. Remus just stares at him, his face unreadable.

And Roman…

Roman looks up at him, panting too, but it doesn’t feel quite so wrong anymore.

“I can’t promise that this one won’t hurt you ever anymore,” he vows, “but I can promise that it will never have that much power again.”

Roman reaches out a hand. Janus lets him pull him closer.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

Janus huffs. “I can also promise that you’re not nearly as sorry as I am.”

They let their eyes fall closed as Janus’s hands steady Roman, landing lightly on his sides and just resting there. Roman tips forward and his forehead lands against Janus’s.

For a second, the room just breathes.

“Can we clean you up,” Janus whispers, “the rest of the way?”

“L-Logan?”

“I’m right here, Roman,” Logan says instantly, “what do you need?”

“Can I—wanna sleep.”

“I don’t think you’ve got a concussion, so that should be alright…” Logan glances at Patton. “Let’s have you drink a little more and then you can rest, hmm?”

“Okay.”

“Come on, kiddo,” Patton coaxes, “here we go…”

As Virgil and Logan set about cleaning again, Janus runs his hands slowly over every injury he can, plucking out what little lies there are and sending them away. He can tell by the weight of Remus’s stare on him that he’s not in the clear yet, but the way Roman starts to sag slowly makes it easier.

“Alright,” Logan murmurs after a while, “I think that’s all we can do.”

“…sleep?”

“Yes, Roman, you can sleep now. Would you like us to help you to your bed?”

Roman blinks, his hand reaching out for— “Re?”

“I gotcha, Ro-Bro.”

“Re…” Roman mumbles sleepily as he all but collapses into Remus.

“…yeah I’m okay with that.”

Logan jerks his head towards Roman’s mattress. Together, they drag it down to the floor and help Remus get Roman onto it. Logan murmurs that he’s going to go put the first aid kit away, but that he’ll be right back. Patton gathers up the glasses and leaves with the same promise.

Virgil glances back and forth between Remus and Janus.

“…you guys remember that this is about what Roman needs, right?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay good.”

Virgil reaches out to brush a little of Roman’s hair out of his face.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I.”

Logan and Patton reappear at the door and slot themselves in around the mattress. Remus looks at Janus.

Janus deliberately sits between Roman and the door, something he’s seen Remus do too many times.

Remus nods.

This conversation is far from over, but right now…

Right now, Roman mumbles sleepily and grabs onto Remus’s sleeve.

There is truly so much that they never see, isn’t there? Logan wasn’t wrong, the amount of Roman that’s never been on camera is truly staggering.

Janus has let that lie of omission cause too much damage for too long.

Right now, he’s got work to do.

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poptod · 3 years

Note

hello! i'd like to make an ahkmenrah x reader request! maybe present-day reader gets teleported back in time to when ahkmenrah was alive and they eventually get to the palace and stuff happens? maybe they tell him about modern life? and maybe reader is unnaturally beautiful to the ancient egyptians because humans evolve to be more attractive as time goes on so a person from our time would be hot shit 4,000 years ago? this is long lmao. thanks!

Notes: god ive always wanted to do this kind of storyline but i was worried about like,, logic and stuff getting in the way of the storyline. anyway! i was so fucking elated to receive this request. i got a bit carried away so apologies! WC: 3.2k

Okay. It isn't that bad.

Would you ever see your family again? Probably not, but you weren't ruling the possibility out.

Would you ever get to have sour patch kids again? Probably not. But even during the time you lived in 2020, you had eaten more concentrated sour patch kids flavor than all of the people around you combined.

This little village on the outskirts of ancient Thebes is hardly L.A.––though that's probably a good thing––and is small enough for you to know every inhabitant. Your shop there is small to suit the town, and well known ever since your arrival in this time.

They found you beside the river, thought you to be a gift from the Gods. You were hazy, though––whatever had so forcefully pushed you back in time had made your head spin, making you sick and unbalanced. So, when they asked if you did in fact come from the Gods, you had no way of defending yourself either way. Generally you've been denying it––they think you are a god, and the only way you've convinced them you're not a god is by saying you're a gift from them. It explains the way you look, unnaturally beautiful and alien amongst the more pure genetics of earlier humans.

Your shop is pretty simple. You make portraits from paint, more realistic than anything else that exists, and it only affirms their belief in your god-like status. Fortunately word seems to not have gotten out––the village has remained small, and no one from Thebes has run into you. Every now and then you get unreasonably anxious that a noble will find you and turn you into a slave. It's a worry most people around you have, so you find comfort in the fact that you're not the only one. Still, you're not quite accustomed to such an atmosphere––the thought of nobles and Kings noticing you still sends terrified aches into your stomach.

It's about two weeks in that it gets bad. People start to pass by the village, more than you would've thought, and they're all looking to trade goods, food, and information. The people of the village talk about you––you're something interesting, you can't deny that, but they don't know just how worried you are. Whenever you see someone you don't recognize outside your home, you refuse to come out.

Five days later and there's soldiers in your home, looking over your paintings on their way back to Memphis from conquering the realm of Kush. You hold a deep contempt for them––you don't know all that much about history, but you know how Egyptian soldiers and Pharaohs reigned power over the people of Kush.

The soldiers aren't all that worrying. What really gets your heart pounding is the final man to enter your hut; a man bearing a crown and a long sword, with golden braces around his wrists and a chest plated in green scales. Your fingers dig into the wood of your counter when he notices you. The crown on his head––it's the crown of both upper and lower Egypt.

This is a Royal.

"Where did you learn this skill?" He asks you, eyes trained on one of your bigger drawings. It's just on papyrus––not for sale––and hung on the wall as a display of your talent.

"I spent a little while travelling the world," you answer. Technically, growing up in the modern world was a bit like travelling the world; you got to see the cultures and practices of many, many people. "The rest of it's practice."

"The peasants here, they... they claim you came from the Nile. Is that true?"

"Well... that is where I was found," you say carefully, but you can already tell you've fucked up. The look on his face is indescribable beyond the fact that he's pleased.

"How would you feel coming back to the capital with me?" He offers to you, setting his hands on the counter and leaning forward. "I think my father would much like to meet you."

"I – I don't think I'm really cut out for -"

"Nonsense," he dismisses with a smile, taking your hand from its' spot on the wood. "We shall teach you proper writing skills, give you a beautiful home, and the salary isn't horrid either."

You can't just say no. If you do, he's going to ask questions––he's going to get confused, and he's going to get suspicious. No one would turn down an opportunity like this; free schooling, free housing, and much more money for something you already do.

"Well... alright," you say quietly, looking to the home around you that you built with the help of the other villagers.

"Wonderful. My name is Kamun."

He's not a very nice person, you come to find. Or perhaps he's just not your tastes––the soldiers seem to like him well enough, at least the ones who aren't completely subordinate to him, but his attitude towards women and poor people is scathing to say the least. Otherwise he's very amusing, with a good sense of humor and quite generous with his food and wine as long as he gets his fill of it first.

The boat back to Memphis, where the royal family currently stays, is a long ride filled with various entertainments. It's clear these are not soldiers accustomed to rough conditions––the dancing women and flowing beer is enough to tell you that. Instead, you surmise these are faux war-heroes; people adored in their hometown for doing nothing but intimidating others in a foreign country. They try to get cushy with you, soften you up to their words and touches. It doesn't work.

He keeps you close to him. You let him do it, sort of––it's better than telling him no. Better than starting a ruckus. Then again, avoiding a ruckus is what got you here in the first place, standing before the doors of the courtroom where a false God on earth rules the Nile.

"Father, I bring you a gift from Thebes," says Kamun, pushing you forward by the small of your back. You can't bring yourself to meet the Pharoah's eye, so you fall to your knees and bow.

Everyone is staring at you. You don't look normal, and they all know it, and you know it. You could cry from the heat of their eyes on your back.

One of Kamun's soldiers steps forwards, handing the Pharaoh and his wife several of the drawings they'd taken from you. Silence passes as the two scan your work.

"How did you achieve such a mirror of the human face?" The Pharaoh asks in a slow, deep voice that sounds as he looks––old, weathered, wise.

"They came from the Nile," Kamun answers for you, and murmurs take the crowd by storm. You, on the other hand, feel your heartbeat increase in massive increments, speeding your already uneven breath. "A gift from the Gods, the locals said."

"I can't – I am not magic," you rush out, hoping your clarification clears you of any responsibility to the Pharaoh. You know he rules everything––if he says you are to stay here, you have no choice, and you don't like it here. Too many people. "I cannot give you anything, my King."

"I think you're lying," says a voice, its' tone soft and a velvet low. It catches you off guard, brings you to raise your head and meet the eyes of someone you don't know; a young man dressed in gold beside the Pharaoh's throne.

You almost lose your breakfast as your eyes bulge, your mind instantly recognizing him and connecting the dots. You were, by far, not a historian, but you knew a fair amount of Egyptian history––namely a family in the Old Kingdom who was headed by the Pharaoh Merenkahre. The remaining statues and busts of the King and his son are astonishingly accurate, and there can be no doubt in your head.

That being said, there also can't be any reaction on your face. You try your best to reign your expression in.

"I..."

Actually, you do have something to offer now. You know the names––memorized the history, committed each event to memory, and now you can pull their lifestory off from the top of your head. Wouldn't that be valuable to a King; a seer of the future, to predict the rise and fall of the economy and the coming armies. Besides, you can't just say he's wrong. That'd be treasonous to them. So you have to agree you're hiding something, come up with an excuse as to why you hid it, and it proves harder than you thought. You're quickwitted, though––it got you away from the villager's wrath, and it will promote you to noble living now.

You hide a smirk beneath a calm expression as you address the younger prince.

"They gifted me foresight," you say quietly, pretending as though it hurts you to tell the truth, "but told me to never inform others."

"You are in the presence of Ra once more," the Pharaoh reminds you.

"And others," you point out. "I would... it would be better to discuss such matters.. in private."

Detailed information about already-past events is enough to sway him to believe you. The Pharaoh is surprisingly easy to convince, and with a few, meaningless predictions of the future, he gives you housing in his own palace. Kamun looks proud of himself––puffs his chest out in front of his father and earns no compliment. Ire laces his glare as it falls upon his brother, Ahkmen, praised for his ability to see through your obvious lie.

The Pharaoh asks his younger son to guide you to your room. Apparently it's closer to his room than it is to Kamun's, and evening is approaching fast. The walk there, while short, is marked by a conversation composed mainly of Ahkmen's questions and your answers. When the two of you reach your room, he doesn't leave––actually, he follows you in and locks the door.

There's nothing more terrifying than a man with unchecked power, and there is no one watching you.

No fail safe.

You gulp.

"I know you're still not telling the truth," he says, and though it dismisses several of your worries it still begs the question; how did he notice? "Just thought I'd spare you the embarrassment in front of my father, but my generosity ends there. Now I won't hurt you, and I won't tell anyone––I'm just curious."

Oh thank fuck. He's not going to rape you.

"I'm not Egyptian," you blurt out.

"Obviously," he interrupts, but you glare him into raising his hands defensively.

"I'm from the future."

He stares at you. For a minute. You know this because you count it––he just pauses right in his stance, doesn't move, and stares at you for a whole minute like you just told him you're made of gold.

"I'm sorry, what?" He says, laughter suddenly wracking his body.

"It's how I know what's going to happen to your family," you say, hoping he'll believe you. Otherwise this handsome, seemingly-nice man is going to think you're insane for the rest of time. "I studied your family for years as a side-hobby, I don't know how to predict the future for anything but you and your father."

His laughing pauses, or lightens at least; enough for him to say, "actually?"

"Yes," you say, completely serious. This seems to gain his interest once more. "You have to help me. I know at some point people are going to ask me questions about other things and I'm not going to have an answer."

"Just do what all our priests do," he says with a chuckle.

"What do they do?"

"Lie," he says. You can't stop the grin that spreads across your face from the stupid joke, and when he sees that a shit-eating grin spreads across his own face, delighted he could make you laugh.

"Yes, well... I guess I could do that," you mumble in a laugh.

"There's no need for you to worry. Now that I know the truth, I can help you," he says, offering you something that takes nearly all the anxiety out of your brain. After two days travel with a prince, it feels like it took 50 pounds off your shoulders.

"Thank you, so much," you chuckle in relief.

"Of course. I do have questions though, and I want you to answer them."

"Anything."

These questions of his, they come at all times––almost at a constant rate when he takes you on long walks, which he does often. He passes it off to his father as an interest in your beauty, and it apparently works. This little lie also helps you enormously in avoiding the romantic advances of many of the people you come into contact with. You're still not quite sure how it works, since Egyptians supposedly had a strong sense of patriotism, but you look rare and they idolize it. Every eye that falls upon you sees something beautiful, and you can't understand it.

At least Ahkmen is normal. He doesn't talk about you being beautiful. Ever.

And it kind of makes you sad.

"Would you say people on the whole are happier in the future or in the past?" He asks you, his words surrounded by the warmth of a summer day in Egypt.

Birds chatter loudly in the trees around you, singing in the humid air that marks the mating season for many of them. The flowers that surround you are already familiar––you thought it would take longer for you to commit the shapes and colors to memory, but here you are. Dressed in gold-laced silk and turquoise necklaces.

"I think the happiness of a population is dependent entirely on the circumstances surrounding it," you say. Sometimes your answers relate more to the human condition than the progress of time on the human race; he likes these answers, too, so you tell him exactly what you think. "Six thousand years from now, there are times of great misery. One is even called the Great Depression, but five years before that were some of the most prosperous times my country had ever seen. The same cycle is evident here."

"So.. great misery and great happiness come in waves?" He asks, pace slowing as he tries to understand what you're saying. You pause along the pathway, allowing him space to think.

"It's a pattern, actually. When the economy goes up, it will always come down. Recessions happen right after economical booms. And yes," you say before he can ask, "a time of unease will follow the prosperity of the current years. But it won't be for a time yet."

"Will it happen in my lifetime?"

He's murdered about three years from now. You think you might be able to stop it, but if you do, it'll alter history quite a lot. Either way, he wouldn't live long enough to see the recession the building of the great pyramids caused.

"No," you say. "But I'd prepare for it anyway, if only to keep your citizens safe."

"Of course. You... you are a great scholar," he tells you, resuming the slow walk down the shore of the Nile.

"Oh. Uh, thank you," you mumble as a blush fills your cheeks.

"What did you do in your time?"

"I was an artist, but I spent a lot of time giving lectures on the role of autistic people in ancient Egypt. Autistic people are often timekeepers," you say, and you know he'll figure out what you mean. Autistic isn't a term here, but many timekeepers of these ancient times were autistic, and considered highly by their societies.

"You might be able to give lectures again, if you'd like," he suggests. "People would come from far and wide to hear you speak. And you've got things to say that I know many scholars will find interesting."

"Mmm," you wince, "I kind of want to stay away from altering history too much."

"Oh, yes. My apologies," he says in a softer voice.

"It's alright," you say. "I'm glad you think I would be a good choice for that kind of thing, though."

He chuckles bashfully as he turns to the ground, scuffing his sandals as he walks.

Ahkmen is sweet––much sweeter than any of his family members, and you find yourself appreciating that every time you pass by his room. You pass his door often, always stopping a second to contemplate the tall, wooden doors. He's on the pathway between your room and the library.

Most of the time he's not in his room. Actually, you can usually find him in the library––there or outside in the markets or near the stalls. Today is different; he's been missing all day, and only when you walk the path back to your room do you hear his voice, talking to himself in his bedroom.

"They're bombarded with just such compliments, though. I can't – I can't stand out!"

"Or maybe you should, because you still haven't said a single thing yet and they probably think you're completely uninterested and that's why they aren't noticing you?"

"You and your... logic," Ahkmen spits.

"Come complaining when you kiss them under my advice."

As you attempt to peek through the crack in the door you stumble, knocking your hand against the wood. You barely hesitate before knocking again––cool and collected, smooth to slip into another lie.

"Oh! Hello, um – hi," he says awkwardly, slipping out of the room when he sees you. He quickly closes the door behind him, careful to keep you from seeing the other person in his room, but you can't bring yourself to care about the stranger.

Think of an excuse, why am I here?

"Oh, that's... I like your flower," he comments softly, eyes flickering between your eyes and the flower tucked into your hair. You'd forgotten about it, but raised your hand to touch the petals as you smiled. The perfect excuse

"Thank you. I thought you might like it, so I," you take it out of your hair and grab his hand, holding his palm upwards, "wanted to show you.. um, here."

Setting the flower in his hand, you curl his fingers around its' stem and push his hands back into his chest. He stares at you for a moment, confused by your strange behavior, but accepting of your gift anyway. You know him well enough now––he'd never decline a gift from you.

"A white iris," he tells you in a lofty tone. "A symbol of the dead. Funny it looks so lively on you."

You need to get out of here before your chest combusts.

"I need to go now, but I'll see you this evening, yes?" You ask, stepping instinctively closer. He doesn't back away.

"Of course. And, um," he takes your hands, keeps you where you stand as he slips the flower back behind your ear, "keep it. I want to see it on you at dinner."

He's close to you––close enough that it gets hard to distinguish his breath from your own, when you started holding his hand. When his other came up to your face. When he leans in and kisses your forehead. It's barely there, just barely, but there's no mistaking the soft plush, the affection clear behind gentle, precise movements.

You rush away the second he lets your hands go.

#ahkmenrah x reader #rami malek

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tsumuniri · 3 years

Text

━━━ Atsumu Miya is a free-loader. Living inside his twin brother's home as if it was his, he would bring home girls and annoy Osamu most of the time. Y/N L/N is quite the opposite apparently because she's a virgin loser. Being the popular anonymous BL mangaka known as Yamazaki, she stays in the homey abode of her parents and watches boys from afar for references (not for admiration sadly).

Now what will happen if fate decided to tie these two idiots together and made them live across each other in one apartment?

。m.list ❯❯ ┃next

ZERO ━━ WHO’S KICKING WHO NOW?

DO YOU GET NERVOUS to the point you wouldn't be surprised that you already took a shit, not pee, but discharge the residue on your pants? That's how a certain H/C-haired female felt as she sat across the table with her editor on the other side. It was only a figurative speech, though; if she took it literally, Y/N would gladly dig her own grave and plan her funeral up to what kind of horrid gown she'd be wearing in her casket.

It wasn't your fault to be this anxious. You've been doing this type of gig for almost five years, yet you couldn't help but tremble slightly on your seat as you noiselessly wait for the male editor to enlighten you with comments in regards to this unreleased chapter. You hate having to go through this type of initiation, but hey, you love your job nevertheless.

"Great work today, L/N-san. You accurately followed my advice when it comes to the panels. As expected from your skills and experiences in the field." Akihito remarked, pushing up his glasses with his thumb and closing the original copy of the printed manuscript.

You now had the ability to breathe as you draw out a deep sigh of relief. "Well, thank the gods for that! When you criticized the paneling of this chap two days ago, I panicked a bit and had to rearrange them all." You rambled on and began to ravish the food on your tray to satisfy your empty stomach. It was a bit difficult to comprehend your words due to the continuous eating of the delicious french fries. However, your editor somewhat understood you in the end.

Akihito watched you chowed down on the poor potato snack and shook his head from the ridiculous spectacle of your hungry state. "You're the infamous Yamazaki, but you asked me to meet up with you in a place like this?" He panned out.

"What do you mean? And didn't I tell you not to say my pen name out loud? What if people might hear you!"

"Y/N, we're in McDonald's." Your editor frowned, gesturing around the place full of children with a nudge of his thumb. With the sudden dilemma of your hidden identity, he cocked a brow and turned his head to glance at the screaming little monsters chasing each other on the matted floor. It was clear to him that these youngsters didn't pay any mind to their talk.

"We took the table by the playground. I don't think kids of their age would know someone who makes picture books of men sucking-".

"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! STOP!" You cut him off right before he could finish his ambiguous statement. You took a bite on the fry you were holding and dipped it in the blob of ketchup on the tissue paper. "I chose this fast-food resto because the atmosphere in this place is loud. I don't want someone to hear you nor see the material you're reading." You licked the salt off your fingers once you finished eating your fries.

His slanted eyes squinted in suspicion as his onyx irises surveyed your get-up from head to toe. Your patterned sock-covered feet nestled on black Adidas slippers as you had plaid trousers that seemed to look like matching pajama pants of a clothing set. The white shirt with the oppai logo you wore made up for your lacking asset. However, the best feature of this apparel you came up with was the unusual pair of large rimmed shades covering your eyes. "It seemed like you do know how to act natural, Y/N..." Akihito trailed, deciding not to ridicule the outfit you chose to wore for their meeting since he knew you were in a hurry to meet the deadline.

Your eyes glanced at the watch wrapped around your wrist and realized the current time. "I better get going. My mom would kill me if I didn't do the groceries. Thank you for today, Akihito!" You pushed yourself off the table, sitting up from the cushioned seat then bowing towards the male.

The brunette also stood up for courtesy's sake, softly smiling at you in gratification. "Thank you for your hard work as well, L/N-san. I'll make sure to send out a copy of the weekly magazine as soon it releases to the public. Your international fans will definitely enjoy this chapter once the global publishing company releases the translated magazine." He assured.

"Well, I'm happy to hear that everyone gets to enjoy my works! I'll see you soon, Akihito." You gave him a lazy grin as you turned your back and left for your pending chore.

"That man sure bought a lot of cleaning products." You thought out loud as you recalled the fascinating scene of a fellow shopper with a basket full of cleaning merchandise. You couldn't pinpoint his looks since the guy was wearing a face mask. But from his athletic build and large hooded eyes that made the other shoppers distance themselves away, you had a feeling he's good-looking. It wouldn't be surprising if he already has a girlfriend.

Or a boyfriend if he likes bananas over tacos.

Your little bubble of thoughts soon popped as you stood outside the gate of your household, staring at the moving boxes stacked on the grassy floor of your mother's garden. 'Now, what are they up to?' You mused, having a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach from the cardboard packages.

You hoisted up the two paper bags full of groceries against your chest and pulled the gate open. "Mom! Dad! I'm Home!" You greeted out, walking past the boxes and almost tripping on one of them. Your left arm had lifted the groceries with difficulty as you used your other hand to twist the doorknob of the front door.

The spruce door was pushed open by your right arm. As you took a step inside, your ears caught a pitched bark from the end of the hallway. A smile fixed on your lips once the familiar energetic sound registered in your mind.

"Kazu!" A short-coated corgi ran out from one of the doorways as it continued to bark and jump from the excitement of its owner arriving back at home. Its fluffy butt waddled with every step it took with its soft paws— bouncing a couple of times once you called out its name.

You smiled from ear to ear, "You miss me, boy?" You cooed, slipping out of your slippers and setting the bags of groceries on the hall table by the door. The dog barked softly and looked up at you with his beady eyes, wagging his tail and letting out another bark in reply. You would've played with this cute bunch that the gods have blessed you with, but the questions about the boxes haven't stopped galling you for answers.

"Where's mom and dad, Kazu?"

Kazu tilted his head and barked as if the corgi understood what you were trying to tell him. The dog turned around and darted over to the staircase leading upstairs. 'Maybe that's why they didn't hear me.' You thought to yourself and followed your dog over to the flight of stairs. The fluffy puppy used his time in climbing up the steps, but you decided to scoop the dog up in your arms and carry him midway due to how hard of a time the corgi's having.

You gently placed Kazu back on the floor after you both reached upstairs. Your brows furrowed together as you caught the sight of the two pieces of luggage outside your bedroom door. If your gut was telling you before that something grave might happen, it was screaming at you now that something will. "Mom?" You called out for your mother, needing an explanation for what the hell her parents are doing to her room.

Finally, the said person peeked her head out from the doorway of your room. "Y/N, dear! Welcome back!" She smiled and waved her hand to beckon you over to her side.

"Since you're finally here, your father and I have some great news for you!"

You eyed your mother, suspicious by the way she's acting, but you still heeded her command and took hesitant steps in the direction of your bedroom. "What's happening, mom? Why are you guys in my r-" You weren't able to finish your sentence as you find yourself in an almost empty bedroom with your father sealing a box with packaging tape.

The middle-aged man looked up from what he was doing and beamed once he saw his daughter walked inside the room, "My lovely girl! Great timing! Help your old pal in bringing your stuff outside the house." He hummed.

You didn't know what to say— you already had an idea of what the old couple was about to do, but you don't want to believe it. Your wide eyes shifted between your mother and father, "Don't... Don't tell me that..." You stammered as you were in disbelief from the current event playing right in front of you.

"We're kicking you out, Y/N!"

## and this is the first fic that i posted here on tumblr! though, i already published it in wp as well LMAO. i hope you enjoyed reading the prologue :'>

#haikyuu!!#atsumubrainrot #atsumu miya #atsumu fic #atsumu x female reader #msby atsumu #haikyuu atsumu #atsumu fluff #msby sakusa #miya osamu #hq osamu #hq atsumu #ishiwrites #IFINALLYUSEDTUMBLR #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you

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yandere-sins · 4 years

Note

Prompt 25 with demon aizawa x gn reader?

I wrote for Demon!Aizawa before for a Halloween event, I feel nostalgic!! So I will continue from my previous idea (click the sentence to get to that scenario!). Thanks for requesting ♥

“You came to me, begging me for a contract!”

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

You couldn’t complain, and you couldn’t refuse the tug on your collar as he urged you closer. You were at the top of your league, your company running more smoothly than any other on the planet, and your bank account looked as if dirt was the new money, and you, a gardener. But seeing him again made all of this seem like a small achievement, remembering you that it wasn't you who made you what you were.

“Here, Kitten~” he chuckled, amused by the unhappy glare you sent his way.

It was bad enough that he showed up at your company’s headquarters, dressed as if he was a businessman in suit and tie, saying he had an appointment with you. Strangely enough, every secretary he had to pass didn’t say anything to him as he shuffled by them, no one complained or held the strange man back - yet, he certainly was not your next appointment, that much you knew.

Then again, it wasn't so strange. He was a devil in disguise.

What he thought to be a leash to have you act on demand, was an invisible collar around your neck, something you easily ignored most of your days as it seemed irrelevant to you with its non-visible features. But now it was back to ruin your day, digging into your skin stiffly and cold as he maneuvered you how he pleased.

“Wha--” you were interrupted by another rough pull, cutting off your voice harshly. Reaching up, you tried to grip the collar, but it was in vain as it was snug tightly around your throat, not even enough space for a nail to dig in between. “--What brings you here?”

“Payment, little Kitten. You haven’t forgotten about me, no?”

The way his lips curled into a smile was more frightened than the investor meetings you had been going through, building up your company. There had been so many moments which you had feared and shivered before, but they seemed sweet against the one you were facing at that moment. “What?! Now?!” you gasped, and with a last firm pull, you stumbled forward, landing directly in his arms, tightly embraced by him without any hesitation to touch you.

You knew how body contact felt with another person, and this wasn’t one of those experiences. It almost felt that under the clothes he was wearing, there was no body to fill them at all. And despite it being sunny outside and no AC running in your office, the man felt as if he had just stood outside in a blizzard - and you were the next one to freeze.

By the demanding tugs at your collar, you were forced to look up, gulping as you met the deep nothingness of his eyes, still looking the same as you remembered them from your first meeting. Just two black holes, soaking you up into them. His hair was a complete mess, strands falling everywhere and down into your face, but they didn’t keep away the goosebumps you felt from being so close to him.

“I gave you what you wanted, right? Sucess, enough power to support your family. The last time I checked, you were so good, your peers shivered before you.”

“That’s- That’s true...” you had to admit meekly, lowering your gaze which he immediately demanded back with another tug.

“Then it’s my turn now. You did offer yourself up to me, remember?”

His grip around your waist grew stronger, a wave of panic running over you. With an unexpected attempt, you managed to push yourself away from him, staggering backwards as the demon looked after you confused at first, then displeased. “I have... and I will! Just... Just a few more weeks, okay? We are in the middle of discussion ground-breaking new inventions, and I have to attend those, they rely on me!”

“[Name]...”

“P-Please, I am so close, I will fulfill the contract! I- I--”

A long sigh escaped his lips as he looked away, seemingly in thought. You couldn’t put it past him that a being like him didn’t need a lot of time to think, he wouldn't be someone to be led by feelings or compassion after all. Still, you hoped the best for yourself; that he may find the understanding and rationality in himself to let you go for the day.

Your hopes were shattered as he looked back up at you again, shoulders heaving another long breath. “I am done with waiting,” he eventually muttered bitterly. “You humans are greedy and self-serving, and none of you want to pay up even though I am so generous with your wishes.”

You felt your sturdy mahogany table in your back, cutting off your way to flee as Shouta took deliberately slow steps towards you, undeterred by your outstretched hand. “And I will--”

“You came to me, begging me for a contract!” he reminded you, voice raised so he could speak over you. “And I’ve been nothing but understanding and kind, Kitten. It’s time for you to humor me.”

“P-Please,” you mumbled, gripping the wood behind you until your knuckles turned white. “I’m not ready yet! There is so much to do still!” Your voice was faint, unable to stay strong without shivering with every word.

“There’s nothing else for you, then to obey me, Pet,” he hummed, his prior stern expression, growing almost soft from affection as he had you in his grasp again. But without any expression in his hollow eyes, it was hard to tell if he was feeling true emotions or simply acted on his boredom as a demon. His hand brushed under your chin, lifting it, so you had to look at him, despite you wanting nothing more than to avoid those soulless eyes of his. His thumb brushed up, poking against your lips before drawing along their curve, a sound emitting from his chest that sounded like a mix of a purr and pleased hum.

“I’ll have so much fun with you, don’t worry.”

“M-My company... and my family...”

“They don’t have to concern you anymore, Kitten. You are mine, and you had been ever since you came into my realm, begging me for help. The only thing you should be concerned about now is me.”

It wasn’t like you needed to hear this, well aware of the conditions of your contract, but you could only shake your head in disbelieve still, not wanting to hear it from him. “You’ll come around to liking it. My domain can be splendid if you live in it long enough to get a real taste of it.”

“Please, Sir,” you tried one last time. “Please give me more time.”

Your pleading fell on deaf ears, but your expression, scared of the unknown future that laid before you, seemed to amuse him. That, or he was already thinking up things he was going to do to you once he had you all to himself, his smile being undefinable. “Shouta,” he reminded you. Out of respect and fear to summon him, you hadn’t said his name after you went back to your life, but now it sounded even more horrid in your ears than even the thought of it was.

“Please, Shouta,” you repeated with shaking breath, correctly this time. His grin turned into a teeth-showing smile, as he shook his head, forehead wrinkling almost pitiful of his little human before him.

“Time’s up, Kitten.”

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cant-think-of-anything · 3 years

Text

Pirate AU (Part Four)

TW: Violence

Cordelia sat on the rails, allowing her legs to dangle over the calm water. She enjoyed going out with her newfound acquaintances, but those stuffy dresses suffocated her. She tipped her head back, enjoying the breeze that the sea always brought when a sudden voice nearly made her topple off the ship.

“Cordelia?”

Lucie Herondale was standing behind her, staring openly. Cordelia loved that Lucie knew her name now, but all she could currently feel was the flush creeping up her face. She hoped her skin would hide it. Alastair stood behind her, clearly trying to cover up his smile.

“You didn’t tell me she was going to be here,” she muttered, pulling her coat tighter around her.

“Well if you trust her so much-” he broke off with a laugh, glancing at her upfronted expression. “Less than a week Cordelia! How does one manage to blow our cover that quickly?”

“Not my fault,” She grumbled, face heating up.

They had made plans to meet up, she just hadn’t expected it to be here, when she was dressed like this. Her only comfort was that Alastair was wearing something identical, though he looked far more comfortable than she did. She ought to find someone that made her brother embarrassed the way Lucie did her.

“Eugenia?” Cordelia asked, purposefully letting her eyes stay on the sky.

“She’s with her family. I met up with her earlier.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I will be going to the city, to map the area out.”

“Map? What for?” Lucie asked.

Cordelia’s guilt gnawed away at her. It was Lucie’s family they were planning to steal from after all. She knew the Herondale’s had huge amounts of money, they certainly wouldn’t be impacted that greatly, but she didn’t want Lucie to think she was using her.

“Dinner of course,” Alastair said, his voice an intent but his words sarcastic.

He glanced at the carriage near the trees and sighed deeply before disappearing down the ladder. Cordelia knew what he really was out to do of course. When night fell Alastair would observe the bank that Mr. Herondale’s money was kept and find a way to get in without being caught. Just the night before Alastair had taken their mother to a hospital under a fake name. It was part of the reason they need money so quickly. She finally looked at Lucie.

“Why are you here?”

Lucie’s face reddened. “I can go if you wish, I just wanted to see,” she gestured wildly around them. “All of this.”

“Don’t go,” Cordelia said quickly, hopping off the railing to come sit next to her.

Lucie reached out and touched the thin material of her billowy white sleeves, her eyes widening when they fell to wear Cortana rested. Cordelia tugged the sword free of its sheath and placed it in front of her, a sign of great trust. She watched as Lucie gently ran her fingers over the words engraved in metal.

“I can’t believe you live on a ship,” she whispered, her eyes almost fervent as she looked around her. “I mean I didn’t think you were lying but still.”

Then she straightened suddenly. “I have to get back to the institute before night comes.” The words were deeply mournful, as if walking off this ship would make everything less real.

Cordelia smiled and took her hand. “I’ll come with you.”

~~~

Alastair hated London. The streets, he thought, were absolutely filthy. Repulsive even. His only saving grace was he was a few stories above the cobblestone sidewalk. His dark coat was buttoned to hide the bright white of his shirt and he had picked a pair of boots where the silver had mostly dulled. The problem with clothes that were practical for the sea was that they were very impractical for everything else. He still preferred them to suits.

The bank was further from the institute than he would have expected, meaning it was also in one of the quieter areas of the town. A shadowy figure on the street snapped him from his thoughts. He checked his pocket watch and logged the time. Night had fallen and the sky had fully darkened. He squinted and caught a flash of light brown hair. What fool, he thought, drawing a field telescope from his pocket, walked around at this hour without so much as a hat?

As it turned out, those were the least of his worries. Yet another figure came down the street. He wasn’t too concerned until the shorter of the two whipped a long narrow blade. Alastair stiffened, recognizing the weapon as a rapier immediately. But that hardly made sense unless…

Alastair drew a dagger out and unbuttoned his jacket before digging the sharp edge into the bricks lightly enough for it to slide and pushed off the windowsill.

~~~

Thomas’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. He was searching for anything suspicious that connected back to Barbra but he couldn’t quite wrap his head around this. A girl, quite petite in size, was standing in front of him with a blade pointed at his chest.

The figure was completely covered, he couldn’t see any defining features that would help him place her. He jerked back, instincts taking over. He’d been looking for something suspicious, people armed with swords roaming London certainly qualified. The rational part of his mind reminded him that the killer used poison not...a pirate sword?

Suddenly she lunged, sweeping her sword out. Thomas caught her arm before she made contact, a flash of white blond hair under the hood of the person’s jacket visible. Ripping out of his grasp somehow, she pulled back as if she were about to run but was cut off by a person dropping off the building in front of them.

This one also wore a hood, but they didn’t have anything covering their clothes. A loose white shirt that tightened at the wrist, a crushed velvet vest, black breeches, and gold buckled boots that all combined to make quite a striking outfit. They straightened, hands tightened around two golden daggers. The blonde one tilted their head and then struck out. The two of them parried and lunged which should have left Thomas to feel quite awkward. Or at least he would have if he wasn’t staring. The silver haired figure whipped back from the fight suddenly, hissed something at their opponent and took off, her black cloak blending her into the night.

That wasn’t why Thomas was staring though. The man’s hood had fallen back, revealing what Thomas had to believe was one of the most beautifully crafted faces ever made. Then the other boy’s lips twisted into a scowl, his dark eyebrows pushing together as he regarded Thomas. An unpleasant expression on a very pleasant face.

“Bloody hell,” He murmured to himself before tipping his head back to look at him. “Thomas Lightwood?”

Thomas stiffened, the reality of what had happened finally sinking in. Somewhat. “How do you know who I am?” He demanded. “And what in Lord’s name was that? Who were you fighting just now?”

The man groaned and rubbed his head. “I’m going to torment you forever for this Eugenia.”

Before Thomas could question him further he cut him off. “Yes, yes I know. I suppose we’ll just add you to the list of people who know everything about us they shouldn’t?”

~~~

Lucie sat with her legs crossed in the “Sanctuary”, the name her father gave to the large room that housed a fountain along with a few murals. Cordelia was beside her, red hair turned to flames from the fireplace, her dark eyes deep with excitement as she recounted a story.

Lucie adored fiction, piled off started novels scattering her room, but there was a different sort of feeling that came with a story that she knew was true. What Cordelia was speaking about was a train robbery she and Alastair had done a few months prior to coming to London. As she put it “Those stuffy nobles hardly needed the money,” before casting an apologetic look at Lucie.

Lucie found she didn’t mind. Cordelia laughed a little as she spoke and the small noise seemed to drown out every other thought in Lucie’s mind. She hoped Cordelia would think the red on her face was because of the fire.

A sharp knock on the Sanctuary door startled her out of dreamy haze. Lucie frowned, glancing at the door, shouting for them to enter but no one did. Cordelia tensed, her body straightening as her fingers wrapped around Cortana. Somehow the room felt much colder than it did a moment before.

“Lucie-”

The sconces lighting the wall suddenly flickered out, the fireplace went dark as if it had somehow doused itself. The room plunged into near darkness, the only light filtered from the windows lining the wall. She felt Cordelia’s hand wrap around her shoulder tugging her closer to the moonlit squares on the floor.

Lucie started to speak, turning around- and then cried out, scrambling back. Cordelia wasn’t the one who had touched her. As miserable-looking as she remembered, stained dresses and faded hats stood Tatiana Blackthorn.

“Lucie,” Tatiana murmured, her voice dropping into a horrid, gravelly whisper. “How you’ve grown.”

She was unable to prevent the shiver that ran up her spine. “I don’t understand. You left after-”

Tatiana scowled viciously when her voice broke. “You don’t get to mourn my son, not when this was your family’s doing.”

Lucie stepped further away, backing up into another body. She stifled a yell, swinging her arm out. Cordelia’s callused fingers wrapped around her wrist. “I’m here.”

“That won’t do you much good Carstairs girl. I hadn’t expected the two people I was searching for to be this... closely acquainted,” she said, sneering as she looked at their locked hands, “but I suppose that makes things easier for me doesn’t it?”

She felt something cold press into her hand, glancing down to see a dagger. She turned, but Cordelia was standing in front of Tatiana now, her beautiful golden sword gripped in her hands. And then she attacked, bringing Cortana down in a large golden arc. Tatiana dodged, her hideous face twisted into a crude grin. Lucie heard the word “foolish” before Tatiana drew her own blade and slammed it into Cordelia.

~~~

Cordelia felt as if she had been punched in the arm- at first. Then it burned. She had spilled some of her mothers boiling hot tea on her a few months ago when a rather unexpected wave crept up on them but this felt as if someone had set small fires to each of her nerves. Cortana clattered to the ground, but she stayed standing, her arm clutched to her chest. She refused to fall.

Her ears were ringing but she could still hear Tatiana’s twisted laughter, and a few moments later she could see Lucie creeping up behind her, dagger in hand. Before she could cry out, stop Lucie from walking to what would certainly be her death, Lucie plunged the dagger into Tatiana’s shoulder.

The repulsive woman shrieked, more from surprise than pain she was sure. Lucie, wide eyed, moved away, her chest rising and falling fast. Cordelia tried to reach out to her but a blinding pain made her drop down to her knees. Lucie knelt next to her, pulling her up onto the chair, murmuring something, her head swiveling between Cordelia and Tatiana with panic in her eyes.

“You little wretch,” Tatiana spat, staggering to her feet and stumbling closer to Lucie as if she were drunk. “I ought to do with you what I did to the worthless twat you called your cousin.”

Lucie’s face twisted in outrage, but before she could lunge forward, Tatiana pulled a dagger from her dress and smashed it into the glass window. Without hesitation she leapt down when it broke, but there was never any noise of impact. But by that point Cordelia’s ears were already ringing too loudly.

And that was all Cordelia remembered before blacking out completely.

~~~

Apparently if you get stabbed in the chest and are bleeding out your head will feel very large. Like really, really big.

Tagging: @adoravel-fenomeno and @barbra-lightwood

#alastair carstairs #thomas lightwood #thomastair #lucie herondale #cordelia carstairs #lucelia #tatiana blackthorn #the last hours #tlh #tsc #grace blackthorn #my writing #tw violence

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wine4thewin · 2 years

Note

In the not that I’m approving it at all way, the way your SukuIta reminds me of a couple I know back in university’s dynamic 🥴 They’re definitely toxic though not abusive to each other and one second they act like they’re about to kill each other and the next they’re being hateful but saying things like ‘even if I went the whole of my life tomorrow without ever seeing you again you’ll always be a part of me’ in PUBLIC and hope that’s not weird but reading your works reminded me of how complicated and messy human relationships but definitely in a good way

Oh! Dramatic toxic college dating! I had a bit of that myself, Once Upon A Time 😨

I’m definitely the sort of author who writes a lot of toxic tales about human nature. Some people might find it problematic, but the reality is, unhealthy relationships exist. I know from personal experience that emotional pain cuts deep- and those relationships dig their horrid, awful claws in, dragging you down.

I had a few vaguely toxic relationships when I was younger, but perhaps the worst was a gentleman post-college who scared me so much with his drunken violence that he crushed my own temper into nothing…and it literally never came back after I broke up with him. He could send me into a shaking fit just over the phone. In arguments, I learned to grin and speak in an annoyingly calm voice because that became my only way of defusing situations that could quickly escalate otherwise. Arguing was no longer 'exhilarating'; it was terrifying and possibly dangerous. Toxic relationships happen and they are not good! Thankfully, I found much better people in-between and after my toxic relationships, and happily married.

Even so, I don’t usually write love stories. I don’t write characters in toxic situations getting down on their knees and professing love. Usually, they are tied together by darker things and that’s what I like exploring. Traditional love stories tend to bore me (sad but true), so I write psychologically uncomfortable tales of people who have been drawn together in bad environments. I don’t approve of such relationships, as you mentioned. I believe people should find the person who will support them and can be supported in return. Fiction is fiction, but reality is much different.

I do hope your university couple eventually finds their way…possibly away from each other! 🫣 the heavy emotional draw of a toxic relationship is hard to escape when you are in it, but hopefully they will grow tired of the mental strain it can cause, allowing them to find people that they can be happy with.

#asks #evilpeaches ao3 #toxic behavior in fiction

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peachyteabuck · 4 years

Text

it takes two

summary: after one of the most stressful weeks of your hard-earned career, all you want to do is enjoy a quiet night in with your two favorite boys. unfortunately for you, one of them has other plans.

(a commission for @honeychicanawrites)

pairing: chris evans x henry cavill x reader

words: 1506

trigger warnings: d/s dynamics, 'mommy' title used, restraints, reward/punishment, brat taming, pet play

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

You sit in the center of the deep maroon couch, legs folded under you as both men kneel in the space on the floor just in front of you. A movie you’ve seen too many times to count plays in the television in front of you, nothing more than white noise as you scroll various social media sites and eat your favorite post-work snack: popcorn.

“And then,” you sigh, popping another kernel in your mouth as you roll your eyes. Recanting the horrid experiences of your day remained a necessary part of your nightly routine – just as instructing both men to strip and present themselves, their collars, and their connected leash had become part of theirs.

Chris and Henry both stare at you with wide, waiting eyes – their matching collars along with the lack of clothes leaving their only differences being the small silver charms shaped to be the letter of their first initial. What they’re waiting for, they’re not exactly sure – a drop of praise, instruction, to be fed from the palm of your hand – but no matter what you choose to give them, they will accept it eagerly.

Even if it means waiting for nothing.

You finish the snack between words, emptying the bowl before grabbing the leash and forcing them to follow you to the bathroom where you can finally get ready for bed, ready to slot yourself between your two giant buffy men and sleep off the stress from your exhaustive work week before ringing in the weekend with some sweet, sweet morning sex. The perfect way to relax, de-stress…

The men crawl a single pace behind you, just as you trained them too all those months ago. It was hard - breaking through the hyper-masculine identifies everyone, even themselves, had forced them into took what felt like forever. At first it was just you getting them comfortable with the idea of the both of them dating another man, then it was riding them and sitting on their faces, and before long you were buying them custom matching collars and having them sit at your feet as you ate each meal that they cooked for you.

As you stand in front of the sink, each man kneels by your side with their hands flat on their thighs as you pull your hair from your face, take off your make up, and – finally – instruct Henry to strip you down while Chris grabs your pajamas (also known as one of their shirts worn thin from years of wear and a pair of sleep shorts you bought from some fast fashion retailer forever ago). It’s one of those things that began as simple thing that helped build their capacity for rule-following but soon became a necessary part of your routine with them, a nonsexual intimacy that you look forward to each morning as you fit your feet in into uncomfortable high heels and shove your ass into another pencil skirt.

Everything seems great as the man unbuttons your dark red top, unzipping your pants and allowing the clothes to fall to the ground, the underwear following soon after. It all seems perfect as Chris deposits the clothes you want to change into next to your phone on the counter – folded in just the way you like them. It’s euphoric, the feeling of both of them there – so much so it nearly blinds you to the feeling of Henry licking a thick stripe alone your bare pussy.

Nearly.

In an instant you’re turned around - grabbing Henry by the jaw to force his eyes to meet yours as you bare your teeth. “What the fuck did you just do?”

Fear flashes across his eyes as he realizes what he’s done, as the knowledge that he will now face the thing he dreads most: punishment.

“I-I-“ he attempts to walk back his actions, explain away the rule he had just broken – the one second only to the one that states they are not to touch themselves without your express permission. He had broken the strict guidance at they are not allowed to touch you either – certainly not while you were doing something else, and certainly not while you were already one edge. “I’m sorry, I-”

You don’t give him time to finish his plea, rolling your eyes as you hiss.

“I’ve been working too hard,” you punctuate the last word by shoving him back, a small smile spread across your lips as he stumbles. “Haven’t been as strict as I should be, have let you both forget how mean I can be when you decide to be bad, dumb puppies…”

Henry stays there, flat on his ass on the hardwood floor as he watches you with fear running through his veins. It’s rare you’re ever as mad as you are now – usually preferring to take a much soft hand when it came to correct improper behavior. This week, though, had eroded your good will, your patience, and even if you tolerated entry-level bullshit from your coworkers, you certainly weren’t going to take it from either Chris or Henry.

With fire in your eyes you turn to Chris, who throughout the entire interaction has remained silent in his obedience. He’s your good puppy – the one who politely eats from your hand and sits by your chair in your home office without making a sound and never ever breaks a rule. He’s golden, perfect, and watches as you eye him up and down.

“You want a reward?” you ask him, stepping closer so you can run your fingers through his hair. “You want a reward for being my good little puppy?”

Chris nods eagerly, sighing as he watches you lean against the marble countertop and open your legs – his eyes hooded and jaw slack as the slick that’s collected there shines against the low lighting in the room. It’s a reward of the highest honor, your sweet pussy. A golden jewel, the most precious incentive for both men.

And currently is was eye-level with Chris, whose mouth is nearly watering as he licks his lips.

“Come get a taste then.”

It’s all Chris needs before he’s lurching forward forward – beard digging into the soft flesh of your inner thighs as his tongue and teeth begin to trace over your lips, ghost over your clit. He’s skilled, knowledgeable of your body and how to use his own to pleasure you – two of his fingers trailing from their place on his thighs to circle your entrance before moving to curl them inside of you.

“Oh!” you moan, reaching one hand behind you to grab his hair – keeping him in place as the beautiful pain shoots down his spine. “Oh, puppy…”

His tongue licks at the most sensitive part of you in staccato strokes, drawing small, desperate moans out of you that seem to melt into each other as the angry heat that curled in your abdomen turns into one of arousal. It you weren’t leaning against the custom oak cabinets you surely would’ve fallen by now, your knees buckling under the sheer amount of pleasure that courses through you.

“Fuck, yes my good Puppy,” you moan, your words beginning to slur as you get closer and closer – hips bucking in time with Chris’s fingers and tongue. Deep, guttural moans erupt from your chest, the loudness only amplified by the white tile walls it bounces off of.

In the rare, fleeting moments you’re able to open your eyes you can see Henry’s painfully hard cock leaking precum, a sight that makes your heart skip a beat and your pussy pulse.

“God, I’m so close,” you gasp as Chris adds another finger, “Fuck Puppy don’t stop don’t-!”

You come with a deep moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head as Chris continues to lick at your clit, reveling in the feeling of your cunt pulsing against his face. You push him away when it all becomes too much, face hot and panting as you press your foot to the center of his chest to keep him in place. As he sits back you nearly moan as you see his face – equally as fucked out as yours as his swollen lips gape and hooded eyes look up at you with his soaked beard making another rush of adrenaline shoot through your chest.

“Was that good, Mommy?” he murmurs, words barely audible. “Did I make you feel good?”

You smile as you lean down to kiss his forehead and then his lips, tasting yourself on his tongue. “Yes, puppy – you did so well, I’m so proud of you…”

Chris cuddles into you, accepting the praise as his cock strains against his stomach. It’s only when his chest stops heaving that you turn to Henry – whose whole body seems nearly shaking with desperation. enrhH

“Now,” you sigh, turning away from the man who remains slumped against your chest. “How should I take care of this little problem?”

Henry gulps, jaw tumbling as he does so.

Oh, you think, He’s really in for it this time.

#chris evans x reader #henry cavill x reader #chris evans x henry cavill x reader #lukis writes stuff #lukis does commissions #chris evans x henry cavill

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vulturhythm · 4 years

Text

day twenty-four - monster

is this the filthiest thing i’ve written? maybe

- - - - -

when geralt had warned him that the moon cycle brought with it changes in witchers that made them even more inhuman, jaskier had thought little of it. why would he concern himself with it, when geralt was so terribly fond of making himself out to be some horrific beast in the hopes that jaskier would finally grow to be afraid and leave for the sake of safety?

unfortunately, as happens to often be the case, jaskier has found himself proven quite wrong.

geralt had been growing progressively more and more aloof, restless, snappy as the moon drew nearer to full. each and every night as they’d set up camp, he’d done his best to warn jaskier, saying over and over again that witchers became more akin to wolves than ever when the moon was at its roundest, insisting that jaskier let him drop him off at the nearest town and come back for him when it was safe...

and jaskier, well, he had ignored him.

they had made camp quite early in the day, and only when jaskier pried had geralt confirmed that, yes, it was for jaskier’s sake. no amount of wheedling coaxed geralt into saying anything more. when geralt left the camp midway through the afternoon, the only reason he’d given was that he needed to be far, far away when the moon rose high. jaskier was told in no uncertain terms to stay put until geralt returned, no matter how late into the next day that happened to be.

so, thoroughly convinced that geralt was exaggerating, jaskier made himself right at home in their camp far from the nearest road, setting to strumming away at his lute and trying out varying tunes on roach, tethered nearby. nothing odd at all.

he remained thoroughly convinced of that fact until dusk began to fall, scarcely thirty minutes ago.

now, as darkness encroaches slowly on the light cast by the crackling campfire, jaskier finds he has far less motivation to keep playing his lighthearted songs. it’s been quite some time since he faced a night without geralt nearby, let alone a night in the woods...

“well, roach, nothing for it but to make the most of it,” he says aloud. the mare nickers in his general direction, though she’s more focused on the grass at her hooves. “some conversationalist you are, dear.”

he sighs and sets his lute aside, back into its case. geralt always positions them near a stream if he can help it - surely no harm will come of wandering a short ways in any direction, as long as he keeps the glow of the campfire in sight. perhaps i should have asked before he ran off.

it is not yet full nightfall, but the woods around their little clearing are dark and deep even still. shadows creep ever closer to the campfire even as he stands, making to head past roach into the dark. perhaps he should have thought to clean the dust of the road from himself before the sun started its descent, but hindsight is perfect vision, as they say.

he makes it no more than ten strides into the forest before, off in the distance, something howls.

jaskier freezes, then backpedals until he’s safely within the firelight again. “perhaps it’s best not,” he says with a shaky laugh. roach flicks an ear toward him.

funny that she doesn’t react to the beast in the woods. even though she’s brave as can be, she will still get a little restless when monsters come a-calling.

well. maybe geralt asked her to take special care of him, or... or something.

with another sigh, jaskier unravels his bedroll and lays it out as close to the fire as he possibly dares, both for warmth - it’s nearing the days of samhain, and the air has gone cold - and for the comfort of the light. he settles himself crosslegged atop the fabric, deciding he may as well shine the wood of his lute while he waits for it to be late enough to truly slumber.

nobody, particularly not roach, needs to know that, suddenly, he is far too nervous to sleep.

he manages to lose track of time, the polishing of his lute long since having become a repetitive motion meant to keep the monsters at bay.

he loses track of time, that is, until a low growl comes from the trees at his back.

jaskier freezes, lifting his head.

across the way, roach doesn’t seem to give a fuck.

“roach,” he hisses, “you’d warn me, wouldn’t you? you’d warn me?”

she flicks an ear in his direction.

jaskier is alone.

bracing himself to face his death, jaskier slowly turns to look over his shoulder.

his heart drops.

the beast at the edge of the forest’s depths is more wolf than man, easily the size of a fucking draft horse, though it’s bent low to the earth, powerful legs folded under itself in a strange mockery of a normal stance. jaskier knows better than to label it a werewolf - he’s seen those before with geralt, and this...

this is something new.

its thick, heavy pelt is a shade of white that all but glows in the moonlight, though there’s... there’s blood, he realizes dazedly, staining its maw and sharp-clawed hands.

it crouches low just beyond the firelight’s reach, unnaturally golden eyes fixated on jaskier.

jaskier is afraid.

“h - hello, wolfie,” he stammers out, setting his lute aside as slowly as he can. he pivots to face the beast fully, grimacing when the wolf’s lips curl back into a snarl. “okay, not moving, not moving... maybe you’d rather have, uh... uh, rabbit? surely there’s plenty of those around - “

the growl the creature gives is loud enough that jaskier feels it in his fucking bones.

“maybe not rabbit, then... i can’t offer the horse, geralt would kill me - “

the beast cocks its head to one side, and its growl subsides.

jaskier scarcely has time to wonder at this before the wolf is in motion; he doesn’t realize the ensuing scream comes from himself until he feels his throat ache with it. this is it, this is the end -

a heavy weight bowls him over, and the air is fucking punched from his lungs; jaskier feels dizzy when he realizes the wolf’s strange hand is large enough to cover his damn torso in its entirety. he sucks in a shallow, frightened breath as he is pinned flat, as he feels the tips of massive black claws dig into his ribs.

“surely we can bargain,” he wheezes, praying to the fucking gods that geralt heard him scream. “surely you don’t intend to eat me, i taste horrid, i...”

he trails off when the wolf lowers its head to level with his own. cornflower eyes lock with unholy amber. the wolf breathes in deep, and jaskier knows it’s not just his imagination - every puff of air is growing rougher, more shallow.

something heavy and cool knocks against his chest when the wolf closes the rest of the gap between its snout and jaskier’s face; a rough tongue laves its way up the side of his neck and jaw. jaskier splutters out an indignant sound, though he’s still as good as fucking paralyzed with fear.

tasting its prey, no doubt.

but rather than bite his head off, the beast moves lower down jaskier’s frame, those thick and powerful legs and arms flexing as it maintains its low crouch. the hand braced against his torso stays planted there, and jaskier knows better than to fight. maybe it’ll lose interest.

he flinches away when the beast’s wet nose shoves up into the hollow of his neck, bewildered by the unmistakable way it’s scenting him. “if you’re going to eat me, by the gods, get it over with - “

he breaks off with a startled gasp when the wolf’s nose slides lower, when he feels the scrape of massive teeth against his collarbone where his chemise is open as always. “were you never taught not to play with your food?”

the creature gives a snort that sounds rather irritated - and rather familiar - and jaskier immediately silences himself.

fear morphs into confusion when the beast’s hand curls, when the point of one claw hooks into the open v of his chemise and pulls. jaskier fights his own indignation when the fabric tears, leaving his chest bared.

in the next instant, he’s gasping aloud, hands fisting tightly into the grass at his sides, for the wolf’s tongue has swiped over his left nipple, with far too much deliberation for it to be a monster toying with its prey. “what are you - “

the wolf licks him again, slower now, and jaskier blames adrenaline on the strangled whine he gives. seemingly satisfied, the wolf moves its hand lower along jaskier’s bared torso, and he trembles in spite of himself at the feeling of its paw pads dragging against his skin. he gasps again, louder than before, when the creature braces its hand across his hips, the heel pressed firm to his cock - which, he realizes now, is stirring in spite of himself.

where the everloving hell is geralt when you need him?

the creature is moving lower on his body now, licking steadily over every point that makes him tremble and whine. jaskier’s hands itch to grab at the fur growing thick on its head when it laves its tongue along the thin trail of hair leading to the waist of his trousers; whether to push it away or draw it closer, he doesn’t know. “not that i’m c - complaining,” he breathes out, only to whimper when the wolf moves its hand lower still and noses against his groin, “but what the fuck?”

surely he’s imagining the exasperated look in those eyes when they flick up to glare at him.

surely he’s dreaming this all.

before jaskier can work this out with himself, the wolf’s claws are hooking into the waist of his trousers; oddly enough, it seems that the beast actually is making an effort to pull them off the proper way, though its claws inevitably catch, and the fabric inevitably tears.

thank the gods it wasn’t my cock, jaskier thinks wildly, pushing himself up onto his elbows to watch with wide and disbelieving eyes as the beast noses against his inner thigh. the touch is icy cold, and he whimpers aloud, reflexively drawing away - only to freeze when huge and heavy hands brace on his thighs, pushing them apart and pinning them down. “right, right, of course...”

the brush of the beast’s tongue along his half-hard length is enough to make him yelp in earnest, fists going tight in the grass. “no, no, let’s not, let’s not - “

but it’s too late. the wolf is already at work, laving its huge tongue over him steadily; there isn’t much room for finesse with a canid tongue that’s more limp weight than true muscle, but it’s large enough to cover jaskier entirely with a single swipe, and it’s goddamn maddening.

jaskier hates himself for growing hard in mere seconds.

hazily, in the instant before he drops his head back and moans, he thinks he sees the silver of a chain glinting around the beast’s neck, among its fur.

the brush of teeth makes jaskier go tense, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to protest, but it’s too late, yet again. the beast is already slipping his cock into its maw, and the wet heat surrounding him is enough to make jaskier keen. he gives up on staying upright, on resisting, and lets himself fall back flat, his hips arching into the sensations.

the beast’s hands tighten on his thighs, and he knows he doesn’t imagine a low, reassuring growl, for the vibrations around his cock make him sob out another moan. his hands fly down to tangle into thick white fur at the base of pointed ears.

the wolf groans, and jaskier feels it in his bones.

it takes all the strength he has not to rock up into the creature’s maw; only the fear of those sharp, sharp teeth keeps him restrained. he can only lay there arching and crying as the wolf works him over steadily with its tongue, as the wolf swallows around him and makes him see fucking stars.

his senses are overloaded far beyond their limits; he feels as though he’s going to break apart, as though this otherworldly beast is going to ruin him, here and now.

it comes as no surprise that he lasts only a few minutes before it all becomes too much to bear; his hips finally convulse when he comes, but the wolf’s teeth avoid him somehow. jaskier lays there, sobbing and gasping, as the wolf swallows him down.

he’s still catching his breath when the beast draws off, moving back up the length of his body - though it doesn’t need to move far, considering it’s easily twice his size. he opens his eyes, though his vision is still hazy, meeting golden orbs that have gone dark with desire.

this time, when the wolf runs its tongue up the length of his neck, he tilts his head back immediately, baring himself entirely. when he feels the wolf shift its stance, when he feels a hot and heavy weight against the length of his hip, he breathes out a weak and ragged moan, closing his eyes and letting his legs splay limp.

there’s no point in fighting, after all, not when he already knows he’ll beg and whine like a bitch in heat for the beast above him.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier kinktober 2020 #geraskier kinktober #day twenty-four #monster #monster geralt #werewolf geralt #inhuman geralt #my fics

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estellaelysian · 3 years

Text

It burns (Ethan x MC)

A/N: This is super self indulgent and doesn’t lead anywhere so proceed on your own risk

**********

The alcohol scorched down his throat as he let his mind wander in the memories of the day, which seemed too distant now that it was over. Evening shaded into night beyond the red-brick walls of the bar – which were lined with numerous neon signs, the glow spilling onto nearby tables and people. Ethan chased the shadow of Alishka as his mind jumped from one moment to the next in all those where they had interacted with each other over the day. The image of her deep green eyes, wavy brown hair and full lips remained forever etched into his mind, giving him warmth like an eternal flame would.

It was late when he made it to this bar – Russo and Dale – but it was also when he found Boston the most loveable, shimmering in the glow of night, her streets thrumming with life and beating hearts and cheerfulness. He had taken an unnecessary walk from the hospital to his destination, wanting to feel anonymous in the dull crowd of people who were walking down the street. The permanence of the aged buildings, the restored Victorian row-houses surrounding English-style corners and the glowing yellow street lamps in South End seemed to give somewhat of a reassurance to his bruised and tired soul as he weaved his way among the sea of strangers. Walking wearily past dark shops, while the sky turned to a deep blue-black above him, he tried to find solace in the anonymity.

But now, at long last, when he found himself alone again, the unease returned, stronger than ever. He took a sip of the amber liquid, then another and then a third, but nothing seemed to ease him as he listened to the determined thud of a bass from the neighboring dive-bar. The foolish chatter around him did not drown out the rising voices inside his head – her voice and his, as they had argued in his office long into the afternoon.

That one argument had been enough to disrupt the entire balance he had built with the same woman whom he had disappointed today. But it was a mutual disappointment. She had been irrelevant to.

Shaking his head, he took another sip, letting the alcohol burn down his throat as he stared – quite intently – at the marble counter in front of him. It was amazing really, that the woman from whom he drew his strength could also be one of his greatest weaknesses. That was exactly why he had retired to his old office in the afternoon. He had lost focus, so instead of looking into patient care, he thought drowning himself into paperwork would help.

But indeed, it had not. Did it ever?

His mind, like a blissful dog scampering back to its lamppost, seemed to be stuck at the argument – making assumptions about the way she sounded, acted, spoke – no matter how much he tried to distract himself. Everything blurred around him, as if he had tuned out from his surroundings.

Why, he thought, was it so necessary for her to be insistent about things that did not matter to him? To latch onto one subject and stretch it until his patience snapped?

Or had he been truly unreasonable this time?

Oh dear God…

He swirled the gleaming liquid in its glass slowly before taking another sip, intent on numbing his brain, only that it refused from being so. Over and over again, her voice tortured him from deep inside; calling him out on the stubborn asshole he was before fading, only to return for the millionth time.

But wasn’t that the point of tonight? To get as far away as he could from the hospital, go to a bar in South End, and let the alcohol ease his pain and anxiety.

The door opened and someone stepped in, bringing together a cool Boston breeze and faint traces of wildflowers. Though his senses seemed unnaturally sharpened at this point, his eyes remained glued to his glass. But just a few seconds later, he found the woman right beside him, the scent of wildflowers much more perceptible.

Green flashed in his mind, deep and comforting, as he connected the scent, almost instinctively, to the one person it reminded him of.

Hold yourself, Ramsey.

In his peripheral vision, he saw the woman flag down the bartender and order a rainbow colored cocktail before turning away for a moment or two.

‘Quite the pain-relief, isn’t it?’ she asked in a mellifluous, sweet voice which fell like honey onto his tongue.

He could swear it was Alishka’s voice, but maybe he had dived too deep into the alcohol pain-relief. He had started imagining things.

Sensing that she was probably still expecting an answer, he nodded before looking straight at her.

And almost immediately, thought of Alishka Roy, even though he had put up a boundary between him and those insistent, maddening thoughts.

He didn’t realize it at first, but that smile – he would recognize it anywhere, anytime, no matter how detached he was.

But Alishka?

Nonsense. He was losing his mind.

‘I should’ve guessed my boss would come here after the much-exhausting day he faced at work today. It would’ve atleast saved me the time I spent wandering about.’

He raised his eyes to her face again. This was not an illusion. She was real, he thought, as he glanced at her hot coral lips which now wore an amused smile. He was not dreaming.

But why would she feel the need to wander about for him?

Do you really need an answer for that, dimwit, his mind chided.

‘Ofcourse you’d follow me here too,’ he said bluntly, battling away the sweeter responses, raising the glass to his lips.

‘You are not my boss outside of work, Dr. Ramsey. It is my freewill to do as I want to once I step outside the hospital.’

He looked up at her again, a smirk curling the corners of his lips. ‘Says the woman who bothers me all the same, inside or out.’

She made a dismissive wave, an easy laughter leaving her. ‘You’ve got a horrid sense of humor,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that is why everyone is terrified of you, even now.’

The last two words stung with an unimaginable burn, questioning the character he had spent years to build.

‘What do you mean, “even now”?’ he asked, the words coming out much more defiant than he wanted them to.

She smiled a benevolent smile as the bartender dropped off her cocktail, which smelled strongly of Pernod. Raising the glass up to meet her lips with tantalizing slowness, she said, ‘Even now, when they’ve learned that you can love something, someone more than medicine. Wholeheartedly.’

He choked on his drink involuntarily, but she went on, as if she hadn’t heard him at all. ‘And yet, at the same time, you can manage to be incredibly bitter to that someone.’

She took a long gulp of her cocktail, and again, before he could respond to her grievances, she said, ‘But anyway, I am not here to discuss that.’

Play pretend, he thought.

‘And why exactly, is it that you are here?’

‘Same as you. Pain-relief. My boss can be a real bore sometimes,’ she answered with the faintest traces of a smirk.

Let’s hear it now, shall we. ‘Who is your boss?’ he asked, going along with her little game.

‘Some world class, renowned, grumpy attending diagnostician.’

He liked how she complimented him and got a dig at him in the same sentence.

‘He seems to have a stressful job,’ he said, looking over the glass to her heavenly features, painted in the neon glow of the bar.

‘That he likes to imply. He is good at what he does.’

He nodded, trying to contemplate her answer, thinking that there would be traces of sarcasm in her answer, but found none.

‘Cheers to that,’ he said, clinking her glass with his own, their fingers brushing slightly, setting his body ablaze with the kind of fire that raged through forests. It was the closest they had got to touching that day, morning apart.

He finished the scotch in one long sip under her watchful gaze. Torture or bliss, there was no answer.

Though dulled by the excesses of the alcohol, he felt anger rise inside his body at the men who made glances in her direction, from a distance or even as they passed her. She seemed to draw much more gazes today than she did usually.

What exactly was it? Her rich brown hair, inching down her back, or those emerald eyes that gleamed with cleverness? And why, every time, did his jealousy had him to do things which he shouldn’t have been doing?

He didn’t know.

What he did know, was that he wouldn’t let those men even get near her.

So he raised a hand to her face, smoothing away stray strands of hair and tucking them behind her ear.

If she was surprised, she did not show it, but a lovely blush spread out on her cheeks, spreading down to her graceful neck and uncovered shoulders. She eyed him with a raised eyebrow, and he willfully ignored all the ideas that look gave him. Tonight was different. Even if they left the bar together, they would part ways almost as soon as they were outside, walking down in opposite directions.

Tonight they were fighting, even though it was different.

Even if he had to have his heart tugged and pulled and then torn, tonight was different.

Her emeralds met his sapphires, curious and bewitching.

He wished he could kiss those perfectly painted lips and ruin that makeup.

‘How about we make a deal then,’ she asked, setting down the glass on the paper napkin that was left on the shiny marble counter. ‘Tonight, let’s forget everything. Let’s forget that you are my irritating boss, let’s forget that I am a – what did you call me? – ah, bothersome resident. Let’s forget those men staring down at me from the opposite corner of the bar. Let’s put a pause on this battlefield, even though I am sure I can outwit you in every way, and let’ go home together.’

That was a tempting offer.

The suggestive tone and the desire burning plain in her eyes ignited his need for her.

How could he not resist her, even a single night?

His voice came out dusky when he spoke again. ‘Let’s put them topics to bed, and go fuck on the roof.’

Just to say that we did.

She smiled. ‘I’d rather your body than half of your heart,’ she said, quoting the song back to him, her voice the sweetest he had ever heard it to be.

Ethan blinked. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell her that he was far from fighting or if he wanted to claim those lips, right now, right here.

Then he saw, over her shoulder, a man whisper something to another before looking at her neck. He felt disgusted as his gaze traveled lower and lower. He was suddenly overcome by the desire to punch him in his filthy face, but he kept his expression carefully neutral, not betraying a single of the feelings he was feeling at that exact moment.

‘Let’s go home then,’ he announced, rising at once and reaching for her hand.

He led her outside into the cool crisp Boston night and she only felt justified in flagging down a cab to the way home, though it wasn’t that far away.

They could’ve walked there.

But then he wouldn’t get to do as he willed right in the cab, as he decided he need not waste a single minute of the time he had been gifted, by incidence or co-incidence, all the same. He failed to keep his hands to himself in the darkened cab, momentarily being illuminated by headlights and taillights of the passing traffic, as he crowed her into a corner, evoking soft moans. He watched her, bathed in red light, her sequined top glittering as the light shifted against her profile. Her eyes met his and he lost his sane, his coherent thoughts reducing to a small compass in his brain. Her lips commanded his attention, and he pressed his lips against them, evoking a gentle sigh as their breaths mingled. Her soft fingers grazed his rough beard as her hand rested against his cheek.

The music masked their muffled whispers and moans, but he could feel the drivers eyes, moving with unnecessary regularity, from the road ahead to the rearview mirror.

Even in the elevator, they stumbled, failing from keeping themselves from touching each other. The button to the thirteenth floor was pressed before he felt the soft pressure of her lips against his own. Her tongue was cool and sweet and tasted of Pernod.

‘Alishka…’ he managed to say between the kisses. ‘Why do we fight at all?’

‘Because we are …’ a little giggle. ‘Both … very stubborn …’

A few seconds later they stood at his door, which was unlocked with haste and shut close with a loud bang. The moment they stepped inside, he dipped his head and closed his lips over hers.

‘Nothing makes sense without you…’ he murmured into her ear, proceeding to tug her tight against him.

‘Then accept your defeat …’ she returned immediately, making a quick work of his shirt buttons. ‘But then again, we’ve called a temporary pause on this battlefield, haven’t we.’

Albeit reluctantly, he agreed. ‘We have.’

He led her to the bedroom, helping her out of her clothes before easing her down on the mattress gently, deciding the bitterness and pain had been enough for the day. The night had to be different.

Slow, gentle hands grazed the newly exposed skin with caresses too soft, before he leaned down on her, gazing into her eyes, letting his forehead rest against hers.

‘I love you.’

She giggled again. ‘I love you too.’

**********

Kudos to you guys if you made it out of this chaotic mess my brain put together. I honestly don’t know how this happened, but I guess it’s just me after a full, very real college day with loads of note-taking.

Tagging: @tenaciouslandvoidgiant @choicesaddict5 @schnitzelbutterfingers @starrystarrytrouble

Let me know if you want to be added or removed.

#ethan x mc #ethan ramsey #open heart #playchoices #choices

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inclementweather · 3 years

Text

Give that man a hand!

Engie looked at the piece of barbed wire he’d kicked loose from the dirt. It was coated in red dust, dull and rusty, the barbs eaten by rust until they were delicate crumbles of metal, looking as though they would fall apart at a touch. Until his boot caught on the raised twist of wire, it had been a great day for a battle. Now, not so much. He closed his eyes, trying to shake the memories he’d dug up with the length of wire but unable to. Engie groaned and picked the piece of wire up, flinging it as far away from him and his nest as possible. Walking back to his sentry, he sat in the meager shade provided by a rock and leaned his head back, deliberately slowing his breathing, concentrating on the cool stone against the back of his head.

Closing his eyes, he drifted off, lulled by the warm sun, the familiar scents of dust and gunpowder. He let his mind wander and quickly found himself back in the rundown old barn on his dad’s ranch in Texas. He was young, not even tall enough to see over the stall doors yet, but he could hear the occasional rustle of mice in the stalls as he walked. He climbed up the ladder into the hayloft, hiding from his chores for a moment of uninterrupted play, something that didn’t come often on the busy ranch.

Settling down into the soft layer of hay that covered the loft, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the toy soldiers he’d brought along, lining them up on a spot he’d cleared on the floor. He sneezed, ignoring the dust motes dancing in the golden rays of sunlight that came through cracks in the walls. He turned his head, listening for a moment as his Pa called him in the distance. He could pretend he didn’t hear, he decided. He might get a whipping later for shirking his chores, but it would be worth it. Mind made up, he turned back to his toys.

He’d been playing for about a half hour when he heard the meow. Moving into a crouch, he listened carefully. He could hear them, kittens nearby. Trying to be silent, he began moving toward the sound. He loved the barn cats that lurked on the farm, half feral and skittish as hell, but they would occasionally let him run fingers through their soft fur, purring loudly until their pride overtook them and they darted off, watching him from a distance.

He moved down the ladder, following the soft meows, hoping that he could find the kitten and maybe catch it, tame it down, and make it a friend. He grinned as he caught a glimpse of grey fur moving through the shadows. He darted after the movement, rewarded when the kitten wandered into the open area behind the barn. He crouched beside the door as it batted at a leaf, making him smile with it’s antics. The kitten looked up then and froze, back arching as it saw him.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” He kept his voice soft and low, not wanting to startle it any more than he already had. The kitten moved away from him, fur glowing blue grey under the warm Texas sun. He moved toward it in a crouch, fingers wiggling on the ground by his feet. He continued to make soft noises deep in his throat, imagining how the fur would feel on his fingers.

The kitten looked tempted for a moment, then backed away, edging toward the manure pit behind the barn. He followed, nose wrinkling at the thick odor of decaying manure, but not wanting to give up on the kitten just yet. He edged closer, the kitten slowly retreating. He was almost within reach, nearly able to feel that soft fur on his fingers. The pit loomed behind the kitten, dark and malevolent, edges going nearly straight down. His pa had warned him about the pit, that it was deep and not a place for boys to play, though he couldn’t imagine why anyone would willingly get too close to that big pile of nasty. He understood the need for it, he was a farm kid and knew that manure was the best fertilizer around, not to mention cheap and easy to come by on a ranch, but still, when the wind shifted in the evenings and blew the smell toward the house, even his mama, the most proper woman he’d ever met, would utter a curse word or two.

He watched the kitten edge closer to the pit, then jump up on one of the fence posts that supported the barbed wire that kept unwitting cattle from wandering into the pit. With a grin, he straightened and walked over to it, reaching out for the kitten. His fingers just brushed the soft fur when the ground he was standing on began to crumble. He yelled and staggered back but his shirt sleeve snagged on the barbed wire and he couldn’t get it free as the ground collapsed beneath him.

He screamed as he fell, the scream abruptly cut off as his head was submerged beneath the horrid, partly liquid surface of the pit. He could feel the burning sting of cuts as the barbed wire raked up his arm, a coil of it slipping around his wrist and catching him, preventing him from sinking all the way beneath the dark surface. His head broke the top of the pit, he dragged in great gasps of foul air as he tried to make his way to the bank. He couldn’t move, his arm snagged under the surface of the pit, the cruel stricture of barbed wire sinking deeper into his wrist, pulling him further down and then, something grabbed his leg, holding him tightly.

The boy panicked then, kicking and flailing against whatever was holding him, feeling it tighten around his leg, hard barbs sinking deeper into his flesh, pulling at him. He tired quickly, one hand wrapped in the coils that stretched down from above, one leg held under the surface, his foot balanced precariously on the wood of the fence post as he panted and heaved in his terror, eyes fixed on the edge of the pit.

He whimpered as he tilted his head back, chin just above the viscous surface of the muck filling the pit and coughed, a gout of black fluid coming out of his throat and spewing back to land on his filth covered cheeks. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement, turning his head a bit he looked at the tarry black surface of the pit. White worms were crawling in the muck, their slight weight not allowing them to sink. He clamped his mouth shut as his brain identified them, maggots, swarming in the mire, growing and eating, flies buzzing above the surface as the maggots transformed, ate more, then laid eggs in the effluvia, an endless circle of death and grotesqueness. He gagged through his clenched lips, swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat.

Above him, the strand of barbed wire ensnaring his wrist twanged at the tension on it and he briefly wondered what would happen if it broke. He’d seen a guitar string break once, leaving a bleeding welt across his uncle’s cheek. He tried to focus on his hand, the fingers turning purple as the wire tightened even more, cutting off the flow of blood to his fingers, leaving them thick purple sausages sticking straight up. He grimaced as flies landed on them, covering them in a moving black glove, hiding the color, if not the distended shape of them.

Moving slightly, he shifted his weight, wincing at the sting in his leg as whatever had hold of him tightened below the surface. To his left, a bubble rose to the surface and popped, the flatulent sound drawing his eyes. He rolled them and watched as more bubbles rose, then something big, moving toward the surface, breaching like a whale and rolling over. He bit back a scream as he stared into empty eye sockets, the cow’s skull seeming to stare at him for a moment, streaks of glistening foulness creating rivulets like black tears as they poured from the empty sockets. The skull settled, watching him as it slowly sank back below the surface. He screamed, knowing what was wrapped around his leg now, it had to be a tentacle.

He’d watched enough Twilight Zone to know about vengeful ghosts and their hatred of the living, read his cousin’s Tales From The Crypt comics, knew what had happened. The cow had died in here, drowning slowly and with no one to help and now the soul was trapped and sucking down anyone wary enough to fall in. He could feel his mind teetering on the edge of sheer panic at the thought, the ghostly barbs of the Death Cow digging deeper into his leg, wanting to watch him go under, wanting to suck his soul out the way he sucked on a juicy slice of watermelon, devouring it hungrily. It was too much. He gave in to the screams.

He wasn’t aware of the barbed wire wrapping ever tighter around his wrist, the trapped blood causing the ends of his fingers to explode, bright red fountaining out and spraying the pit’s dark surface, wasn’t aware of the fence post slipping under his foot as he slid off his precarious perch. He was only aware that he was sinking, the Death Cow tightening it’s grip around his leg, dragging him down into the murky depths where he would lay unfound forever. His screams turned to choking sobs, fetid liquid oozing into his mouth, down his throat. He couldn’t breathe, lungs filling as his head went under.

He didn’t know when the big hand wrapped around his, grasping the blood and muck covered slickness, dragging him back to the surface, and then heaving him to the shore, was unaware that his leg was shredded as the weight of the fencepost tightened the barbed wire wrapping his thigh and dragged it down, slicing as it went. He wasn’t aware of the panic as his Pa and his Uncles carried him up to the house, unconscious, barely breathing, dripping blood and black water with every step. He was aware of nothing until he woke up, two weeks later, in a pristine white bed in a sterile white hospital room, his hand missing, amputated after gangrene set into the damaged and shredded appendage.

After he was out, they told him how the bank had been eaten under where he stood, causing it to collapse, how the barbed wire from the fence post had entangled him, simultaneously damning and saving him. Even after they told him, he couldn’t look at barbed wire without a nameless dread filling his chest, the ghost of the foulness he drowned in filling his lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

Engie’s eyes jerked open and he sprang up with a start, his beer bottle tipping over and pale golden fluid wetting the dry earth. He sighed, righted the bottle with his mechanical hand, gaze lingering on it for a moment.

“Hey man, you alright?” a voice asked from behind him and he turned to look at the Scout standing there, bat over his shoulder, eying the mess askance. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He hoped the boy didn’t hear the slight tremble in his voice. “Just thinking about when I was a kid. Why don’t you get out there and do something ‘stead of hanging around here and scaring old men while they nap?” He let the aggressive tone cover the tremble, narrowing his eyes behind the goggles. “Go on, boy, war ain’t gonna win itself.”

“Jeez, man, whatever.” The boy turned and stalked off, and Engie watched him go. When he was out of sight, he glanced down at his metal hand one more time.

“Fuck barbed wire.” he muttered, then turned back to his work.

#whumptober2021 #no.1 #barbed wire #Team Fortress 2 #writing/fanfiction #childhood trauma #near death #drowning #amputation #flashback

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yanderepuck · 4 years

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Okay so like I was thinking and how do you think the boys would react to the mysteries surrounding Vincent? Would he explain them?? Why did he really cut his ear off and how tf did he die?

OKAY. SO I NEVER STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS. I MADE A POST ABOUT IT

SO BEFORE I GET INTO THIS

TW!!!!!! DEPRESSION AND SUICIDE!!!!!!

I’M GOING TO REPEAT QUITE A FEW THINGS FROM THE POST I LINKED BUT I’M ALSO GONNA GO MORE INTO DETAIL

First off, I want to say becoming a vampire probably stopped the attacks he had, no one really know what he had, but they called them attacks. Yeah he’s a happy pure ray of sunshine, but he’s actually bipolar(manic-depressive) and still has schizophrenia. However it isn’t as bad as it use to be. However the only ones who are aware of this are Theo, Comte, and Sebas obviously. Leonardo might know something is up with Vinc, but doesn’t know details, but he won’t pray unless if something happens. I imagine Will knows something is up with Vinc as well since they spend a lot of time alone together.

He pushed himself really hard and is really hard on himself, which is a reason why Theo is always working so hard to get his work displayed and noticed. In his first life Vincent never got to see his work on display as far as i am aware of, so Theo tries to do that now because he knows how hard Vincent is on himself and wants him to know that people love his art and tries telling him how beautiful it is, not only because he is his brother, but because he has talent.

Theo is always very worried about his big brother. He tires himself out everyday until he can barely stay awake. This is because Vincent figured out that if he keeps himself busy, he won’t fall into a manic depression. Just having a little bit of a break could lead to his mind wandering and going down some deep hole and triggering a depressive episode. And just because he’s a vampire, doesn’t mean he can’t hurt himself.

Theo, Comte, Sebas, and maybe Leonardo are the only ones who actually know how he died (Dazai might know from his first life, that depends on wither or not he knows of him). They are also aware of him being in a hospital multiple times for suicide attempts. It’s not like they would ever talk about it, but it is in the back of their head in case if he ever does get into a manic depressive state, or if he even starts to have hallucinations again.

Now how does this tie in with Ikevamp lore??? Well Vinc was meant to be this perfect child, and was told that the first baby died, gave him the same name and had huge expectations, plus he’s the eldest, so there’s already high expectations there, now you add on to how horrid his parents were. Yeah he came off as this smart intelligent kid, who just always seemed to be happy, but deep down he was depressed as all hell. He would questions wither or not he’s good enough, what does he keep doing wrong, why don’t his parents love him. All of that. And yes he suppressed all of those negative emotions so that he believes that he doesn’t feel them, but that’s because when he comes out of a depressive episode, he doesn’t even remember it happening. He can’t remember the last week or month, or even months where he was depressed and did nothing but lay in his room.

When this does happen, Vincent won’t even talk to Theo. He covers his giant window so that his room is dark and will basically only lay on his couch. Theo will try to get Vincent out of it but Vincent will put no effort into trying to dig himself out of that hole. But no matter how long it lasts Theo will check up on him everyday to make sure he hasn’t done anything to hurt himself. Theo and Sebastian might even go to the point of taking his paints out of his room while he’s asleep so that he doesn’t try eating it again to poison himself. It is hard to even get him to eat, maybe once a day.

Vincent will be curled up on his couch, and Theo will come in and sit on the floor in front of him and try to talk to him, maybe lean his head on his back and he just prays that Vincent will say something back to him. Sometimes it takes Theo everything he has not to loose it, something he just wants to yell and ask why he’s doing this, why won’t he talk to him, and things like that, but he knows it won’t help. It’ll only make Vincent push Theo away more during this time.

He would still draw during this time. He’d grab a sketch book and maybe charcoal or just a pencil and make these horrific drawings, it’s like those nightmare drawings people will make when their emotions are super strong, idk how else to describe it. He might even draw things the hallucinations would say to him, or show him. When he’s in this depressive episode, the hallucinations will start again. Even when he isn’t in a depressive state he will get night terrors that will wake him up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night

He could go years without one of these episodes, so when it does happen it hits hard. The other residents will point out that they haven’t see Vincent for a few days, maybe even a week by this point, but Theo will laugh it off and tell them that with the painting he is working on, he’s so invested into it that he can’t step away. When he finally snaps out of it, he’s in the manic phase and full of energy, these few days after the depression is what causes him for forget everything that just happened. It can take a month of a manic episode before things go back to normal. Even if the residents ask Comte about it, Comte says that he doesn’t know anything about it, even though him and Theo are trying to figure out a way to get him out of it.

I stated earlier that Will probably knows that something is up with Vinc. So when Will doesn’t hear or see him for a month or more he starts to get worried. He loves inviting Vincent over and seeing his paintings and inviting him to his plays. One time the depressive episode lasted nearly a whole year, and that’s when others started to question what was going on. Will had sent letters to the mansion and never got a reply, Vincent never stopped by, and that isn’t like him, not at all. So Will decides to stop by, at this point Vinc hasn’t been seen for nearly three months. Of course Theo doesn’t want to tell Will what is going on and tell him that Vinc is fine and tries to close the door on him, but nope. Will puts his foot in the door and tells Theo that he isn’t leaving until he sees Vincent.

It is also around this time that everyone else is wondering why they haven’t seen him. They will see Brush roaming the halls, but they can’t recall the last time they saw Vincent taking his paints and canvas outside to paint. Arthur would be the first to question, and he’d go directly to Theo. Of course Theo won’t actually tell him what is going on. It isn’t until Will shows up demanding to see Vincent that he knows for sure that it is something serious.

I imagine Will going to Vinc’s room, with Theo following him, trying to stop him. But when Will goes to open Vinc’s door, it’s locked. Which then Theo starts to internally freak out. He didn’t check on Vincent this morning because he had something things he had to handle and then the time flew by. Will is knocking on the door calling Vincent’s name but there’s no reply. Soon Theo is externally freaking out. He never locks his door, so he can only think of something horrible happening.

*DEEP BREATH*

Vinc tried killing himself but I won’t make you read that unless if you really want me to, cause I lowkey really want to write it

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rachywritessomething · 3 years

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Part 1

Sava didn’t like the desert.

She knew she wasn’t made for it. It was too bright and even as the world slowly turned itself to something cooler and not quite so unforgiving, the desert was still too harsh for even a creature like herself. Yet she had no desire for anything, so she followed Leo as he went digging in the sand with the rest of the caravan, their numbers searching for something of the world before.

It wasn’t all bad. Sava had only to sit on the ruins of some wall and keep her bloody eyes out for anything that could hurt Leo. There were lots of things that could hurt the little man: the crawlers in the sand, the stones of the walls at risk of falling, even thieves and other treasure hunters. The last of which rarely dared pass a second glance at the man when they realized who was casting a shadow over him.

Or rather, what.

Sava knew people didn’t like her. It had been something she had grown to accept as the years drug on. In this century at least she could keep enough memory to be mindful of the things they hated most about her. They didn’t like her bloody eyes, they didn’t like her cold skin -though that was becoming ever warmer by the decade- and they didn’t like her imposing size. One of Leo’s forefathers had once explained that she was made to be large, towering, and terrible, it was what gave her purpose.

At least she could remember things now. Many memories of her first years were only of her maker calling her by name and laughing.

Leo didn’t look like her maker. He was a spindly man who was far too gentle for making abominations. But just as his ancestor, he kept her around for protection and used her when ugly things had to be done. Sava wasn’t sure if she hated the man. There was a word an elf once used toward her… contempt, yes. Perhaps she felt contempt for Leo.

It didn’t matter though. She did not want to leave any more than she wanted to stay, so she remained where she was, obedient and becoming ever more intelligent with every new generation of charges.

“Sava, come down.”

The spindly man waved at her from the bottom of the trench. The diggers around him barreled the sand away from the hole they were forming so they could search for… what was it they were looking for? She wasn’t sure they had ever told her what it was and the more she considered it, the more sense it made to her that they wouldn’t have. The thought that she had not forgotten something but rather made an assumption almost made her smile. I’m learning...

Sava pushed herself off the high wall and fell thirty feet to the bottom of the trench, landing in a crouch that split the knees of her canvas pants. The barrel pushers parted for her as she walked over to Leo.

“I need you to go into the cavern,” he said, looking up at her through squinted eyes. His were the sort of dark that would do well in the garish light, probably the kind eyes that had come with her original form before they were damaged and bloodied. The thought of having beautiful, dark eyes like that had been a fleeting fantasy of hers, fleeting only because she realized that she did have those eyes, she would not be able to see them as often.

Sava looked beyond the man though, along the trench and to the place where the barrel pushers appeared to be ascending from. Then she looked back to him.

“What for?” There were many long years of dumb silence behind her that made the rattle of her own voice in her chest feel pleasent. It was hard to form many words at once, but she supposed in another century, she would be able to speak in long, poetic phrases and prattle until her voice faded.

“It smells like shit down there and no one else will do it,” Leo said impatiently. “You don’t have much of a nose for that kind of thing anyway.”

Sava flared her nostrils. “Like shit?”

“Not actual shit. It’s something else but it’s bad.” Leo grabbed her arm and pulled her in the direction of the chasm, parting even more of the barrel pushers. Sava watched them, feeling something close to satisfaction at watching them hurry past her out of fear.

The pit was more orderly than Sava had anticipated. There was a ramp spiraling down into the shadowy place, completely taken up by the workers and they would not have enough space to avoid her.

“Smells fine to me,” Sava said.

“Not this.” Leo gestured into the chasm impatiently. “The tunnel at the bottom. Go down and make sure nothing’s dying in there.”

Sava studied him, looking for a fear that would alert her to how cautious she should be. Not that Leo was the best human to gauge; his instinct was not as heightened as some of his ancestors. “Dying things can smell like shit.”

“Will you hurry up?”

Sava shrugged and checked her belt for the dagger before ruffling her human’s hair. “I will find the dying thing,” she promised before leaping into the pit.

This distance was jarring but Sava rolled on impact, settling on her hands and knees and peering into the tunnel, leading down into the bowels of the earth. Several excavators stood at the entry, and all of them stared at her with mixed expressions of fear, hatred, and disgust.

Sava stood and strode past them, ducking as she stepped into the tunnel. The small gathering took a step back, widening away from her as if she was the one who emitted the foul stench. Something was rotting though, and it was something she was only dimly familiar with.

One thing Sava realized about humans was their utter reliance on their eyesight. She herself was guilty of it often though she had plenty of other perfectly capable senses. She did not need a light in the dark because she could hear the length of the hallway by the way her breath echoed, she could feel the tremors of the solid stone under the soles of her boots, she could taste the age of a place untouched by the outside until today.

And she could smell a dying thing.

There was a difference between the dead and dying, though she had trouble distinguishing exactly what it was.

The tunnel angled downward, becoming ever more musky and untouched. Dust moved under her feet.

The stench reached that undeniable closeness when the corridor opened into a room. Sava stepped down three steps and into a circular chamber. Her eyes, growing used to the dark, made out the faint outlines of drawings on the walls. They, like the stench, were oddly familiar, and she brushed her hand over the wall until she found what she was looking for. Her fingers fell over a switch and flipped it up almost out of instinct.

Nothing happened.

Sava shrugged and stepped into the room, her eyes making out the details of a desk or a box in the middle, as if it was on display. It rose as high as her hips and was easily seven feet long, its width half that. When she ran her fingers over it, she found it was cold metal beneath a thick, sticky layer of dust.

She crouched down, wrinkling her nose at the stench, and felt the side of the structure until she found a small lip. It was almost perfect, but age and use had made it a little more evident. A little more searching and she found the partial curve of hinges.

Sava had found that with her retention of memory and the ability to accumulate knowledge was the occasional bout of curiosity. It was a very human sensation and it was one that led men to peril more often than reward, but still it was a powerful magic and as such, she gave into it when it came about. It was not just an investigative obligation, but a desire to throw herself into the perilous unknown.

It took no deliberation for her to round the box and fling it open.

The stench that had been pungent before hit her, choking her and making her reel back, gagging. Her eyes watered to the point of blindness and she hunched over, her body threatening to retch up the flavorless rations Leo had given her.

When she had enough bearing to stand up straight, she approached the box and peered into it, holding her breath. What she had expected before was a dying thing, what she knew awaited her was the decay after death. What she saw was neither.

The thing inside the box was decaying, her nose assured her of that much, but the lines of its form quivered like a child in the snow.

Sava leaned in, still saving her breath. The creature was… breathing.

Her hand wandered to the hilt of her dagger. “Do you live?”

From the box, bright, red eyes appeared, as deep as the color of blood. Before Sava could draw back, something grabbed her by the throat and pulled her down with considerable strength. It took the sheer will of her arms on the side of the box to hold herself away from the decaying thing, her dagger forgotten.

“Do you live?” It’s ragged voice came as nothing more than stirred. Sava wrenched herself away, clattering to the floor and breathing the horrid stench hard as her mind struggled for blood. She ripped the dagger from her sheath.

And the creature rose from the box, its eyes still glowing, narrowed, fixed on her. “Do you live?” it rasped again.

Sava pushed herself to her feet and stepped back, putting a safer distance between herself and this rotting thing. “I live,” she growled, raising her dagger threateningly. “More than you.”

It let out a shriek that reverberated off the walls and those red eyes flew closer. Sava managed to catch the slimy wrist before a hand could wrap around her throat again and swung the creature into the wall.

It crumpled and growled, glowing eyes still fixed on her. She raised her dagger again. “Do not make me kill you, dead thing.”

It lunged again, tackling her. Her dagger found its way into the thing’s stomach and something oozed over her hand, like sludge. Before it could bite at her throat, she caught its neck and squeezed, making it hack over her.

“Do not make me kill you!”

“Die, brother!” Its strangled words caught her off guard for just a moment, but before the decaying thing could do anything, Sava wrenched her hand up, disemboweling the creature on top of her.

Its red eyes stared at her for a moment, still wide with fury but without any indication of registering pain. Then they dimmed and the creature collapsed on her, still twitching and breathing.

“Release yourself, brother.” Sava threw the body off her and wrenched the dagger away only to drive it into one of those dimmed eyes. In the dark, it seemed to smile at her. So she pulled out her dagger again and turned it to the serrated side, laying it over the throat of the creature. “Do not call me brother,” she spat in sudden anger.

“We are brothers,” the creature whispered. “They just got you right.”

Sava found a fistfull of hair and drew the knife across the creature’s jugular, spraying blood. For a moment, it seemed it was laughing but it stopped as she used her blade to sever its neck.

Sava hefted the decapitated head up, staring into its gaping maw. “I am no brother to you,” she sneered as she stood. It was so very human to insist upon the last word but these days she felt like she was almost as human as any one of them pulled from a woman’s womb. Certainly more than this decaying thing.

She wiped her dagger on her canvas pants and resheathed it before walking out of the cave, surprised that she felt somewhat shaken by the encounter. Fear was a fun emotion to have sometimes, especially when it was unfounded.

In the welcome light of the sun, the diggers parted from her, some even running to evade her path. Now, more than before, they were horrified by her and some even screamed and retched at the sight of her.

Sava did not care. She walked around the long path out of the pit, pushing past anyone who could not smell her in time to dart ahead.

When she emerged into the main trench under the wall, she met Leo’s eyes, wide with shock and fear. It was strange; she had never known Leo to fear her though she supposed wearing the rotting insides of a monster made her more unpleasant than usual.

Sava tossed the head to Leo’s feet, watching with some interest as it rolled. It did look human in the light, but pale and it’s open eyes were as redder than the blood that oozed from its stump of a neck which was closer to black sludge than anything else.

“I found your dying thing,” Sava said, pointing to the head.

Leo’s face turned red and his teeth were clenched in anger. “Why did you bring it here?”

“I left the rest of the body in the chamber,” she assured him. “But it shouldn’t harm you.” Sava stepped as if the pat the spindly man’s shoulder, but he wriggled away before she could step into reach with all the elegance of a decapitated snake. She shrugged and walked along the trench.

#Untitled WIP #what do you get when the monster is starting to become more human?#am writing #wirtblr #fantasy #monster #tw gore #after the dark below

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